I said, ‘You’re beautiful,’ because I loved the
side-swept hair, those blue eyes, and that
alluring smile, but she barked, ‘Beauty isn’t
skin-deep! What you said stinks of superficiality!’
And I guess I’ve learned my lessons. I should have
said something ribald because from the patterns I’ve
noticed like some myriad skulls emitting guttural shrieks,
she loves it rough.
She’s into ‘elitist published’ poets; basically, verses devoid
of emotion and cryptic, and I guess I happen to like my coffee
black. I speak what I feel strongly about and don’t need
poetry that looks like computer coding to say it.
If I say you’re beautiful, it stays. But since you won’t have it,
run to him with his hipster tattoos and in vogue hat.
He’ll say, ‘A certain event brought this correlation, and so,
let’s experiment, if, if and only if you don’t limit my longitudinal
study to lacy lingerie and prevent my unit from its standard deviation.’
No, I guess that’s far too good for him. He’ll probably just say, ‘This
membrum virile needs your derrière, because I know you like me
pugnacious, belligerent and bellicose and you like it tempestuous,
while the ‘heat’ crawls up your physique.’
Just don’t come bitching to me once you ‘see’ and you’re sick of it:
both getting fucked in the arse and his verbosity. Remember,
you were the white girl who led me on and said, ‘I’m just playing,’
with that sickening emoticon that needs deconstruction, just like
every other one does because ‘the smiley is dead.’
But enough of you. I vow to never read you again or give a damn
because what I wish understood is misunderstood, and what I want
misunderstood is understood exactly the way I don’t want it to be.
Dry bones don’t lament losses darling. Sooner or later, breath falls on
them covering them with flesh and muscle, and blood flows through veins,
and I’m whole again.
Now, I’ve made mistakes and fought wars –
but I shield it all, to the bone –
because if I didn’t, time will hone –
me – make me brittle; just weak scars –
On the skin of promise, truth and sacrifice.
On the skin of betrayal, lies and selfishness.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)