Ceilings and cigarettes at 3 AM
The radium stars on my wall glow like hope at the end of a tunnel
Infinite tunnels of endless hopes, and infinite ends of a hopeless life.
Did you notice that dreams and death both start with D – the letter of dawn, and dusk as well?
I wonder what will they say about me at my funeral
Emotions dry out in a wink
“A bud nipped at the prime of her life” – perhaps someone will add this in his or her speech
Will it be you?
Or you?
You will fish through my diary for stories that will make tears well up
You see,
I lived too numb to inspire
Too plain to stand out
Too sleepy to wake up
Will you remember me?
A week after my funeral, when you deal with a deadline at work and you remember for one split second that I used to love you. Will you startle with my absence, for one split second?
The flowers you brought, they were meant for my wedding. Small ceremony by the mountains, the altar decorated with white tulips.
Among the messy nihilistic scribbles in my diary, did you find the tear stains from the time I sobbed to Lazarus for the first time?
Does any of you remember that I would cry for extra sweet milk chocolate on my first day of period?
Did you know that I would watch Notting Hill over and over again till I’ve found someone to say “surreal, but nice”?
None of you can say that I was once allergic to oregano. Oregano, can you imagine? That too, someone who you have seen binging on pizza
Hey, will you mention that I have written a children’s story that I always wished to publish?
Will you mention that I loved the sweater mom made for me?
You’ll say where you met me, how you knew me, how I was a good person, and how my death is a tragedy better to be forgotten soon.
You see, that’s why I will live another day.
Until I tell my version of my story.
Read More: Sunset – A Poem For Bengaluru
