Addiction and Anxiety

I sat and scratched my scalp-smiling grimly when it dawned on me how much of my hair had fallen out.

It began suddenly as the hour dawned.

It seeped through me and ran through my veins. 

It was a like a bucket of cold water drenching me to the skin,a tightness in my chest.

Dry skin,flakes falling off when i scrached at the scabs-the sores and the cuts.

The blood clotted nails. 

Cutting myself to make something perfect,out of imperfect nothingness.

Pain is moot. For the point is for it to take over,make me forget.

Hugging my knees to my chest,as I rocked back and forth.

Struggling against the wave of nausea and being left overwhelmed.

Confusion encircling and numbing my entire thinking process.

The tears that come out of nowhere and stayed. 

Stuck and smothered in my own abyss.

I feel her easing me as I took her in. 

Needl-ed right into my blue arm.

She kissed me and made me her own,addicted to my poison,lest i fought and let my anxiety take over.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place-I strive for a day when it will ease.

Lucky.

He is the lucky one. He would feel thrilled everytime,he entered the premises. He knew that his need for love would be quenched. 

As he came and dominated him while shouting obscenties due to the sheer pleasure of their bodies being together,he would contemplate about how he had just read about this wondrous feeling.

But the resources were sparse. 

His lover-how adult of me,he chuckled-had told him that the bond that they shared was special but it was tacit that it had to be kept a secret.

How could what they shared not be sacred,he was his priest-altar boy's priest. 

I wish she knew-55 Fiction.

Her skin was luminous. Her body rippled and flowed as she danced for him.

Her hair had ringlets of golden admist a waterfall of chocolate. 

How i wish she knew me as a lover rather than just knowing my telescope from a draped window.

Neverthelss,she put up a show without fail everyday for me.

Writer's Block.

What happens when you are plagued by a writer's block?

Initially,I always tend to blame the work that I have on a day to day basis-the lack of clarity that is required to write.
But,it gradually dawned on me that it is quite a few factors and not just work that stops me from writing.

Inhibition is one too.

It is tough to bare your soul and at times,i try to garb it with my words.. 

It is difficult to know that people who actually know you -not your spouse,per se- can delve into your very thought process which you might not have shared with them,directly.

Is it a betrayal?

Do they feel that?

 

Or it is just an artistic license?

Will my twisted sense of being change the way they look at me?

But then i commence writing again,with the simple notion that i have always lived by,it does not really matter what they say,my life and rules for it is short.

Writing i cathartic,i do it for self.

No matter how corny it sounds.

So,here we go again:)

She had the last laugh.

She was the reason why he took the plunge.

She was there when he came back from purgatory.

She was always waiting for him near the grocery shop.

She was there when he came back after being rejected for the fifth time.

She was there when his fiancée broke up with him.

She was there when he broke down.

She was waiting for him when he tried to take his life.

Slowly,she unravelled him when he took her to his lips. 

She travelled into him and rot him away. 

She had the last laugh when he died a slow painful death of liver cirrhosis.

Useless

First attempt at Haiku. More like a Senryu.

It is useless if you are hurting for 

love will find a way.

So soon.

Useless to mend a fence

when you're having an affair.

With the neighbour.

Life and Rain

She cussed as she got out of the car. It had come to a halt after a screeching noise. A flat tyre. 

He could not see a thing from across the windshield. It was pouring torrentially. 

She called him and asked him for help. 

This is where she had called him.

It had been over an hour and it was raining,now. She was reading when she heard a thumping noise being added to the gushing water noises. 

He got out of the car in order to take a better look. He moved a yard ahead,only to be confronted by a man with a glazed look in his eyes. He was holding something long.

She was getting uneasy. The thumping noise could bot possibly be of the rain but she was afraid of getting wet,hail gave her bruises.

He did not see her. He tried but all he could muster was darkness.

She forced herself to step out,trying to sheild herself by holding a book over her head. She walked a few steps away from the car,on instinct and stumbled over something warm. 

Screaming,as she realised that it was a body. She ran towards the door when a strange scene met her eyes-a man was using her car as a trampoline.. 

He was holding a head.. It had to be a doll.. 

She was violently sick when she realised that it was a severed head. 

She fainted when she realised that it was him.

The loon from the asylum,watched her with glee as he showed off his prize. He was fascinated by how quickly the book soaked and floated away. 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend,an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.