Entangled Nightmare!
The title of this article is woven from the dystopian chambers of my heart, which have endured immense wreckage. On a summer evening in April, you asked me, “Can you be patient enough?” All I could muster was a sigh. I had hoped you knew that patience is a brew concocted from your actions. Don’t you realise how it stings when you etch your art into my skin with needles? You stab at my heart, watching the bedsheet soak with my blood, then have the audacity to ask if I still revere you as a deity.
Years ago, an average girl told me not to discard old relationships for new ones while simultaneously breaking my heart. With disdain in my tearful eyes, I tasted her words like bitter gourd and cursed her with my silver tongue. After so many years, you, whom I considered my world, advised me not to abandon my old world for a new one. Ouch! My veins flushed, and my hands trembled as if confronting my past lover once again.
Welcome to our love story! The butterflies in our stomachs are dying, trapped, and unable to escape our belly button. Our story is as intricate as the vivid petals of a chrysanthemum blooming in the garden of our minds. There’s an abundance of love and hatred. The only catch is that one thorn is stuck in your mouth and another in my heart. We cannot move an inch, or we will both perish—metaphorically. Biologically, you’re just another average girl, and I’m just another random guy. Yet, we’re still alive despite everything.
It was the fantasy of a teenager who secretly kissed for the first time under the roof of an abandoned house that lay within my chest when I first met you. I wanted you to hold my heart, but all you’ve ever held is your tongue. Speak! The silence is deafening, and the tickling of my hair against my ears is maddening. The house echoes our journey so loudly that it’s blinding me. The dust has settled, but no wanderer can clean it. At least being haunted is better than being abandoned, for abandoned houses often get looted.
They call me a witch because the blood oozing from my nails hides behind the shiny coating of my red nail paint. We tried touching each other with impure hands, so our souls have left our bodies. Our knuckles are tired from cracking, and our knees falter like our tongues. I’m standing at your door with a pair of old shoes. You see, I haven’t abandoned all my old endeavours. But this is a dead end. Let’s wear those shoes and jump off the cliff together.
I imagined we were in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by beauty and serenity. My throat tried to swallow your unkept promises, and the betrayal didn’t hurt as much as my timidity towards you. The tiniest piece of my heart has frozen into a three-dimensional ice cube, turning me into a coward. What I discovered when I touched love was that it burns, it destroys everything. Yet, I stayed, not out of fear of another heartbreak, but because this is exactly what I’ve always desired—to fall and die in love.
Years ago, an average girl told me not to discard old relationships for new ones while simultaneously breaking my heart. With disdain in my tearful eyes, I tasted her words like bitter gourd and cursed her with my silver tongue. After so many years, you, whom I considered my world, advised me not to abandon my old world for a new one. Ouch! My veins flushed, and my hands trembled as if confronting my past lover once again.
Welcome to our love story! The butterflies in our stomachs are dying, trapped, and unable to escape our belly button. Our story is as intricate as the vivid petals of a chrysanthemum blooming in the garden of our minds. There’s an abundance of love and hatred. The only catch is that one thorn is stuck in your mouth and another in my heart. We cannot move an inch, or we will both perish—metaphorically. Biologically, you’re just another average girl, and I’m just another random guy. Yet, we’re still alive despite everything.
It was the fantasy of a teenager who secretly kissed for the first time under the roof of an abandoned house that lay within my chest when I first met you. I wanted you to hold my heart, but all you’ve ever held is your tongue. Speak! The silence is deafening, and the tickling of my hair against my ears is maddening. The house echoes our journey so loudly that it’s blinding me. The dust has settled, but no wanderer can clean it. At least being haunted is better than being abandoned, for abandoned houses often get looted.
They call me a witch because the blood oozing from my nails hides behind the shiny coating of my red nail paint. We tried touching each other with impure hands, so our souls have left our bodies. Our knuckles are tired from cracking, and our knees falter like our tongues. I’m standing at your door with a pair of old shoes. You see, I haven’t abandoned all my old endeavours. But this is a dead end. Let’s wear those shoes and jump off the cliff together.
I imagined we were in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by beauty and serenity. My throat tried to swallow your unkept promises, and the betrayal didn’t hurt as much as my timidity towards you. The tiniest piece of my heart has frozen into a three-dimensional ice cube, turning me into a coward. What I discovered when I touched love was that it burns, it destroys everything. Yet, I stayed, not out of fear of another heartbreak, but because this is exactly what I’ve always desired—to fall and die in love.
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