Your goodness will be stolen
As it is taught to you;
You will be taught to be a
Woman
Through violation. 

Deflection is an art
Avoidance a sword;
Dear woman,
You are succulent
as you are sucked
Dry.

The crime is a smile,
fingers are sinful;
Tongues ought to be
Tied;
Mind swayed. 

Dearest woman,
useless, helpless,
Pathetic woman;
You are utter---
Utter...utter...
Utter nothing?

Dear woman:
You are three of age.
You must consent.
Woman?
Woman.

Must be a whore,
just mine alone;
Must be smart,
not Er. 
Must be woman
the -est.

Must like sex
Must hate power,
Must be turned on
By it nonetheless,
Just not on
Yourself.


Submit,
Perfect Woman;
Be Woman-est
Comments
A Flawed Man.

I do not consider myself a master at stream of consciousness, so naturally I have to attempt it— jack of all trades, and all. On the other hand, I do not plan my writings on paper either. There are these assorted brackets in my brain that I sort out muses and thoughts into. Some are about the average, mundane life; some about art, death and such; most of them about love. I like love. I won’t say I love it. Ha.

At this point, dear reader, I have no idea what I am saying, I just am. Feel free to quit me. Makes me sound like an addiction. Maybe I am as egomaniacal as some assume. Can an egomaniac pride themself in being the worst? I mean, they would be the best at being horrible then, right? It always is all about the extremes. Now hand me my cane, and the bottle of Vicodin, and a shot of cynicism. Enough with the cosplay.

As I type, I tilt my head as if it will give me a view that will make this piece mean something. But does it have to? Really? Does it mean anything if it is centered around the idea of it meaning something, and that is all? This is not a self help guidebook, nor is it a preaching. I am no preacher. I have realized I find the task heavy, and exhausting. No pain, no gain, though, right?

So, I will eventually preach something. I’ll bullshit my way into it. Oops. I meant to keep it around the semblance of formality. I suppose ‘oops’ does not fall into that category either. Unfortunately for you, and I, dear Reader, I have promised to not go back on any sentence I put into this today— even if it is as nonsensical as a bumblebee bumbling its way towards a bar because the honey doesn’t keep it satisfied. Oh wait, those are honeybees. Or are they?

I guess I found the topic I wish to discuss through these physics defying creatures: yes, those are bumblebees for sure.

Does anything matter? Not in the ‘we are barely atoms in relativity to the universe’ way, and also not in the nihilistic way, although I only pretend to know what nihilism is. I never cared enough to learn. It felt weird categorizing my way of behaving, thinking, and living into these boxes. Weird since I live on the brackets inside my head.

The point here is, dear reader, that this may not matter to you as a reader, but since when did I start only catering to an audience? I am way too big a liar to journal on physical paper, so I find it fun to lie on the internet. Like when I said I would quote a guy from my six hour bus ride.

Yeah, yeah, I never said that. Whatever. I thought I did. See, it is hard to keep up with thoughts when you do not have a bracket to protect you from the divergence.

I lied about the stream of consciousness thingy though. I’m best at that. I don’t plan things at all. There are brackets yes, but I usually pick and choose unconsciously.

Everything waters down to my indecisiveness, and my avoidance.

There are exactly three things that have not been due to these two dominant traits of mine:

1. My lack of belief in a higher power. ( I am not saying I am right, I am saying I do not mind being wrong as long as I can do things without consciously have to worry about being right or wrong. )

2. My bisexuality. ( I’m not not choosing because I am indecisive of what I like better, I am not not choosing because I am very confident about being a greedy little pig. )

Make that two things. I was assuming that there would have been at least three, but whatever. The third one is a classic example of those traits, so I just proved my point.

See, I do not feel any amount of shame when I do keep talking about myself. After all, it is for you to figure if I am real or made up. I do not have to make myself interesting for anyone. You cannot perform visually for a blind audience, and if you are no expert at auditory performances, you got no choice but to give the stage up to someone who is. You cannot ask the audience to leave, but you can choose to switch rooms. Don’t fit yourself into rooms you don’t belong in unless you’re sure you like being alien. Life lesson number one.

The second life lesson you will get from a person younger than you, maybe ( congratulations if you are younger than me, I do not wish to know), is to stop learning to love things. Loving, I do not care what your relationship therapist online told you, is effortless. The more you put effort into it, the more you think of it, and we humans are wired to question what we think too much about. Your efforts need to be effortless, or you will be stuck in a loop like myself. I think too much about love, about being loved, about loving. I always end up questioning its capacities, but never realising what it truly does. I could know love inside out ad ever have felt it. Love is like an abstract crush.

It only shows up when you are least prepared. It shows up when you are ugly. It shows up rarely in the forms you like. You cannot force yourself into a relationship with it. You cannot physically, nor metaphorically get together with it.

Congrats, I just bullshitted my way again into making you think what I think. Even if I did not, congratulations to me, because I never considered the fact that I have put love so high up on a pedestal that it has become unreachable to me. Maybe my faith of choice is love. Who knows.

Anyway, the bore has taken over again. I do not have much to say so I am indeed making up sentences to up the word count. Like I said, not doing this for any of you. Just to make myself feel like I can still write blind eyed and clueless. Or simply that I can still write.

Throughout this essay, rant, speech, I dunno what this is— but throughout it, I have been whining about not knowing what I am saying, and yet saying something in the next few words. You always assume you cannot do things until you do it. It is a matter of not-effort. It is a matter of process, not goal. It is the matter of getting too comfortable at dribbling the ball until you shoot it into the basket out of sheer boredom.

That is why people say to bore yourself. One assumes activity means progress, and to an extent it does, but until you bore yourself enough, you will never be switching streams as easily as you wish to. Inculcation of activities is hardly about studying them. Does this count as life lesson number three? Boring.

Okay, return the favor. Tell me how to get over it. I have had zero relationships, and one very persistent crush. So, if you did take my advice on how to love correctly, congrats, you were listening to someone equivalent to an incel with a podcast and no stable income. Ew. I do not like myself even vaguely compared to them.

I am one fat liar, but I am not lying when I say I am doomed for life because one singular person decided to weave themselves through my amygdala. I am guessing that is the emotional part. Limbic system? I dropped biology back in tenth.

You get the point. I preach about avoidance and disconnect whilst having a singular muse that shows up at every emotional outburst. Prime example of fake it till you make it. They are also someone that I resort to when I run out of things to preach. Big fat sigh.

That definitely broke my tempo, but no going backs. Let us cover the damage. How? I don’t know. Pour molten lava over dry land and blame it on it. How does that even work.

Is it an addiction if it’s not religiously consumed but you keep coming back to it? If not, what is it called when someone comes back to something at intervals?

When I do not have answers, I stop writing. I sure did like hearing myself though. See you in the next one.

Kill the planet he gave life to, just to create AI generated images of him. That’s not praise, that’s hypocritical, you hypocrite.

GOD MADE YOU FOR LIFE /

GAVE YOU A HOME TO WORSHIP /

HOME, YOU MADE INTO A GRAVEYARD /

PRETENDED TOMBSTONE TO BE PEDESTAL /

OF ALL MIGHTY [ SELF INTEREST ] /

GOD COMMITS SUICIDE /

LEAVES YOU NO CORPSE TO WORSHIP /

HE EXISTS , PERHAPS /

BUT NEVER AGAIN TO YOU /

GOD IS DEAD TO YOU /

YOU KILLED HIM /

SAINT OF THE BOOKS /

YOU DRAINED HIM /

THAT IS WHY /

GOD IS DEAD FOR YOU /////

GO WORSHIP THAT AUTOMATION/

GO EAT THE CASH , NOT THE RICH /

YOU’VE STAMPED THE END/

FREAK /

FOR YOUR SELF INTERESTS /

AND HE WILL NEVER BE BACK/

ARTISTS DO NOT LIKE THEIR CANVASES BROKEN /

AI AND BILLIONAIRES ARE NOT THE FUTURE /

YOU JUST KILLED THE FUTURE /

THE END IS NEAR /

NOT BECAUSE YOUR GOD IS/

BECAUSE YOU STRAYED HIM AWAY/

YOU GLUTTON /

YOU GREEDY /

YOU ABSOLUTE/

CLANKER /

YOU JUST KILLED LIFE //////

Subscribe now

Face the reality, instead of killing it more with your generative fantasies, you deluded bastards.

In death,

I imagine there’s another life;

Not quite heaven,

For I hurt there as I’d like. 

I imagine being honored

To be pained over you.

For your love to be a knife,

And not a delusion of mine.

In death, 

We’re bodies to the eye,

So maybe I can be selfish,

And let my ghost kiss 

Your corpse frantic. 

In death,

there is a realm,

quite similar to your arms.

There remains a chance

Of choking eternally,

Doesn’t matter— 

As long as there’s your warmth.

Death is a cold place,

But it lets oceans remain water,

To remind you what it is to drown,

Even then, I follow your siren sound.

In death,

I imagine being hurt, 

                                             again, 

                                                           and again,

and again,
All to not be numbed,
When you do look back.

In Death, 
It will be me who hurts
From excess, from too much,
Not from the lack of thereof. 
In Death,
I will be the one. I will. I will.

hate how this is, hate how it’s always about him. but i gotta write.

Subscribe now

1. You'll always be left wanting more. Whether tender flesh, or a torrential thought; you will be greedy to know more, to trace your fingertips over areas that aren't meant to be yours; you are not privileged, in morality, you'll always remain imposing.

2. You'll plead for louder voices, but you won't do much to ensure that they are heard. They'll always remain hidden fantasies. A slut cannot beg for yearning, and a soliloquy is of who cannot either be trusted to speak, is dumb, or just pathetically lost.

3. You'll have to neglect its origin, so as to not make it your entire world. Too enchanting. Too tempting. Too seductive. In sex and sadness, you will have your hair tugged at. You'll be baffled when you enjoy it. It will be like a string of thought pulled out of your head. They're corrupting your mind, and strangely, you have no problem with them doing so.

4. They know your body too well. Every shudder is a praise chanted their way. Every shake is a dance of their clamation over and under your skin. Poets are quite the prostitutes when it comes down to control, you see.

5. They're omniscient. You go out calling for God and they appear to pull you down from your pedestals rather immediately. Poets & prostitutes like to remind you that you're human. You can't demand things. Your greed sickens them, and yet they capitalise off of it.

6. Poets & Prostitutes . Sluts & Soliloquies . Oftentimes not realising that they're never truly there . It's just you pretending that they are . They're never truly as they're called. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

7. You digress sex in a school where you teach poetry. How hard is it to swallow that sex is poetry? Why must one be tabboo as the other be a disgrace? Why must one be for those with no future, and the other with too big histories? If sex is hard to swallow, then I must wonder how poetry tastes on your tongue.

Share

Subscribe now

Dear Diary,

Instantaneously, I become a flower;

Just as I meet his harrowing stare.

Now— I wish nothing but to wither;

Lose my blossom, become nothing.

I am nicotiana– unjustly irresistible;

Why, why won’t my petals close?

Dear Diary,

I ought to kill a man, as strange it sounds;

I speak every woman’s inner monologue.

In order to not to be feasted upon,

We must feast.

For peace, men must resort to peace,

And women to violence.

See the blasphemy?

I know I have ample mass,

And skin as plump as fruit;

Men cannot help but see a berry,

And not control their urge to

Turn it into juice.

Dear Diary, my Diary,

Today I’m the one that has been knifed,

Not to be killed, but to be tasted–

Yesterday, it was the doe eyed child

That I used to be,

Tomorrow, it will be the sharp tongued woman

That I shall become.

They will remain constant.

Oh diary, my love,

For every second of my life,

I’ve hated this temple of mine;

For men who believed they were God

Forced their claim upon it.

My shrine will never be pure,

My fire will fail to burn.

My walls will crack, my pillars

Will succumb under them.

Is it a sin to neutralise a sin with

Another?

He tells me he loves me, my diary,

Oh my dear diary.

I am young, so I will fall.

Young wings are close to flightless.

I let myself be caressed by the

Same feathers he wrenched out of my back;

He leaves them to bleed.

I tell him that it hurts.

He says that it is supposed to hurt.

So I will let the cuts burn,

It is strange when I go numb.

Dear Diary,

Maybe I’m paperful and heavy

In all the wrong ways,

I’m a cluster of all my silent pleads.

My chest is scratched at, clawed at,

And I convince myself they’re reaching

For my heart.

Maybe pain is large enough,

Pain remains empty enough to love me

(consume me)

Whole.

Love,

Aarna.

Note: This poem is about a year old— still insanely valid.

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment