“I don’t like girls who look like roses planted in the backyard of a mansion, those whose breath taste like cinnamon flavoured muffins,their hair hang like luxurious “fully lined floral pencil pleat headed” curtains on either side of their ears, their skin feels like 300 thread count bed linen, and their eyes remind you of a well cooked meal on a cold Sunday afternoon after church, and their under arms smell of all the dreams you are too afraid to dream, because girls like these know how beautiful they are, they know their worth,they know where home is, they wrap the syllables “father” and “mother” nicely around their tongue, something you will never know,and after they are done with you, after they leave you nailed against the very walls you helped you build , calling for your maker, after they have crushed your pride with just a tip of their well-manicured-French-tip-finger nails, after they …after she is done telling her friends how beautiful your struggles are, turning your realities into legend stories around the fires in the wild, how each day with you feels like her homecoming to her roots, how your two-roomed house reminds her of her play house when she was eleven, she will go home where her bruises and cracks will be watered, she will curl herself in her mothers’ bosom, and watch the pre-recorded Grey’s Anatomy, while stuffing her beautiful face with roasted marshmallows and strawberry Haagen-Dazs ice cream and you, gulping the last drop of your sanity, you, with a heart as cold as the urgent rent increase notice, will have nothing but all the poems you have been meaning to write, and the smell of a dusty pavement, old tarred roads, shrieking tyres, to remind you of what home should smell like, while you choke on all the loose ends you have been dragging with you, at the roof of your throat, from every love affair you mistook for marriage.”
Posted on: Mon, 27 Jan 2014 06:27:59 +0000