I write not because
it makes me a better person,
but because only words
can trap what my eyes saw in a look.
I paint with my words,
what my eyes narrate.
I let my memory lead me
to the deepest shallows
and inhale in trenches
I haven’t been in.
With my words i travel
across horizons
I cut through time and space
I rearrange my past
and order it in a beautiful mess
for your mind to think of my horror
as tranquility.
with my words i touch your skin,
I disguise my trembling
as art
only my insides knowing the
mirror my words are built out of.
I write to see if you see you
in my miseries,
to see if you share that
part of the abandon
which isn’t art.
i write to question my dark,
to search for answers
within a blue so bright
that irony is redefined.
I write to scream quietly
that my words can rip you
to your bare existence
if you threaten
the power they behold.
I write to dress you up,
so perfectly
with metaphors that
recreate a fairy tale
to fit every inch of your skin.
I write to bring to your notice,
that you’re a fairy
in an unwritten
magnificent tale.
I write to tell you that,
you could be the calm
felt by hearts
looking at the low tides
yet be the rage they hold
making their hearts race
looking at your wrath
during a storm.
I write to tell you
that I don’t write your stories,
I write stories
that make you feel
they’re yours.
I don’t write for metaphors,
metaphors write for me.
Suchitra Harnahalli 