By: Divya Garg
You say you love me, but love is a fragile thing that you can never carry. It drips from your lips like wax from an unsanctified candle with no meaning. I
search for me the way your pupils constrict, only to find hesitation barricading the house of longing. Your eyes do not gleam when they meet mine,
and that’s enough to tell me what you can never do. It’s just you don’t love me the way I love you.
Grief was just behind me, his fingers calloused from undoing my braids, weaving every strand on my scalp with sorrow, stitching dirges into my skin
when all I longed for was your fingertips tracing the seams of my ruin. You never traced the cartography of my skin; you spat on it until the disgust
curling in your throat was more palpable than any touch you have ever graced me with. You don’t look up for me in a crowded room, like I do. You do
not crave for me the way I do.
You speak of choosing me over the world, yet when the hourglass tilts, I am the first grain to fall. You promise to give me the cosmos, but you are my
cosmos, and I—forever exiled in this mortal world—am sentenced to orbit, watching you burn while I wither in your periphery. Perhaps love was never
yours to give—only to speak of in prayers, only to wear like borrowed silk, never mine to begin with. And I was a fool who believed that the fabric
would not slip through my hands.
But don’t blame yourself, love. The gnaw I feel in my bones today has forever chewed on me until my legs tremble, and I weep in scarlet. I am not
made to be held by someone, I am a ghost in the rooms people title as home. Perhaps this curse is woven into the fabric of my being, and the cruel
hand has stitched me with rejection with silver needles, ensuring that every touch I crave will dissolve before it reaches me. You label me with
everything, and I keep myself on the shelf of nothing. I have offered my heart like a lamb for slaughter, only to watch lovers kneel and pray but never
stay. They drink from my hands, take whatever warmth is left inside me, and leave me empty—a well with no water, worthless like me.
Perhaps, I am cursed to be loved in halves. I am not built to be chosen; I am built to be mourned. And you—you—were only another pilgrim at my
shrine, leaving your offerings at my feet before walking away.
Author's bio
Divya is a 16-year-old writer who lives in India. For her, writing has always been an escape, through which she explores the intricacies of human emotions and tries to capture them in her writing, bringing them back to life. Her works are previously published in Haven Literary, Epiphany Anthology, The Milagros Literary, Writers Magazine, The Passionate Post, and many other literary magazines. Some anthologies that include her work are Chromatic Currents and Beautiful Chaos. She has been writing original poems since she developed a passion for writing. You can check out her other works on her Instagram handle @diaryofdivi