Isolation has never looked as cozy on anyone’s body
As it does on hers.
Why, she wears it like a permanent scar!
With a bogus life pasted on public screens,
Humor on her fingertips
And photographs displayed like pretty postcards,
She’s made of 14 shades of lies
Underneath which hides
A mosaic of heinous secrets and failures.
She’s made of the kind of courage and confidence
Found at the bottom of a vodka bottle,
As fleeting as a snowflake on a summer’s day.
If only walls could speak
They’d laugh at her wretchedness behind closed doors,
Grappling with wave after wave of hysteria,
And nicotine stained lips devouring shots like excuses
Just because she cannot stand her sober self.
They’d mock her for the scanty sleep she steals
Off melatonin doses and counting sheep,
Only to be woken up by her wounds and the skeletons on her bed
That she refuses to bury.
What a shame!
To crawl behind the mask of isolation,
Blaming her paranoia on the people who abandoned her
When it was she who nurtured this demon.
It was she who built this fortress for herself
That resonates with the sound of silver wind chimes
And glows like the Rockefeller tree
But still remains as cold as the devil’s lair.
What a shame!
To blame the world for not being able to find her
When it was she who set all her bridges afire.
To blame the world for not listening
When her voice can’t even make it past her throat.
It was she who taught herself the art
Of drowning her emotions on deaf papers
Till she could no longer remember the art of speaking.
It was she who crafted the armour round her bosom
Out of all the knives stuck in her back.
But who prepares for a battle that has long been fought and lost?
Truly, there is nothing the world can do
For a mad girl who never came back from a war.
No cure under the sky
For a mad girl with an ocean of shipwrecks
Flowing under her skin.
And no amount of isolation or sedatives or saving,
Nothing but her own two feet
And a whole lot of letting go
Can ever bring her home.