Inconsequential Little Beings

“Come,” she says,
and we walk together.

Along the cold pavement and under the deep shadows of the city,
inconsequential little beings — us,
we walk together.

It’s strange, how night colours the streets a beautiful shade of melancholy,
a wonderfully depressing landscape of metal and broken glass,
ripe and ready to be conquered.

But we don’t resort to much conquering, we leave that to the shadows.
We wonder, walk, wilt like month-old bouquets,
and we smoke — quite merrily.

Under a canopy of starlight,
we find a bed made of cleaved souls
with a duvet woven of lost dreams,

As she sinks into the sheets,
they swallow her whole —
lungs, head, heart, and grief.

She smiles at the stars.
They glower back at her —
Jealous of her empire — ruled in rust and concrete.

“Come,” they seem to say,
and so, inconsequential little beings — us,
we fade together.

[Featured art by Asfa Sabrin]

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To Marilyn Monroe – Girl

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Dear Marilyn,

The camera does strange things to you. Makes your lips quiver and your eyes twitch.

By you I mean me.

I work in a place where they need actors for free sometimes, even actors that aren’t actors will do. They dress me up like a girl, do up my hair, decorate my skin with peach paste and flair.

I don’t mind really. I don’t enjoy it either. But later when I look back, the nothingness I feel will be etched with fondness brought by nostalgia, fondness there never was to begin with.

Sorry, I tend to stray from the point. Point being, let’s return to the point of retreat.

For a moment there, a moment held in time, clasped in its palm like a miniscule gem, I was a girl. A girl as we know girls to be.

Pretty, thoughtless, sharp and melancholy.

A girl like you. A girl unlike me.

Time made a girl out of you too. Changed your name, the fibres of your dress, the pores in your skin. The quintessence of your memory.

Were you a girl then, Marilyn?

A female, a princess, a maiden, a fucking damsel in distress?

Pretty, thoughtless, sharp and melancholy.

Here we stop, because here we get to the point. Here we zip-lock our premeditations and wayward emotions. Here we rephrase.

Girl is a mountain, a giant.

She is invincible.

Pretty, thoughtless, sharp and melancholy.

Bold, broken, reckless and spectacular.

That’s the girl we are, aren’t we? That’s the girl we see.

I’m not sexist/feminist/anarchist or anything fancy like that.
I’m a Girl.

A girl who is confused, bewildered, contradicted and exhausted by everything having to be labelled and put up on the metaphorical bulletin board. I DON’T WANT TO BE pretty, thoughtless, sharp and melancholy.

What if I want to be the nothingness I feel? What if I want to exist metaphysically? This time, not metaphorically.

I’m tired of defining every little thing. ESPECIALLY. Especially, the girl I want to be.

Aren’t you?

That’s all.

Love,
Girl