I'm not okay - YourQuote6

I'm not okay - India Poetrical Tour

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'Things I Will Never Tell You' by Nayanika Chatterjee | English Poetry |...

I forgive him

I ache to talk to him, Across a cup of tea or out on the roads or under the blankets – anywhere. I ache to have a conversation with him.

About everything.
This universe. Destinies. Roads. Why black is his favorite color? Does he zone out at work? What scares him? Does he believe in alternate universes? What is his haven? Us.

That’s the thing about him – more than love or happiness, I find safety and comfort in him. I don’t feel hesitant or I don’t have to be someone I am not. It’s okay if my hair is not washed or my legs are not shaved – it’s okay as long as I have him. Had him.

But he just comes and goes. And when he goes, he takes away my sense of okay. As it is, I don’t know how to be okay most of the time. I can’t not-be-okay because I don’t want to answer the hundreds of why-are-you-not-okay, so I pretend to be okay, but actually, I’m not okay.

The times when I see him smile or laugh, those are my favorite moments. Like, it’s okay if we are not together – I will find a way to go on.  I don’t hold on to grudges – I forgive him for all the empty promises he made, for pretending to pull me together and then breaking me worse, for not loving me as much as he showed off; I forgive him for not even willing to fight for me – I forgive him.

Just don’t let the smile drop.

It makes me happier to see you happy.

Sea shore

Strangers don't hurt you
Unfamiliarity can't break you
It is always someone close,
someone you consciously chose
to let in through the walls,
and hold you through your falls.

They come in and make themselves at home,
walking carelessly over your house of foam.
They put up their feet on the coffee table
where you knit your countless fables.
They bring in blizzards,
and snatch your blanket to keep warm.
They turn off the lights and snore,
while you lay curled on the cold floor.

But you don't ask them to leave,
because you can't ask them to leave.
You can't turn your back on your kin,
you are supposed to stay together through thick and thin.
Even if that kills you every second of every day,
you will sell your soul to make them stay,
until there is nothing left of you anymore
not in the sea, not on the shore.

The end.

Endings don't come with
clear, dark border lines
where your colors
shouldn't overlap.

Endings don't come with the
ticking of a time-bomb
about to explode.

Endings just come.
Faceless. Soundless.
Sometimes, timeless.
And when they do,
you just know.

You know it
deep inside your heart
that there will be no more
last-things you do
or goodbyes or
farewell in any form.

Whoever said endings
are beautiful, is
simply fooling with poetry.
Because they are not.
Endings are painful.
They kill you.
They rip you apart.
They feed on your remains.

Endings are intangible.
You don't see them,
you don't hear them.
You just feel them.
The dead. The end.