Name: Ananya Pandya
I was feeling empty last Thursday, like I hadn’t eaten for days and my mind was a blank canvas for a man to spit on and call art. I posted some disturbing poems on instagram, mostly about this metaphorical blond haired blue eyed boy I loved.
feeling iconic and forgetful/make peace with the ones that hurt you/
You can take your money and put it somewhere else.
It was all gibberish, pretentious talk. I knew it would only make sense to me. A part of me hoped he would understand and all of a sudden oh so romantically DM me.
Ananya, I get it.
I would try to reach across our two screens, open his sun colored palms and check if there were the marks of an OCD with a pen.
100 blue lines on his palm,
100 blue lines on his arms.
100 blue lines on his face,
They were all in my language.
We would speak to each other through pen marks, codes, forget everything you know about me, i write on his left earlobe. Forget everything our school says about me.
I can actually be magic.
The dim light of his cellphone would guide us through the motions of a mental hospital, homeless shelter, same thing in the way they are for society’s undesirables,
this one time I shouted at a boy, dared him to call me a ‘hobo’ because I knew words the way he didn’t.
I was angry.
I tell him this, I write this all down in a post on instagram.
I am angry.
No likes. No hearts. No DM’s.
Can’t I just say, you remind me of someone?
I think he is someone I used to know. Do you believe in past lives? Maybe him and I were both enemies, and that is why I love him so much. The fresh cut of silence, the pain of rejection. Maybe he is my enemy today.