Conversations with you were never satisfying. There’s less to do. Less to be. In the ancient sorcery that lies beyond the wall of pessimistic reason and brilliance, you, in all your half-wit glory would swoop up in the nick of time, hands on your hips, head held high and pain radiating from your sinews.
I called you a liar. You stopped calling. Dear desperation, my apathy, my anarchy is situated on top of the farthest mountain that not even Jupiter could behold. You opened my eyes, and then sealed them shut with your memory. Memory, all alone in the moonlight.
Liar. Ignorant charity worker. I know of the whispers and the shouts and everything in between. Don’t dwell above me. You broke hearts and hope alike, and now, in the midst of the aftermath of the snowstorm, you stand in the white shrapnel asking for a hand.
I give you the finger.
But rising above the proverbial masses, God damnit, you know how to twist and turn the grey cells till nothing but rickety bones replace your health. Dear desperation, I’ve gathered all that I could, and now I need to lie down in the mess I’ve made. Let. It. Be.
Between halfhearted bottles of promises and shoulder length cold shoulders, grasping the fluidity of the nascent emotion which had once; was once; once was.
Does it matter if you’re here or not? Dear desperation, does it really?
Coveted in your praise, I chose hitherto.
Leave, monster. Leave.
And when you do, don’t look back, don’t see me standing against the moss wall and I’ll know.
All that I had to say; all that I was.
Chitranjana Bandyopadhyay was born with a pen in one hand and a cookie in the other. That may be a bit of a stretch but her love for writing certainly isn’t. She has been writing ever since she knew what it meant to write. She mostly works on poetry and reflective writings of various themes. In her free time, she rolls her eyes at cringey movies while watching sad movies from the corner and baking up a storm with her mother screaming that she’s going to finish up all the butter for the month.