IS IT BETTER TO SPEAK OR TO DIE?

Theme - IS IT BETTER TO SPEAK OR TO DIE?

Subtheme- INTERROGATIONS OF MY FAVOURITE FIGHTS

Where are my accolades of being an absurdist,

when I could be grieving for the loss of my life?

Where Are My Fruits After Bearing All This Futility,

in silences of scream & screams of silences?

Was I just another fruit,

that you loved to peel

& abandoned in the desert of your desolation,

because you wanted to kill time or my sane mind?

Where are my trophies of being untouched and juvenile?

Where are my prizes for bearing this pain with a smile?

Where are my honours for being this kind?

Where are my claps for not being clever enough?

Where are my rewards for not resting when I should have left?

Where are my citations when I bore those seizures without asking for

the aid and advice of my wisdom when I saw your vices?

Where are my awards when I faked that it did not hurt?

Where are my grants when I resisted lamenting it first?

Where are my gifts for waiting and bemoaning till eternity?

Where are my medals for being a hero in every war

in which you left me alone to fight?

Where are my ribbons when I was the only general,

awake at your one call at every hour?

Where is my crown? You promised me I was your only queen.

Where is my homage for bearing all your wreckage on my rib cage?

Kudos to your esteem,

kudos to how you left,

when all I did was scream.

Where are my cups for enduring your batons on my knees,

pinning me down to your pain with unease?

Where are my tributes for fighting all your trials

when I was going insane?

Where are my badges, your honour,

when I built you a home to run to?

But you are a nomad, aren’t you?

Faking it to be a family man.

Where are my commendations when I was clapping

while you were tearing me down?

Where are my distinctions when I rescued you

from your blind rationalism and rampage?

Where are my compensations for advocating that

life is not merely a misery gate?

Where are my acclaims for shouting your name

at every friend’s party, when you had no friends?

Where are my reimbursements for being a pillar

when scepticism consumed you like hell?

Where are my requites for being your guidepost,

not letting you fall in the disguise of glamourised guilt?

Where are my donations for taking away my dreams of youth

and selling them to your ill-fated pragmatism?

Where are my appropriations when I was treated

like an added apostrophe in your all-kill, no-cause project?

But why am I even begging for my banal contributions,

when I know they were just another parable

that would tell the world with pride:

“Look what she did for me,

look how small she was when she died.

How she sacrificed all of her self-respect to be mine,

when she could run, when she could survive.

How she surrendered, like an unarmed soldier,

so defenseless, so delicate.

How well I stupefied a woman of intellect & rational mind.”

But you revoked me from all my achievements

and all my stages where I could speak or breathe.

So death was the only alternative left,

but I did not give up hope.

Instead, you burned me on your hearth of hell,

calling it heaven.

You recalled my name like I was an insult to your memory.

You repealed my love like I was some form of blasphemy.

You nullified my existence, my passions,

and my commitments to smile at your doles.

You annulled me.

You burned me.

You ripped me apart,

like I was an experiment of your scientific mutiny

in the world wars that would never end.

You invalidated me and my claims,

as if I asked you for your assets and possessions.

You abrogated, you time-stamped my maniac episodes

to replay the impressions of how a captive reacts

when her mind is lost.

You wrote me off, screwed me, pinned me,

when I pleaded with you to let me go.

You called off your prior engagements

to make a fool of my flaws,

and then dropped me off the very next day,

like I was just an assignment

created to fit your ego.

You used me like decoration at your festivals,

to display me to your friends — but can I defend myself?

After promising me that you would make monuments for me,

you made me a monument

of all your ill-fated miseries.

You were a charm,

a fake amulet that I wrenched out of my neck.

A phony appeal, a faux affability, an idea of some sort —

someone who would never give me what I deserved,

even in my dreams of comfort.

Disingenuous, beguiling,

an emblem of emptiness, a cascade

that should be left behind.

Because your appeal ends the day

when you start to act.

All your acts imitate

how intoxicating your company appears.

You are a mirage,

a chimera of mind-numbing thoughts.

You should be abandoned.

So I boycotted every idea of yours,

stopped answering your counterfeit calls,

and took a pill to forget:

“that you were a panacea

when you were actually venom,

when my love was nothing but a honeypot,

that you came to pollute with your Machiavellian.”

And I know all of my sacrifices would be your allegory to attract women of my age,

but when time would come,

they would see the gimmicks of your grandeur

& slaughter the sacred image that you constructed around your character.

A gun would be enough,

but that would be an easy death

for a monster like you.

So I have prepared a garden of bullets,

but you would never know,

until every seed you planted

begins to bloom.

— Leeza