You’ve told yourself before,

How the present you’re dwelling in doesn’t fit in quite right,

How time travelling would be an ideal concept,

Just so you could tilt your head a little bit higher,

It still doesn’t make any sense though,

The past won’t chase after me,

They’ll lay themselves to rest eventually,

It is an interesting story.
Here’s an interesting story,

Jealousy doesn’t equal to being caring,

It’s more like a venom,

You see,

Being dangerous doesn’t make you more captivating,

It makes you more intimidating.
Here’s the thing,

I know a girl who swallowed her own venom,

I’m not entirely sure if it’s a good thing,

You know the void, 

And how dark it is?

Her eyes are like that.

I cannot be more precise,

Because there’s nothing poetic about the void,

But her eyes speak the language of a poet,

They begged for a quiet gesture.
But you see,

Poets are weird,

They like to say things indirectly,

Like when she begged for a quite gesture,

It’s more like a,

“Don’t talk to me.”,

Kind of thing,

With a hint of,

“But please, I seek for your attention.”,

Kind of thing.

It’s complicated,

So don’t talk to her,

Just lift your hand in mid air,

Must hold back the urge to speak.
You see,

The only time they tried to seal the bonding,

Was when they said “hi”,

Her voice still lingers,

Trust me,

She doesn’t sound like lullabies,

Or an angel,

She sounds like,

3 insomniac nights,

A packet of cigarette,

And an hourly coffee,

Her lips curled,

Clearly unhappy.
She doesn’t drink coffee,

Nor does she look interested,

In suffocating her already contaminated lungs,

With another killing things,

The luggages underneath her eyes,

Are stating a fact that the world,

Is deadly and tiring enough,

That she doesn’t have the audacity,

To risk the last most lively concept of hers.
You see,

When the venom kicks in,

Your body is paralysed,

By hearing the voice of a person,

You once loved,

Your mind kept repeating wishes,

Longing your heart to speak out,

But the painful lump in your throat,

Guarding your voice,

Is just another wild dandelions,

Left unblown.
When I mentioned,

“How the past won’t chase after me,

And how they’ll lay themselves to rest eventually”,

I was indicating on how the past buried themselves,

At the back of your head,

Sometimes I think of them like time bombs,

Those that don’t go off,

Recently I felt like they exploded,

They sounded very similar to fireworks in broad daylight,

I know that you’re glad they went off, 

The echo of it blocking the sound of reality,

That you once were too scared to face.
You see,

Sometimes admitting the truth like,

“I miss you”,


” I took the candy from your bag when you’re not looking”,

Can be a lot harder that you expected,

When you’re the one isolating yourself,

From the person who deserves your honesty.
So when I tell you,

That owning a second chance is a miracle,

I want you to use it wisely,

Like tilting your head a little bit higher,

Vomiting out the stars from the depth of your eyes,

Deliberately stretching your lips to your cheeks,

Swallowing wild dandelions,

And scurrying to a new soul,

Dressing up as your old, worn out self.
It’s fun,

You should try it sometimes

Sharifah Husna, KL.