Being Me

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She is a riddle.

I have witnessed her in many ways.

It’s so confusing to see a personality evolving out of the old art books.

Many nights, she stayed awake to figure out her own self.

She fears, but she does not.

She gets hurt, but she does not let it affect.

She wants to cry, but finds no tear.

She is broken, but band aids daily, her own mirror.

She wants to get drunk, suck cigarettes, gamble some shitty hard earned bucks just to feel privileged of the fact; money is for safe people, kidney dialysis are overrated common cases, lung cancers happen to thousands.. but who the fuck cares except the chartered calendar days.

She wants to die? No! She doesn’t want to.

She is clearly an extra-ordinary mess who is calm enough to stroke your hair and windy enough to kick your shit out with a thunderstorm.

She loves love. She gets fascinated by the meeting of hearts and it breaks her anyway, when she sees a baby crying off because of a broken marriage parents created once.

She reads about sex, sees sex and amazingly gets allured when he pulls her passionately through waist and the next moment, puts her into a delusion if that is a hormonal crap or a heartful act?

Things, the world feels simple are a dyslexic discovery to her. A craft knife creates art pieces but shocked her once, when she tested on her arm.

No, she doesn’t want to die. She liked those scratches on her arm, crimson red lines contrasting with her skin.

It’s crazy of her to be this. It crazy of me to see her this way and not give the reality a damn anyway. because,

“Acting right is so not a definition to insanity and I like hers,yes I kinda do.”

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