She Rejects, He Walks Alone—The Art of Rejection
This world—it pumps hate into our bloodstreams like never before. It was designed but never meant to—a guy who continually has to run after a girl has been created with such frenzied desires. And she sits there—with a queue of more than thirty, she finds pleasure in rejecting each heart as the new second absorbs in such plainly.
It’s funny, pretty miserable when a man has nowhere to hide his feelings. The blanket is such thin and raw emotions plummeting at the center of each heartbeat. It’s always the girls playing such creative games with a man’s heart and why does natural selection have it this way—for a man to pursue a girl and be presented with three ends—all of which painted with red suffocating love songs like rejection.
She sits on top of the prism, waiting for the right one—but this soil, which is so untrue—will anybody tell her that her scent is consuming the opposite. Perhaps I should not have been fashioned with such urges, of love and affection that the sun itself dies each time it tries to light our naked skin.
She thinks—never stops, that he is only such drawn for the sex and little rainbows in each thrust. But how to—if I’m even real, tell me that I was not supposed to be a human. And if humans do not have desires, then only, in the truest of the time, make me one. It is a curse, sleeping on top of lavish silk while the mind is unable to control its urges. And she—she will never understand the solidarity in each rejection she submits such convincingly, she is in denial of water and life is just a secondary.
I want to dance but my feet have been cut off—of touch which will never be and three day love songs which is just a poem about rejection. I’m sinking in the valley of the unloved, tired of life that no one wants me on this land, and it was my only hope—the last one perhaps, touch which is a lie.
Life is such short—the beating tick of tock under the same roof every night. Self-infliction is wrong and demoralizing days are the only right things there. Each pain that is a plural poem—she will never understand. So as far as the desert goes green, let him walk and when he stops and he strips, please do not criticize the heat—but look at the towel for not being with him when he needed her the most.
An umbrella of love and affection, sex and delusion and paint and poetry—it is us, always have been that never understood what we were doing. My mind is overflowing with pointless desires, and once I did talk to her, she smiled and stabbed us with three blunt daggers that no man ever smiled again.
Wet and wild bed sheets, dancing in the middle of the night—call of Juliet and her touch, but she lies with another man—beside his shoulders and tomorrow, she will sleep with another man. The garden of unwatered roses, uninteresting breath and sober emotions—drunk sex, things like desires are a misery. And the longing for touch—it will never be—but life which is a beautiful rejection in each poem ever written.
-Yogesh Chandra