Sexual Urges—A Beautiful Curse
It’s the complexity that haunts me each night—those sedated nights beside the scent of Mary. But her aroma and the royal curtains have me stained with remorseless cravings. In life—that desires are a misery and the holy orders are nothing but a beautiful casket of destruction, times when sex and sentiments do not interchange.
My life has had series of unprecedented disasters. Every time I tried to get up, fragments of my broken heart left me alone—under the ashes of grief, if life is even meant to be any fair. I still miss papa like nobody on earth and my heart melts and it weeps every time I breathe—the songs which are just an imaginary melody.
But the sour scent of seventeen and the burning desires—like never before. It’s like you are put into an endless loop of hunger—every time an on-goer passes by—fake promises which is just so overwhelming. I fail to understand—urges that are such destructive, I cannot even breathe properly. My skin is lying plainly on the last floor, beside the journals of the depressed—and love is just a fancy word they use for sex.
To make love to a girl—my urges that have me confined to my own requisites. Why do I even want to make love to a girl? Questions left unanswered, my three day flames igniting rainbows of black and the rhetoric’s of life that has me walking backwards—so much for a little mind to comprehend.
Waving goodbye to the intermediary, I silently tried to make me a zombie. But pure—and pointless cravings inside the mind, of love and sex that will never be. It’s a curse to have been filled with such desires. There is a basket filled with rejection that I cannot even see myself on the same mirror anymore. Thumping genitals and screaming urges that has everyone stabbing each other such unconditionally.
I’m not even sure—whether I’ll even make it to the end. All I ever desired for—butterflies inside the mind like that day of seventeen. Feelings of love and loyalty—things which the commoner never comprehends. Sometimes I wonder, of urges that has me flying yet falling and my elevated desires trying to summit Everest. I feel so useless being classified as a human.
The flowers only care about money and they will always leave you for someone else—with three cents higher than you. I’m running out of nights, life’s gifts are a poetic game and these urges are nothing but an intentional suffocation. But it’s pleasant. Every time I breathe, knowing that no flower would ever kiss me or if she did—she would just stab me at the next second.
The towel is wet and I’m not even human. Songs of rhythmic ruin inside this mind—of touch and sex that will never be. O Juliet, and my hands that have never been touched. Lying on top of naked sheets, I call out to my name but no one even listens. Piety on humanity—urges in pettiness.
-Yogesh Chandra