Funny how after going through it all,
I still struggle to put it into words.
My soul still wants to come clean.
Asks, did you truly desire me?
Or you settled because you couldn’t get the girl of your dreams?
Is it a real-life situation of Jhilmil-Shruti?
You said I need too much love, and that I don’t speak much.
The title of my autobiography would be “broken.”
One word. Not a lot.
But it says, enough.
Apparently I’m too aloof, too proud, did a lot of bad things, won’t fit right with your friends.
Please don’t judge me by the actions of my weakest moments.
Cold water feels warm when your hands are freezing.
Poison tastes like honey.
And a starving person will eat anything.
So, I begged on my knees, cried all night, and wished for a miracle.
You should see the audience gathered around to witness this debacle.
“Stupid girl.”
“Doesn’t learn.”
Oh, the remarks still ring in my ears.
My mind is mental hell-house, but who cares?
Even though you committed a crime,
I hope your beer is next to my cocktail in every single lifetime.
