The Perfect Crime Scene

The bouquet was taut in my hand

with a beautiful paper protecting it.
Or perhaps,

protecting my hands.

It was funny!

Why would my hands need protection now?

After all that I had been through!

I didn’t ask for it.

I didn’t want it. ‘You are married.

I am not the one you should give these to.’ Were words of little value.

I had shut the doors to my past

And he was banging them again now.

After having walked out through them

Without even a backward glance,

Deaf to my pleadings,

Blind to my tears.

What would have once given me immense joy,

was giving me so much pain now.

It was Valentine’s day.

And I was holding a bouquet of roses,

Red roses.

From the wrong person

From a married man.

I didn’t ask for it.

I didn’t want it. ‘Why?’ I had been through that.

A million times already.

It’s better not to go down that road.

It’s a cursed road.

I just keep going around in loops,

End up getting lost,

And cry.

What I know for sure is this.

I don’t want to ruin a life.

I don’t want to ruin a marriage.

I’d never ask for that

I’d never want that.

So I gradually unwrapped the bouquet.

Freed it of all the bondage,

Let the roses bare the thorns

And held onto them with both my hands

As my blood began to emerge

From between my fingers,

Forming a drop, two, three

And dripping onto the floor.

The pain made me forget the wound within

And I watched the roses turn redder.

I wanted that.

I moved to the petals.

Pulled them out one at a time.

And turned the bouquet into a graveyard.

Oh it was beautiful!

Burgundy blood drops on the floor,

Beginning to dry,

Fresh, soft petals lay scattered
Amidst green stems smeared with blood.

It was a perfect crime scene.

I stepped on the thorns

And on my blood,

And walked out the door,

Much like he had left me.

Not that I wanted to.

I had no choice.

Those flowers weren’t mine to keep

Not anymore.

This post is a part of BlogchatterA2Z and AprilA2Z challenge

Old, Eerie Souls

Brimming with stories
If you look carefully, you can see forms, like wisps of smoke trying to enter the house like humans do.
But they can’t.
They can’t open a door.
They cannot be given warm hugs and invited home.
They just pass through the walls.
They’ve no bodies
To hug
To be hugged.
They’re just forms.
Mere wisps of smoke
Made of memories,
Your longing for them gives them life.
And they’ll live until forgotten
They’ll try to become human
Until they accept that they can’t.

And sometimes,
Just sometimes,
You’ll see them.
At 3AM.
A slight movement in the curtains
A shadow in the corner of your eyes
You’ll hear them,
The sudden, soft ticking sound,
That woke you up while you were alone,
The odd, stray sound coming from near you,
When the world is asleep
And you’re the only one awake.

It’s them.
Trying to talk,
Hoping you’ll hear them.

Nothingness that Enbraces Me


That long lost memory that resurfaces
Like a blow on your face,
And you are torn between wondering
Where the memory has been all this time
And the intensity of it.
You feel it all,
The way you felt it for the first time.

Only to feel so deeply and do nothing

That important thought that comes
As a revelation just before you wake up,
Deep down you know it’s so so important
Yet, you aren’t conscious enough to hold on to it
You drift back to sleep,
as it slips between your fingers
and out of reach.

Only to wake up and have nothing.

That idea that comes to you in your shower
With soap in your eyes,
With no access to paper,
But the idea just engulfs you,
All you can do is
marvel at your creation
And try to memorize every detail.

Only to step out of the shower and remember nothing.

That turn you take and lose your way,
Because it’s too familiar, too similar
To a path in another lifetime.
You take a step forward
The familiarity fades,
yet you shudder.
And suppress your emotions.

Only to realize that you have forgotten nothing.

That is how that person is, who becomes your world.
Whom you paint memories with,
All around your city,
in that theatre,
On that bench facing the waters.
You find the paint fading,
Over time, gradually, yet painfully.

Only to be left behind in a city tainted with his memories. #Peeling paint.

Ghosts That Await You

I look out my window
Towards that make-shift gate,
I have been waiting,
For long and it’s about time.
It’s just me, the gate,
And the mounting expectation.

The only person I waited for,
Ever so patiently, was you.
I knew that the day would end
When you stood at that gate,
looked expectantly into the window,
And I would run out to greet you.

My anklets tinkling,
My skirt swirling.
You’d scoop me up into your arms
And peck me on my cheek.
I’ll hug you and take what’s in your hand
And welcome you home.

I would tell you about my day,
You would tell me about yours,
We’d eat food together,
You’d put me to sleep,
And our tiny world,
would be perfect.

But now, I do the talking all the time,
Wondering if you ever hear me.
The flame on the tiny lamp
Atop the grave sashaying
To every word I say,
Reflecting every smile, every tear I shed.

And when the silence begins to
Grow too loud in my head,
I run to my window, wait there
And do my once favorite hobby.
I stare at the gate until you appear,
And open it; head bent and heavy with sorrow.

You don’t look at the window anymore.
You don’t look for me.
You can’t bear to see it empty anymore.
And I’m done trying to tell you
I’m always there,
Looking out the window.

Forget the World and Look

If you look carefully, you’ll see that even a garbage dump will have something beautiful.
Ignored, but Beautiful.

If you look carefully, even your worst day will have a blessing in disguise.

I say this because when I have a horrible day, I realize that I have hit rock bottom. Which means I can as well sit there and take my time to be by myself.

Forget the world.

If you look carefully, the ones who seem silent and timid might have the most beautiful things to say.

The ones who seem brash and rude might have beautiful hearts after all.

If you look carefully, things and people may not be what they seem to be at first.

If you look at this image, it is just a ramp to a Car servicing center. But if you look closely, you’ll see a flower or two smiling at you from inside the drainage.

The Sound of Rain

You’ll find me

When the skies darken

The Eagles soar high above the clouds

Where the woods deepen,

The greens cover up like a shroud.

When the first drop tastes my lips,

More embrace me,

Seep within,

drench me to the bone,

Beat down harder,

And in ecstasy,

cry out loud.


This post is a part of #MyFriendAlexa in association with Blogchatter.

The Unfinished Kiss

Can we freeze this moment?
Right here.
You and me, the rains drenching us,
Hiding from prying eyes.
A heartbeat away from each other.
Every time I look at you,
I lose sight of everything else.
Around you, around me,
the past, the future
The reasons, the purposes.

All I can see is you,
Oh so beautiful! that
Beauty gapes at you in awe.
And my heart aches
For it knows not,
How long we have together.

There is an urgency
Every moment I am with you.
An urgency to compress
A hundred million years,
Into that moment, for that’s how long
I want to be with you.
Until the end of time
And beyond.

Don’t look away!
Don’t move
For the time is short.
And in that limited time I have,
I want to spend every split second,
Memorizing your face,
Memorizing how it feels,
When we embrace.

I want to hold you,
Cling on to my dear life, that’s you
For when I no longer have you,
I will need the shadows of this memory
To live through the rest of my life.
As colorless as it would be,
Your memories will be all
that could make my life a shade better.

Shh… Don’t say anything.
They are coming for us.
The moment isn’t far
When they’ll wrench you away from me.
Until then let’s kiss away our pains,
Every kiss seemingly being
The last one.

A split second later,
You vanish
Without a sound,
Just your eyes
screaming at mine.
You vanish
Without a struggle,
As an unfinished kiss
Dies on our lips.


I am participating in #MyFriendAlexa with Blogchatter

For Sundays

Sundays are for the things you love.

For a dip within yourself.

For the memories that made you

And specially the ones that moulded you.


Sundays are for you

To love yourself, unwind yourself

To scatter the pieces of you

Carelessly, mindlessly.


Sundays are for the pajamas,

Messy hair, bad breath,

For strewing things around

To not care what people think.


Sundays are for you to go back

To your childhood,

Eat, say and do what you please,

Throw a tantrum when they say no.


As Sundays fade,

And you replace that chipped nail paint

With a bright shade, perfect coats,

Remember how it felt to be imperfect.

Look around at the perfect clothes

High heels, groomed beards

And realize they had their Sundays too

They have their masks on too. .


Sundays are for yourself

Every other day must be too. .

Souls That Weren’t Done Living

At times I wonder,

About the sounds I hear.

At the dead of night.

The voices whose source

I never find.


A tap in the dark,

A shadow

in the corner,

Shapes that vanish,

As I look

Over my shoulder.


I sense them around me,

At the dead of night.

The unfulfilled dreams,

Hiding out of sight.

Waiting to be discovered.

Behind the Blinds


I see them, a glance,

But for a second,

They vanish and pretend

to have never existed,

Scared to scare me away,

Waiting to be acknowledged.


Sometimes, just sometimes

I hear more.

A whisper,

As soft as rustling leaves,

Or ever so slight a breeze,

Trying to tell me something.


Maybe their stories,

That nobody wrote.

Maybe their wishes,

That were never fulfilled.

Or maybe they just need,

A ear that listens.


They lurk behind the shadows

Beyond my room

Sometimes, within.

Waiting for me.

The ghosts of yesteryear.

Souls that weren’t done living.


Featured Image Courtesy

I Played With Fire

Note – This poem is structured in such a manner that, the number of lines increases in each stanza

I once played with fire.


I played with fire,
Thinking, not all fires could burn me.


I played with fire again!
And felt its power.
To char, to destroy.


I played with fire.
Ever so maliciously,
Into that deep golden glow.


I played with fire,
This time, too close!
Unlike moths, I didn’t die.
I lay broken, wincing.
Swearing never to return.


I played with fire,
But the pains vanished,
Wounds faded, hopes rekindled,
I went back.
The thing with fire and love;
You always go back.


I played with fire.
And I had played too much
To cry, to care,
That I began to see beyond,
The pain, the wounds.
There was a lesson.
There always had been.


As I played with fire,
Hopes evaporated.
The heart sunk into an abyss.
There were no oozing wounds but,
charred bones,
And the smell of an end.
The sun seemed to have set forever
As I was turned to ashes.


I did play with fire.
But I emerged.
Every single time. Yes!
Born from my ashes,
Renewed by my experiences.
Torn between remembering
And forgetting;
The alluring glow of the fire,
And the scorching heat.


When you play with fire,
It consumes you.
But listen to me!
You will emerge.
Wait if you must.
Sleep if it gives you solace.
Hold on and hold strong!
Because you will emerge!
Cleaner, stronger
More determined than ever!


I played with fire,
Until I became one.
~ Ranjini Sankar


Image Sources:
Featured Image – Here
Other – Here

The Emerald Tears


The skies cried.
The emerald tears
Froze on Earth.


Note – This is a view from my window this monsoon. The water weeds & the weeds from the woods have merged to give this wondrous spectacle.

Stars on Earth

The bright twinkling silver drops

Like diamonds studded in pitch black canvas

Fell for her every night.


Stars on Earth

Following my biggest ever writer’s block, Parul at Happiness and Food, Somali at Prepforum & Jan at Jan’s Doodles suggested I do photo prompts. With a bit of push from Jithin’s side, here is my entry for Mundane Monday Challenge. Thank you guys. 🙂

I have been thinking of giving Haiku a try and here is my first ever attempt at it. Haiku is a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, in three lines of five, seven, and five.

This was taken at Vallikkavu, Kollam (Kerala) last month. I am sure, you know what beautifully mundane things they are. I didn’t know that this picture would one day initiate my first ever Haiku and help me get back to blogging. The world’s weird ways.

Signing off for now in the hopes of getting back tomorrow. 🙂


My Black Velvet Unicorn

To the world, I am invisible.
But in my eyes,
I have a world of my own.
Where right & wrong
aren’t the only options.
In my world,
there are in betweens & beyonds.
There is a right for everyone.
And the rights are all respected,
even if they’re disagreed upon.
In my world,
Infinity is just the beginning.
The difference is this.
You see me riding
The broken wooden horse,
While, in fact,
Is my black velvet Unicorn.


In my world, fairy tales are real
And your world is fake.
But if you believe your world is real,
In our world,
We respect your belief.


My World.


Torn by You

I am addicted to you.
Addicted to the searing pain
Coursing through my existence
When you caress
My gaping wounds.

In your absence
I notice,
My addictions are
Tearing me apart.

When you are
Beside me,
I realize,
I enjoy being torn by you.


Image courtesy –