A Room of Mayhem and Ideas

Do you know what mayhem is?

It’s the chaos without reason.

I am afraid of my disorganized likings.

I am afraid of those piled up clothes on my chair which I couldn’t help myself with.

I could help, but I don’t want to, because I don’t feel like clearing it off.

But if I am zoned well here, why am I afraid?

I guess after all these days I know the reason for this ‘why’.

Because pile isn’t the only thing that a mind could think of.

There are these whole threaded beads of notion regarding the mess, on which I could have judged a person, totally!

This is my ideology, thrown vaguely on that chair and all around the room.

I am afraid if a person would think about the issue, the way he isn’t supposed to.

I am afraid if he looks into the massless brain in that skull of mine.

What if he gets to know the randomly disarranged thoughts which levitate and fractures like tectonic plates do under the ground.

I would rather not allow a person to visit me even once, for the foul thing in my room.

 For those stains of coffee on my table mixed with the stale breadcrumbs which craved to get into my intestine but couldn’t.

For those tea stained pages of my diary, and those pens half done.

No pen in the shelf whereas they loiter bad on the stack of pages.

Crumbled paper pins and my notes which mumbled a different story.

The pullover seemed to have creases from a long time back.

The bed sheet had a whole different story to tell.

It bluffs about the torn out ends.

My untidy collars of shirts were increasing in number and intensity as well.

My trend was set by those sweat stinking shoes.

My lowers were cleanly set in the almirah besides the one on my thighs urging to be removed.

Those potato chips were done with none of the sauce touched.

I am afraid that my availability of showing unavailability is a bit confusing in the other room.

I am afraid if you compare the arranged room of yours with mine and then you compare those unarranged vulnerabilities of mine with yours.

 I am afraid if you are afraid to sleep in my bed, this makes me feel your discomfort in my vicinity.

I am afraid if you can’t sip coffee from my cup, this makes a part of me feel ugly for you can’t touch me the way I want you to.

I get up every day to invite you. So, I have this thought a night before every day to tidy up the room, for you to feel me like I am a home to you.

I succeed to an extent but all I know is,

Giving you home makes me lose mine.

Because I am afraid if I lose you,

But I am sad I can’t live with you in MY home.

I am afraid if I die in your home with you.

But then I settle with this idea of you settling with mine, years after.

I settle on this idea that one day when I visit you,

You gift me my home,

My messed up home.

And wish me a day.

I must tell you that, this gift in that age will add to my life.

Or honey listen,

Keep my grave all messed up.