Eyelash Wishes and Angel Numbers

By Aastha Nagi

im just a girl' yes and you're also the reason the void of lifelessness and empitness gets filled for a battered body. when i was a little girl, my religion that i hopelessly and childlikely believed in carved a whole of betryal inside of my body. so there was no god no messiah no angel no faries you could've tortured my soul into believing. wings were for a kind of species I could never become and faries were for oblivious children. belief and faith are blind and angel numbers are just numbers. 

men have told me they liked my eyes because unlike most females, nature had gifted me long eyelashes. i did not tell men that the angel fairy potion that i used on my lashes were tears of agony and sorrow and that my lashes were not always this long. 

every once in a very long while an eyelash of mine would fall and be washed away with water, my eyelids would cover and water would caress the skin of my face and in a few days the lash would regrow. i dont remember this happeneing that much though. 

men have not called my eyes pretty in while now. 

because everytime a lash falls, my fingernails that are often cruel to the skin of my body, tenderly pick it up and place it on the back of my palm. everytime a lash falls, a little more of my hope jumps and a little more of me dies from the tricks of waiting. everytime a lash falls, my eyes close and the lash is christened by the wish and desire of you. 

men have not called my eyes lovely in a while and i think my eyes have been shedding a lot more lashes since you. 

- you're just a girl yet you make a body of despair childlikely believe in eyelash wishes and angel numbers again. 

and i heard your girl is an artist, she paints, could you ask her to paint my overwhelming gut wrenching soul altering desire to have you? would you get it then? i wonder if she would draw a sun in the middle of a starry night or a bleeding female body wearing clothes made of thorns that they couldn't take off even when they tried to molest her because she loves you so much but you shatter her. her clothes are her dignity, she would not recognise her bones without them. and she broke her mirror anyways. 'what was she wearing' they would ask. it was never about her clothes though was it. it was her. a female fatale to herself because of the love she had bathe in. the love she had for you. 

when they sexually tried to get out from her what they could not mentally, they still failed. because her clothes were stiched onto her bare skin. my clothes are my love for you and and my skin is bleeding. 

you could not have molested her. every cell of her body belonged to another. why would you want a body so painted that even strokes of black could not make it new and naked. why would you want a body with clothes you could not take off. why would you want a body that is hoarse and shivering from the absense of a person who was never present. 

if you are a body starved of touch

i want to play with your hair till the child in you believes it to be my favourite toy. 

i want to trace every piece of art on your face till you believe that the end of your bones is on the tips of my tender fingers. 

i want to put my lips against yours till you taste the sunlight you keep giving to others in mine. 

i want to slide my tongue down your throat till every cell of you that has ever died of thirst feels that it is drowning in the holy water of my love. 

i want to put your hands in mine till your fingers mold themselves and make you think they were made to be fit inside mine. 

i want to hold your body till you are caged and trapped within my arms and suffocating with the safety you never quite found within your mothers shallow hugs.

i want to caress every wound on your bone till the child in you believes that it was the fairies that healed it. 

i want to kiss every scar on your skin while i absorb the story you tell behind it and

i want to kiss every scar on your skin till you believe they are the tattoos you got of love metaphors. 

if you are a hollow body starved of touch

i want to touch you till your soul becomes a love letter of my hand prints decorated with my lip prints. 

if you are a body starved of touch 

i will touch and caress your soul for you. 

By Aastha Nagi