I am the Spider

I am nothing now
But tattered silk, ripped in
Guilt, lies and sorrow,
Dreading the undeserved and angered tomorrow-
Because of me?

I was the paragon and angel of
Justice, honesty, clear of thought;
Yet I twisted and pulled the strings so taught
As to snap, choking you,
Manipulating colours and threads until
I did not know which way was right.

What brought me to this?
I ask, bracing myself for the blow of your fist,
Your hissing words, all of which mean:
You hurt me – so I did – you do not understand.
Do I not?

Pain is not new
When it comes to you, yet now
I am the giver, you the battered soul;
Tragic yet poetic, it fills me with the cold
Of knowing: I caused this fire.

You expect me to act,
To be a perfect heart to fall
In love with the idea of love-
Do you know me at all?
Do you know I am scared of flying, letting go,
So scared that I would run, hide-
You think I do not know what I have done,
But with every word you apply to me, I know.

Let me be free, I said, then
Came back, filling my dead eyes
With happiness, thinking it would
Save me – but I, as broken as ever,
Gave you hope that shattered you.
Let me burn for it
In ashes I scattered-

You will never believe me,
When I say that I am sorry,
Say it twice, thrice, yell it-
It makes no difference and so
I run after a dream.

Leave me to my silent screams,
Hidden tears and bloodied hands-
For the web you think so cruel
Has a heart within its strands.

From Elm 🙂


What is right and wrong
When it comes to you?
Gone without you for so long,
The lines begin to blur
Into one.

I should hate you,
With all my heart,
After all this time, tears falling through
The shards of glass you left, and yet
Something draws me to you,

It is wrong to forget the ways,
The words and broken promises with which
You hurt me: when you speak,
With a silken tongue and caring whisper,
Is it right for me to remember?

I am told to close myself to you,
To be careful, to always
Hold you away from me,
Resist, persist in desisting your love
Expected to not want to be
What I was, because that is
Wrong. Wrong.

They would despise me for it,
And my head wars with my feelings
Tearing, ripping apart, destroying
The careful foundations rebuilt
After your departure.

You were the flame, the original,
Untainted, flickering, morphing into
Somebody different, but even still,
My hands remember the heat.

If my body gives what my mind is unable,
Is that such a crime?
Detach the flowers, hearts, labels-
Could you ever understand,
I cannot give you what you want.
What do I want?

I am scattered;
You are broken, pieces
Running from the wind of morals shattered
But is it twisted for you, too?

To be hurt, to love, to twist my heart,
All are verbs from the same litter
Of hopeless animals: will you have them
Go hand in hand with me? Will I
Ask you to dance with these dangerous lovers?
No. Yes.

There is no right and wrong
When it comes to you,
Only the melody of past mistakes,
Not corrected, not forgotten
But put aside for one final view
Of paradise.
Now, is that wrong?

From Elm 🙂


I’ve not been in a good mood at ALL recently, as evidenced by my last post. I am SO sorry about all that, guys. But THANK YOU so much for all your support – it managed to somewhat drag me out of the miserable burrow I’d dug myself into.

But enough of that. I’m taking a break from my usually depressing posts to write THIS THING. Actually, Shivani inspired me to write this with her humorous ways. Go check out her blog; it’s splendiferous.

In English on Friday, we were studying a thrice-damned poem called The Hunchback in the Park by Dylan Thomas. It is thrice-damned because poor ickle Elmitron doesn’t understand it.

My English teacher is the best thing. Ever. I don’t really know how to describe him – maybe I’ll do that in a later post. I remember him reading the poem My Last Duchess by Robert Browning in the most sadistic and creepy voice I’ve ever heard, and he paused every few stanzas to cackle maniacally.

So he was reading The Hunchback in the Park. And one of the lines was this:

A woman figure without fault
Straight as a young elm

I choked. And then, I started laughing. I tried to muffle it, squeezing my eyes shut. Unfortunately, my friend Wren (not actually called that but nature is bae) sits next to me. Wren knows about this blog. So Wren laughed, which didn’t help.

We were asked to talk about the poem. I put my hand up, still laughing slightly.

“Well, there’s a LOT of emphasis on nature. The woman is compared to an elm-” I couldn’t stop a slight fluctuation in my voice “-and the poet puts an emphasis on the boys hiding in the willow groves.”

I couldn’t hold back the pointed way I said willow. Because, well, Willow’s in my English class, and she sits behind me. You can read about Willow here.

I felt like a right rebel and I couldn’t stop myself from sniggering “Elm” every few seconds.

WOW SUCH TREES. I am so so mature!