the radio is a blend of static and silence
this morning, bearing some semblance
to every brooding corner of this house
i am two parts rage and one part resilience,
i sit with my head out the broken window pane,
wondering who would explain the tarnished wooden floor
that creaks under my step, and the scarlet cinnabar under my bed
wilted dandelions hang from the roof, like spiders
that hang deep in my throat from cobwebs,
mapping every nook and cranny of my brain

12 seconds of daydream and
i’m 12 feet underwater— harrowing, stealing breath
fighting the erratic pulse that engulfs me with a feeling of malice.
i take a step back,
running from myself but only so far
now my hands are tied and the days cry out for meaning

miles of winter moorland, i walk barefoot and lonely,
for a hiraeth that’s rooted deep in my marrow
and keep the bed warm for a distressed lover
who only calls my goddamn name like i am tainted desire
so i disregard the girl who stares weakly back at me from
behind the mirror, into death’s opal eyes
to the spirits that linger in the hallway
my keepers, they feed on the tangerine drips from the roof,
it tastes one part salty and three parts sorrow

winter came in for a minute
breaking through the boarded windows
and suddenly i am aware i have nothing to lose,
or everything all at once—
like battleships balancing on cresting waves
minutes before embracing the unprecedented death
i watch myself turn into a shapeless stranger who
wears my disguise, through gritted teeth and
clenched fists, crescent moons pitting my palms
that recount the story of my heart slowing down
(my unmaking)
eyes locked tight, i feel it through my freezing hands
a niche so sweet it takes my breath away.


‘this is me trying’, ts

lately there’s been this song, ‘this is me trying’ which i am honestly, unconditionally obsessed with and it almost feels like a perfect lyrical projection of everything that i’ve been going through/feeling since quite long now. this might seem unlikely because nothing particularly looks misaligned on the outside about my life but i know how hard it has always been for me to try and adjust and make sure that i fit in, an inner conflict that slowly rusted anything good that i might have initially started with. i cannot bring myself to restore all that i’ve lost my grip upon because it’s overwhelming, because i think i am complicit with an inescapable cycle of self destructive and regressive behavior.

i’ve often been told that all my problems are a manifestation of my mentality, that “it’s all in my head” but i refuse to believe so. why, there must be some reason for all this mindless torment which drives me a little closer to the great abyss every single day. there must be some explanation to why i wasted all my potential and got stuck in an endless loop of infinite dimensions and can’t seem to find my way back out. i am deeply unsatisfied over everything i write because i find it nothing more than a poorly conjectured and dramatic proclamation of love, of my utmost conviction to have put up with a toxic lover and danced around him like a mayfly dancing around blinding lights until ultimately getting burned itself. i kept replaying the memories like flashbacks on a film reel and never made space for another. i know how desperate and torturous that sounds but it’s all i had for the longest of time and soon realized what a hell loop i was in. i had to unshackle myself before getting deemed an absurd Sisyphus who must struggle perpetually and ultimately give in and find happiness in this hopeless struggle. 

i was very fond of everything golden and shiny as a little girl, who braided her hair into new patterns every night. it was as if i had convinced myself to the reality that adding some shimmering beauty would not only glorify anything featureless but almost instantly prompt my endearment towards it. i never learned in my blissfully unaware childhood that letting go of certain things that you believe you can’t rid off is crucial even when it feels like discarding a part of yourself, your own flesh. this is particularly why, growing up, my demeanor towards anything gone slightly awry would always be sympathetic or apologetic or i would take it upon myself to try and do everything i could to mend it. i HAD to prove the fact that i always had a solution, that i could single handedly change things for the better, no matter how worse of a condition they might be in. maybe that was my coping mechanism towards my personal insecurities, the constant fear i had of not doing or being enough all the time, fading to the background like a song that’s long forgotten. it’s funny that i write all of these in past when i know it for a fact that nothing has particularly changed in the matter and i still remain to be so profusely obsessive. i ask why but find no answer to it. 

maybe someday when i’ve liberated myself from the feeling of being at the edge all the time and i’ve learned that measuring oneself against others on the bell curve is an irredeemable failure in itself, that being self critical is fine as long as the depreciation comes from a place of awareness and acceptance of oneself, i’ll finally find a fitting-piece in the greater puzzle that is life. untill then i guess i’ll just keep trying.


house by the sea

four years ago, I built the foundation
of a house by the sea
knowing well in my heart that the gurgling tides
would creek in through the pipes.
High-end French windows and purple drapes,
with children running through the long hallways,
wild and unruly—
like the garden in the backyard
where I grew up playing house with my sister
under a red dupatta
Maybe for the first time in years
their hearts wouldn’t be frantic
to the echoes of a distant siren wailing
and drones targeting their homes
Everytime the water crashes and slams the walls,
I would hold their bruised hands
and rush them to the attic
I would hush each one in turn and placate
them with stories of kings and their horses,
of battles lost and won and dragons flying
When the sea water finally sloshes in,
and soon there would be nothing but remains
of the purple drapes
that couldn’t obscure light or drafts,
I would promise them peace (finally)
and whisper a prayer to the blue and the skies.