It was just six which had always been an unearthly hour of the morning for twenty-one-year-old me. But I just couldn’t sleep. I kept running my fingers through my hair and felt a pang when my fingers met nothing after my neck. I couldn’t help but take my phone to go through old photos just to compare and figure out how long my hair took to grow.
I am a girl, aged 23. There was a time when I used to wear size S tees and had a waist size of 28. Now is not that time. Now I am fat; not obese fat but fat fat. No, I am not dieting if I am not eating a meal…I am simply not hungry. I don’t grow my nails. No, it isn’t because I am a
They see a girl who doesn’t speak much; seems rude, comes across as boring and unapproachable. What they don’t know is that she has social anxiety issues, has low self-esteem, is extremely shy and doesn’t quite fit in the smoke pot group; listens to Coldplay all day, reads batman comic strips, and can beat anyone in a bowl game. They see a skinny girl who starves herself, and is obsessed
Gosh, I used to believe that gulping down three glasses of red wine would make me not to cringe at the things I was starting to feel lately because at the end, I was mere a starter in the realm of alcoholism and in the deserts of solitude. But things well planned of, never yield results if you’re somewhere dreadful of the other tamed self inside you amongst many
* Seventeen years ago * “Don’t go to school if you won’t be having your breakfast,” Ma shouted from the kitchen. Reluctantly, I shoved another spoonful of cornflakes into my mouth. “I am done. The bus is going to arrive any moment now, Ma. Bye!” I shouted back in a muffled voice and ran out of the door. That day, a tire of the school bus got
I walk through the alleys; Alleys that whisper memories into my ears, Entwining a cold warmth with my heart. It’s funny how these memories work. They fill my emptiness With another vacuum. I don’t know how this works, Do you? These memories That I cradle in all endearment. Except now, I cradle an empty cot With the ghost of memories, Echoing off the walls of my soul. My soul that
Life is a railway track. There’re trains moving swiftly, And trains moving sluggishly. On what seems to be An unending journey. Uncertain— Though the rails appear To meet near the horizon. But will they meet? There’re platforms for stopping And reconsidering, But it’s all about moving. If you stop for too long, You’ll become one of the Goods trains, discarded. Standing on derelict tracks, Converting iron into its oxides.
I was born in a world where old, withered flowers that have for years rested within the pages of old books are cherished, and the same world it is, where sagging breasts are not considered lovely. I was born in a world where art is a helpless victim of religion. Where writers and artists have been murdered because they dared to break through the confines of social barriers and
Go on then, Kill yourself. Jump off a building. Oh wait, you’re scared of heights. Poison yourself. You’re scared of needles? Cut your veins. Afraid of pain? Wow. What are you not scared of? Look around you. People are afraid of time running out on them, deadlines killing them. You and me, we enjoy the sound of them whooshing by. People are afraid of love, Yet you tell