A dreamer who lives in her own little imaginary world. Also, a sucker for tragedies.
Dear Dad, I’ve never written anything about you, And I am sorry. But I know that No poem could ever say the things That I have always meant to say to you, But never did. But never will. I remember the long walk We took on a starry night, And you told me that all the stars in sky Were just burning masses of gas, And not dead people
Dear Josh, I do not know what to say to you, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to. Fifteen years have passed since the day we stood facing each other and recited our vows, surrounded by our friends and families — I, in a flowing white gown that left my pale shoulders bare, you in a charcoal grey suit that perfectly matched the colour of
Sometimes, I want to Stop breathing For a while, And find out If not having oxygen Flood my lungs Hurts worse than Not having you Beside me. Sometimes, I want to Break a glass, And walk on the Shattered pieces, To find out If broken glass Hurts worse than A broken heart. Sometimes, I want to Rip open my skin With a blade, To find out If I
Love, like matter, Can neither be created, Nor destroyed. We are born, Filled to the brink with love, And spend all our lives Trying to pour it out Into someone Who had loved A little too much, And were now left A little too empty. Or into someone, Who has been loved A little too less. Love is like matter. Even though it can Neither be created nor destroyed,
It’s funny, How we thank god Every time people die in a calamity, That it wasn’t us. As if their lives somehow mattered Slightly less than ours do. As if even though we come home To a lonely apartment every evening, With no one to strip us down And breathe in our nakedness, They were somehow lonelier than us. It’s funny, How the numbers On the headlines next morning,
I have heard way too many guys say that “I hope a hot girl rapes me.” And it makes me so sad that I can’t breathe for a minute after I hear that. Rape is not about the sex. Rape is, NEVER about the sex. I get it, you desperately want to get laid. But when someone is raping you, they are not just forcefully having sex with you.
Dear you, Burn the letters from the person who told you that apologizing is the only way to make people stay, because some people would leave even if you told them you were sorry for existing. You built a home miles away from the ocean. It’s not your fault that you drowned. It couldn’t have been your fault. With the right person, you could sail the ocean
A grey morning. She sat cross-legged on her bed, hoping that no one would push open the door to her room, hoping that no one would come and ask her how she was feeling. She was tired. She was tired of people asking the same questions again and again, tired of seeing strangers come and go, their faces lined with nothing but despair and hopelessness. At times, she felt
It’s almost funny that I had no idea that one is supposed to fall out of love with someone when they are asked to, until she asked me the same last night, and disconnected the phone immediately after. I have called her forty-nine times after that, but not once has she picked up. I didn’t call her the fiftieth time because forty-nine is the square of seven, and seven is
I had never met him before I told him that I loved him, had never heard his voice, but I had imagined how he would sound whispering “I love you too.” I had imagined a slight tint of red spreading over his cheeks as he would try to stop himself from grinning like an idiot, and release the Microphone button on WhatsApp. I had imagined how he would nervously wait