Posts by Ivy

An Ode to Tragedies

“Why do you usually write tragedies?” “Because I think that’s what I write best,” “But have you ever even tried writing some other genre lately?” I think for a while. I’ve written on loss, on longing, on misunderstanding, on maintaining facades, on watching happiness slowly fade – all different versions of sorrow, “Not really.” I reply. “Then how do you know?” I pause briefly, “I don’t.”   Later in the

I Won’t Tell You I Love You

<script async src=”//“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> 2.30 AM October 30, 2015   Z,   It’s been a long time now. Some nights ago, I realized I miss those conversations – those that, for the first time, completely engrossed me for entire nights, so much that I stayed up with

Answer Me

I’ve been reading today, all day, after an excruciatingly painful encounter with reality, a brief nap, and a few blue pills to return to my home of chemical comfort. And there are things I want to ask, things I want to know, things I want to imbibe.   I want to know these people, these writers, these creators of masterpieces, these rays of hope, these masters of empathy, these epitomes of



Falling in Love With Her

I fell in love with her when I saw the way she could make her mother laugh the most musical laugh with her first baby steps in the old mossy park. She needed so little to keep her happy – one bedtime story, one doll, one old photograph. She would spend hours saving drowning ants from muddy puddles during monsoon. She would spend days reading books upside down. She would

Losing, Not Yet Lost

I go for walks at midnight, watching as the sleet falls silently – silver strands of frozen air. I make three rounds of the block, with an eye out for drifting dreamers – and I bring you home every night.   When I get back with you and send you to the shower, I discover a singular strand of your hair on my shoulder. So I save it safely in

Bring Yourself Back

This will not do for much longer: this belief that you have honoured for decades now – that the next boy, the next book, the next sketch, the next photo, the next poem or the next song will make everything okay.   You need to accept that it won’t.   I know you no longer lie weeping your nights away; but no longer do you snap at men who stare


They were unremarkable.   Except if you knew them.   Then you’d know how their love had withstood the cruel tides of time.   They were unremarkable. Except if you noticed the scars they had incurred – both on their bodies and their hearts, at different phases of their lives, perhaps even with different people in their lives – of hurt, of passion, of belonging, each of which had a

Carvings on a Tree

Centuries ago, a little cold girl from a little cold orphanage went out to visit a long cold winter night. She took with herself one sharp cold blade in her shivering cold hands and her numb cold thoughts in her little cold mind. She wandered around the vast cold orchard and looked longingly at the pale cold moon enveloped in dark cold clouds…   She watched as the leaves nudged


He cried to me that night. He begged me for mercy and he cried to me that night. He told me he was helpless, that he couldn’t ever forget her, that he was forever hers, that her name was etched in his every cell and in every second of his existence, that he was sorry for dragging me into his severely complicated world, that he knew I could never forgive