For Pain I Die


Your lullabies sing

of how New Moon night is that of poets.

When a fortnight full of eulogies and prose

on craters, the crescent, stolen light,

tidal waves, and the face of a beloved,

black, from ink and pain

wraps itself ceaselessly around our moon,

The Poet makes darkness her mistress.


So I wake up dangerous, humming hymns

of how each time a newly broken writes of the sunset

his poetry is wrung out of every crumpled sheet

and dripped down at twilight

until his romance drowns his muse completely.


Your letters read

of how caramel cobwebs form underneath

the tongues of those who cannot express love.

That the dry and sour in their mouths is

in fact only the aftertaste that sugar left behind

leaves behind as it melts into acidic

oblivion and that pungency slithers down their throats

if they are mouthed love for long enough.


So I emerge fearless, embracing the shy

while the honey they were afraid had rotten bitter

pools on top of my collarbones and spills as

I move, drenching me in glaze

until the sweet, divine nectar drowns me completely.



your whispers speak

of how you are of too much essence to me,

so I chant cries into canticles, while scraping

every destructible part of myself with the ends of flowers

you pluck obliquely, and write with blood about

the colour of wine roses

until all that is left of me –

is poetry.


The Valley Where My Heart Broke

I remember trekking up the hills with my home in a backpack, and a little instruction manual on how to assemble it that I knew by heart. That I remember, is marvelous, because this story is from the time I used to have expectations, and I do not quite expect myself to remember that time.

I went there looking for stars to lie under because when I turned 16 and heard that the sky knows no limits, ma’s Mukaish chunni that I had been lying beneath suddenly seemed a little too small. But clouds could never obstruct ma’s chunni, and I don’t know why I thought the same for the sky.

The first few nights were gorgeous, they were the ones on which I do not remember blinking. But soon enough the lights in the sky shut down one after the other the way the streetlights of my city do when dawn breaks. When dawn breaks, but maybe clouds and stars don’t care for that. I still stayed. I stayed still, staring into the same nothingness that used to smile at me mysteriously from between Delhi streets. The nothingness I had run from, at least it was full of voices of the people I love…

If you have ever heard a fresh stream bubble over rocks and pebbles, you would know how a heart sounds like when it breaks. A swift shatter easily lost amongst crisp burbles. I know, because now every time I move, from my chest I can hear a brook. The damned nothingness started to heave inside of me and it was now, when it maliciously pumped blood through my veins, that I realised it was in me and so it was in Delhi streets and mountain skies.

This doesn’t mean I have stopped looking for places where I do not feel the void, but since that day I have only laughed when Ma opens the door wearing a yellow chunni over a navy blue suit, and runs to check if someone left a tap open every time I walk in.

On Fate


On one of the nights when my father and I discuss life, we were talking about love and of course, that led to us talking of how Van Gogh decided to die and my father told me that he has a memory of a saint telling the masses that Gogh went to sea on a day he was already drowning in thoughts of a decided death, and returned with sundried tears, and the salt and oil they left behind the way the ocean will the day it completely dries.

In my father’s viewpoint, Gogh probably used the salt as inspiration, and the oil as paint or fuel, because he believes it was the sun that made the artist paint, but when I read up on Gogh, I found out such was not the case.

But I grew a deep-rooted affinity for a coincidence that I will now share –

I was only fifteen and when I decided to die, so I gave myself three more days of life for the sake of what the internet had been nagging me to do, and on the fourth day, when I had decided to visit the abandoned park nearby and drink myself insane until there is drain cleaner eating up every artery and vein that had my soul tied down, I woke up with sunshine covering every inch of my face except for my left ear, and I chose to kill myself on another day when the sun wasn’t so beautiful. Since then, I have never found the sun any less breath-taking, even on days preceding rain; maybe I’m only looking for a reason to live.

In my research, I looked up the saint’s work on Gogh and the second page I opened spoke of how an artist is to only create art for the sake of art, for the sake of creation and for the sake of paying the universe back for the life it has given to her, and not for the sake of appreciation, which was exactly the direction I had been lacking, and I was led to it on a Wednesday night because of my father, who doesn’t know what he thinks gave life to Van Gogh was actually what gave life to his daughter exactly two years ago.

So tell me there is no such thing as fate.


I could go out and scream it all to the walls because they might have ears for me, but I live in a busy city and I’d rather not be found in society thinking out loud its worst fears. I could also text myself on WhatsApp the way I used to, but for some reason, I expect replies – maybe it’s intentional, maybe the chat bubbles and blue ticks do make people want to carry conversations further until they are hooked to other human beings who lead lives just as pointless as the conversations that take place on these messengers. I wouldn’t say I prefer face to face talk either; it was only yesterday when my father told me that being a loner is the only way to get around the world. He then carried on to telling mum he’ll give her a divorce someday for the 400th time in the past two years (he never will). The point is, it is nice to have a blog that nobody reads – it’s a lovely place to vent.

I have a desire, and it is to want to live for something. Honestly? Currently, I exist because I do not want the people closest to me to blame themselves for my death when they have worked so hard to keep me happy. Do not misinterpret this, I only exist so I could give it all back to them. But you see, that is where the problem lies – I can only provide them with what they deserve once I’m successful and I don’t care for success. I don’t care for existence in general. People don’t understand it. They think I make no sense, but that is the point – to me, I make absolute sense, and I have to spend the rest of my life with myself, so I stop talking. But that is when they start getting irritated and it puts me in a weird position so I avoid social gatherings with people who know me as much as possible.

It’s adorable how they think extroverts have it good. Sure, we can socialize, but I can only do that with those who have no idea who I am so I wouldn’t have valid reasons to expect reciprocation. They could know me for a day or two and then they will never remember me, just the way I like it. How can people fear oblivion? It’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. If I could, I would fall into oblivion this very second, or maybe after a week so people know this is not a phase. Every year, on my birthday, I feel like I do not deserve all the love that I get, and then a month later I realize I do not want any of that love because it will obviously go away at some point. It is weird how I feel lonely when I’m with the guy I call my brother, or when I’m with school friends because I’m the kind of person who probably doesn’t appear as lonely to anyone. I’m probably messing up my grammar but who cares? Nobody is going to read this and thus, here, I can be my illiterate, negative, mediocre, self-destructive self without inviting any judgment.

What if I really run out on patience sometime in future and decide to end my life? I’ve been dragging myself for the most part of the past two years and might make 6 more, but I am pretty sure that will be it. Will I not be wasting more resources and taking up unnecessary space in an already overcrowded world? Will my parents not get more disappointed in me then after having put in so much only for me to kill myself at 23? Will it not be better if I die right now? It will save everyone the time, effort and money. Also, I wish I at least had the reason to live for vanity’s sake, but I have seen what my future self will look like visualized on someone else and it is the most disgusting thing one could look at.

I wish I had the guts to achieve the one thing I have been wanting so bad, but the sweet thing about death being your dream is that you will surely get there, sooner or later.



I remember how she told me

that she loves how soft her feet become when she

walks out of the shower, and now, I notice mine

but they end with toes of shapes alien to me,

and begin at heels which just cannot recover

from visualized memories of the time

I spent trying to imitate decent height with shoes

that would scrape my skin until my flesh would remember

that if I was meant to be tall, I would have been.

Maybe it was her velvety feet, or her head touching the

upper ends of your ears that made you fall

head over heels

in love with her, because I had neither; I still don’t.


On her wild, happy days, she would start screaming

lyrics, and names, and even random words

but they would all sound like music to me (probably to you too,

aren’t you in love with music?), and now I do the same. I twirl around

in my own symphonies until the world grabs me by my shoulders

and rattles me like a 6 month old’s toy maracas, and makes cacophony

about how I have been acting like her (again).


I would keep wondering if she had something about her or if I

had nothing in me  at all, and I know now it’s both,

but this conclusion doesn’t make anything better,

and it couldn’t make anything worse,

for all I have left to say is


I do not blame you for choosing her over me,

because unknowingly,

I did the same.




There was an age

When my eyes would lose your eyes,

At night, to my pillowcase,

And by the morning, as the sky celebrates

Its 4.54 billionth coronation

By adorning a sun as mark of legislation;

By the morning, you’d evaporate.


I would recollect you

Amidst afternoon-ish hours and twilit minutes

From lovers in café queues

From under dusty vows, and from all things untrue,

But as the sky would observe

Ink trickling out of the new monarch’s nerves,

Upon my pillowcase, you’ disappear from view.


But now, you’re archived,

Stacked neatly on the shelves of my subconscious

Since the last time I cried;

Stored in mason jars like old, stuttering Christmas lights.

No, I cannot lose you anymore,

For now my eyes have given up on downpour

And in this restrained tempest, you hide.


I can no longer cry you out of my system, I cannot rip you out of my skin,


For I’m afraid you’re braided into my soul

Like wildflowers in the hair of a 6 year old.