the hills/ 74

I haven’t been writing much these days.

Mostly because writing makes me think of you, and

thinking of you makes me think about this 

summer- the way we hiked up a hill so that

you could show me the skyline, and, I remember

thinking that maybe you thought I was the sky,

because you looked into my eyes like they were

stars. Then, we kissed as cars passed us,

alternating between laughing and kissing and laughing

and kissing and I remember it felt like a movie,

like a reality so picture perfect it didn’t exist, and

that’s why I haven’t been writing, haven’t been

penning down these thoughts, because

I am still in love with you, and the more

I write, the more this feels like the present and

not a past, the more I write about you, the

less in control I feel- like I am still falling, like 

you will still catch me- I haven’t been writing

lately, because writing makes me think of you,

think about the love I used to have, the love

I lost; I haven’t been writing lately, because all I 

can write about is you, and you’re no longer mine.


8 of 30/ trap/ 36

I fall into the same trap everytime,

like a circus animal, I repeat the

same tricks for different crowds

at the behest of someone else, and

I never quite understood where it

all went wrong, only that I would 

rather gnaw off my own leg than

believe these silky sweet lies, rather

die stuck in the same cycle that

I was trying to escape, than 

become a pawn in your game,

because the truth is that no matter

how hard I try, my own naivety 

drawns me back in, my own 

foolishness makes me fall in love

with the same faults that made 

me leave, and most days I try

to run away from this life the

destinies plotted for me, but most

days, I don’t succeed. So instead,

I walk into the trap these days,

knowing fully well I could be

maimed, and I sit there patiently,

waiting to finally meet my

hunter, waiting to finally strike.


​I buy notebooks and fill them

with traces of your

vivid dreams, and

I buy notebooks just to write

your name in them, just

to hold them close when

I can’t hold you. 

I write in whispers these days-



Your body is a house I wrecked

a while back, but 

I still want it back.

I sneak in sometimes (when

you aren’t around) and

watch it 


sneakily dissociate. You hide 

your love from

yourself: blame me. 

You carve yourself up: blame

me. You scream and watch

yourself bleed: blame it

all on me,

I don’t mind being the 

proxy between you and your

body, I don’t mind being the thing

you mistakenly

attribute your hurt to. 

I buy notebooks even now.

Fill them up

with traces of you.

Traces of your lips, lingering

on mine. 

I hold them close,


I can’t hold you.


​Everything around me is bright, and

I’m squinting just to survive; 

everything around me is happy 

and I’m withdrawing further into

myself at every chance I get- I 

just want to live. I just want to

dance and be able to see the 

same sun everyone else is, not 

the one that’s tinged red, thats

tinged anger, that’s tinged bitter.

What will it take to make myself

whole? Today I stood on 

someone’s chest, but I was the one

who couldn’t breathe. Who wouldn’t

breathe. Is there even any 

between the two anymore? A boy

once told me that if I wanted to

write, I first needed to experience

things, I first needed to ‘shed some

blood’; Now I’m bleeding and I 

just want to fix myself. I just

want to breathe. I just want 

to be calm. calm. calm.


​Pieces of me 

lie in splinters on

this dusty 

ground- nobody

has made

an effort to erase

my remnants 

from this floor. Yet. 

The key to 

self harm lies in knowing

how to hide it,

in knowing that nobody 

looks at a

supposedly happy person’s 

arms. Or legs. 

Nobody checks a pious 

brat’s veins for 

drugs- this world is about 

appearances. Not

reality. Pieces of me have 

laid here

since last Wednesday and

I don’t blame 

anyone. Why would they want

to come near 

my filthy personality when I can’t 

stand it myself?


Words have forever been stitching
a patchwork blanket of intricate
tales for me to wrap around myself
like armor; they keep me safe. They
keep me warm. Words have been
drawing me into the worlds they
create since before I can remember
and I have been falling, falling,
falling headfirst towards their magic,
and I’ve been slowly collecting
the ingredients to weave my own delusions
into something that might provide
the same feeling that other people’s
words do.
This is the beauty of fiction, this
is the beauty of words scrawled on
a page. It helps you forge your own path,
create your own identify, manoeuvre
your own destiny. Fiction creates a
song out of dissent, a dance out of
chaos, a movie out of worry, a
story out of imagination.
It’s been helping me recover from
blows I didn’t realise were being inflicted,
it’s helped me move past pain and
backwards to better days,
its helped me carve an opinion out of
a smattering of thoughts.
It helps me breathe, it helps
me stay sane, it helps
me escape to worlds better than my own.
Words have forever been stitching
an exquisite blanket of stories from
worlds beyond, of feelings I am yet
to recognise, of people I might
never know, of fiction.
Words have been providing me shelter
as I navigate the real; fiction has been
providing me solutions for problems
before I have them and I’ve been
reading, reading, reading, I’ve
been curled up on my bed, I’ve
been slowly healing every cut on
my body and now, I’m flourishing,
blossoming, surviving. And,
it’s not like fiction healed all
my wounds, but it gave me
the tools to heal myself, and
without it, I might have spiraled
into madness, into misery, into
depths I don’t want to reach.
So fiction may not have healed
all of my wounds, but here I am
today, here I am, warm within
my words, here I am immersed
in yet another book,
here I am, happy.
Here I am, reading.

You (30 of 30!)

You feel like the end of a chain
of bad decisions, like with you,
my body has given up; the dominoes
have been falling,
falling, falling, and
with you, the last one has
fallen and I have been
buried under the weight of your ego.
You feel like the result of years of no work, of years
of broken flowers and empty promises
of years of stupidity.
You feel like the condensed form of
every bad word I
have ever dared to utter, like every
slap I should never have given, like
the morning after pill; I taste my
bitter memories every time we kiss.
You feel like all the things I shouldn’t have done, and
this, this feeling is why I’m leaving.
Because if I stay, you won’t be the
one to blame. I’ll be the one burying
myself, and I don’t think I’m ready to
leave this life behind.
So I’ll be leaving, because
you feel like death and I,
I just want to feel alive.

Pool of Sorrows (29 of 30)

The blood slowly trickled down her temple and
dripped onto her folded palms from where
it fell on her knees and then on the floor,
forming a little pool of her sorrows.
She looked up at him, begging for mercy
and he smiled while taking another sip
of his drink and towering over her a man no
more, but a monster, just one wearing
a suit, just one
that nobody else seemed to see.

Silence (27 of 30)

My silence seems to be a chainsaw
slowly sawing through my throat
and it seems to be a jail
I’ve locked myself into, but
I don’t really feel like leaving.
Because even as it cuts me open,
it sews me shut and I’m glad.
I know I’m not suppose to do this,
but here I am.
Here I am.
Here I am, head barely attached to my body,
demons crawling out of me,
here I am.
Silent, and as long as
I’m not entirely unhappy,
I guess I’m in a good place.
I guess silence is like a nice place
to settle down in.
I guess, here I am.

Sorry if this poem appears on 28th, I had some technical problems and the poem was deleted, I think. Thanks! x

Lead (26 of 30)

Your eyes remind of the virgins hues
of silver and your body reminds me of pure
gold because most people stop looking the
moment they see your flesh, but
your heart is like lead, dull to the
touch but warm and welcoming no matter
what, yes, your heart is always like lead.