I’m a broken ship,
Sail stuck in a bottle,
Torn horizontally,
Bleeding air.
I’m the drunken fighter,
Brain fogged up,
Punching into voids,
Pain pulsating through.
I’m a fallen soldier,
Gunshots in my ears,
Blood in my eyes,
Death in my mind.
I’m an empty book,
Pages made of plastic,
Blank, cheap.
But then again, I’m me,
A name, an entity,
A wave of calm acceptance,
A whirlpool of rejection.
I’m without a soul,
Tied up in a bow of satin,
A gift to someone else,
A gift to someone else.

Getting Started.

Why are your eyes
The kindest, with the softest shine,
Yet with a blank stare?
Why are your arms
Protective, strong,
Yet bruised with loneliness?
Why is your heart
Calm, steady,
Yet afraid?
Why your lips
Smooth, soft,
Yet closed and cold?
Come share this fire with me,
Palms outstretched,
Legs crossed,
Comfortable with our shadows,
Until the night devours us.

Heart to Find.

One fine morning
I found a stone cold heart
Lying on the street
Blood frozen inside.
I picked it up
In my warm hands
And it melted
Into a violently beating red blob.
I was stained
But I took it home
I put it in a glass jar
And kept it in the sun.
The same day, apparently,
When my doctor checked me
He said my chest was empty
And that I was dead.

One-sided Conversations.

In a corner somewhere,
A voice whispers,
You’ll never be like her. 
It says,
Your eyes will never widen with excitement,
Like hers. 
Your hair will never bounce,
Like hers. 
Your smile will never light up,
Your skin will never be perfect,
Your joy will never be contagious,
Like hers. 
He will never love you like he does her. 
It screams,
You should probably just go die. 
You should probably just go die,
But you’re not even that brave. 
But no.
I’m brave.
I can be brave.
But wouldn’t  you like to see.
I’m brave enough to not die.
I’m brave enough to not give in to you.
I’m brave enough to fuck you off.
You’re just a shadow,
You’re just my art.
And oh, I’m wildly imaginative.


I’m empty.

Every evening after work,
I sit and stare at the walls,
Wondering what to paint,
Wondering where my words went,
Asking the void how I got lost.
And I see,
That I’m empty.

I’m empty,
But they say,

You’re half full. 

They say,

Don’t look at the other half.

They say,

You won’t break,
You’re strong.

But I know;
I’m empty.

I’m full of cowardice,
Full of anger undirected,
Of nonexistent faith,
Of pity at my skin, my teeth, my bones,
My very very core,
My fragile, cracked core.

They say,

Let us help you,
Let us see you,
Open up,
Open up.

But I’m empty.
What do I show you?

I’m only some bit of air,
Some bit of agony,
Some liters of blood and flesh,
And then,
I’m just empty.
Just, empty.

Marriage? What’s that? 

Most of the time, the idea of living with someone, stamped on the forehead with the label of a wife, is repulsive to me. Most of the time, the idea of looking at kids screaming for the most unnecessary, dangerous, and stupid little colourful toy, is a nightmare I wish to not be a part of. Most of the time, the idea of having to be social at family “functions”, meeting long lost semi-in-laws, and more screaming children, ends up giving me a thought migraine and a nervous stomach.

The issue here is that, sometimes a bitch of a thread crawls into my head, through the insecurity breach, breaking my little almost-happy bubble, just so I can continue having that thought migraine, hanging on to my bare temples for a few damned days.

Why do I need to get married?


Why do I want to get married?

Do I? Nope. Not at all. I mostly believe that I can be on my own, and kick the bucket kind of early, maybe. Kinda. Phew. Talk ’bout death.

So, why do I need to get married? I don’t. Do my mother, her brothers, her sisters, their neighbours, my neighbours, some of my own friends, and their neighbours, random relatives, their neighbours who could also be random relatives, priests, random people in one whole locality, and mostly every single person who is older than me, think that? Yes. Yes they do.

Should I care? Most of the time, no. Sometimes, I do, even if I don’t want to.

So this post is essentially a puddle of questions and not so many answers.

When my snob of an uncle calls me and tells me, “Send one of your good pictures to +98762846728478361536,” I say, “Why?” and he says, “You don’t need to know that,” and I’m like, “OKAY? What.” As if I don’t know that there’s an angel of a potential mother-in-law who wants to see me, who has a son who works in the Americas as a software engineer… about which he tells me later, of course, I’m not like, psychic. Pfft. I wish I was though, I could have left the call unattended if I knew this was his intention. Mehnyway.

So I say, yeah, okay, I’ll send a picture. But not really meaning it. If I send a picture, this would mean I’ve given a positive signal that it’s okay for them to look for “suitors.” I said yes because I don’t want to cause a rift between my family members who want “only good for me.” (I honestly don’t know what they mean by that.)

One of my guy friends went through the same thing before me, and I was actually asking him to send his good pictures to the semi-cute whateverish girl, and I realized something after the phone call, that I was being one of the aforementioned characters who thought they knew better than anyone else. Ugh. Nnnnnnnnooooooo!

(To that friend, you know who you are, and I’m sorry.)

TBH, I just wanted to see him settled down and not end up alone like I might. (Who knows, I might invite you to my marriage in the next paragraph, haha. Help. :/ )

Sometimes I’m worried that there will be no one left to attend my funeral. Sometimes I’m scared as hell about the possibility of ending up alone when I’m older and no one wanting to hang out or even fuck me. But none of these fears outweigh the regret of being with someone you just don’t want to be with. I’d rather stay in this sort of uncertainty, than being in one endless Gordian knot of unnecessary people who won’t even let you divorce in peace, if ever the need is realized.

So what I mean to say is that, you don’t need to get married. That need is not yours. It’s everyone else’s. If you want to get married, that’s a completely different thing. And you can choose whether it can be a total random stranger who you kind of swipe right if you like their looks and their salary and their materialistic possessions (yay) or someone you actually fucking like.

Happy (un)married life!


A Revolution. 

​In the night, we dreamed of sleeping on shiny white sands with the moon watching over our stars. In the day, we dreamed of running away beyond the seas, leaving our soft footprints so that others could follow. And by the time we woke up, we had lost something that felt like a battle; a battle that had claimed our sands, our stars and our dreams.