The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

How do you tell someone that they mean a lot to you because a few words stringed together would never do justice to how they make you feel. How someone feels like a beautiful clear day you'd watch after a stormy night, both of them magnificent on their own but we wouldn't appreciate one if the other weren't present. How someone feels like the hands that guide the paper boats in rainy season, while all the others watched theirs sink. How someone feels like the type of person you have always wanted to meet but never knew until you started talking to them. Someone that carried the burdens of her life on her shoulders yet laughed so brightly that your heart eases just a little knowing that she's here. She saw the world for its cruelty and kindness. She saw everyone for their insecurities and strengths. But she was kind about it, undeniably. And I saw her. She is the humblest person I have ever known. She'd take me out on walks and share the most complicated parts of her

When you have loved and lost, you never look at love the same way again. When you have hurt someone, you never look at love the same way again. When you apologize and fix things, you realise you will never look at love the same way again.  I have walked past people thinking about why someone did what they did and sigh loudly. I have smiled to myself in all places I feel oblivious to thinking about the scenarios I make up in my mind. How a bright red bag catches my eye and I immediately think about painters who are lovers who smear red paint over his lover's breast as he kisses her lush lips. How the sky so strangely orange one day reminds me about a friend and I imagine a conversation I would have with her. How a racing motorbike reminds me  about the incident that almost killed me and how when death looked me in the eye, I shifted from the thought of sheer terror to relief in seconds. 'I was so young, I shouldn't have thought like that' makes me panic and I quickly fin

People never know how to fill the pages of their diary, or how to love someone without hurting them eventually, or how to tell someone that they have found solace in them. But people try. They try to copy the pages of someone's diary, try to amend mistakes, try to look a person in the eye and voice words that are so real that they become the embodiment of happiness. And people fail. They fail to find themselves in what they wrote, they hurt them over and over again, they practise saying things that never touch the intensity of what they want to convey. But people try again.  I have written in so many diaries. But I have completed none. I have tried writing everyday but then realised my life was uneventful. I then tried writing on days when something eventful happened or I was being dramatic but I believed that every moment is worth living for. And then it became a cycle. But eventually along the way, I found myself in those pages. I still remember the day I read through my old diar

A bell in the back of my mind, It keeps counts, one, two, three, The numbers are lost on me now Stitching itself onto my skin,my eyes my conscience, my love. The closet I finally opened has locked me from inside In a bigger, vulnerable, scarier closet. I have nightmares of how people look at me, like A person that doesn't deserve to love Or to be loved. All because of the gender I chose. Four, five, six, I live in a bed of lies, the pillows Have collected the truths I cry about, My sexuality is hidden under the carpet Of understanding It screams everytime someone knocks on the door Only to be muffled by fibres of insecurity And lack of reassurance. Seven, eight, nine I could see the change in people's eyes When I finally walked out They never looked at me the same. My heart pushed me forward Telling me I deserve everything I deserve to experience as much as the next person My life was in shackles but my heart was free And little by little, it help

Pic credits: Tammy York Dear music How do I start this letter? Should I yell at you first or tell you about how grateful I am for your existence or should I just ask you the question I have always wanted to ask "How do you do it?".  I can't say that I have always been an ardent admirer of you. To be honest, I was more into fairy tales, stories and books when I was young. Not because I loved the stories or fell into the depth of all the words and meanings but because I felt like I was a part of a world that someone else made and they wanted someone to listen to it and I am a good listener. You see, I have always wanted to belong somewhere and the words made me a perfect cradle. But don't get jealous, I am here to talk about you.  I used to listen to you at night just so I can sleep. It's not poetic in any way, don't be mistaken. I had a crush then and when you arrived I could easily make impossible scenarios inside my head and go to sleep when my brain gets tir

Pic credits: Bobbi Whiteman. To my Man on the moon  There are two things I am absolutely terrible at : directions and writing secret letters. And the irony of it is almost funny because I can't stop thinking about all the places I would go and all the words I would splash on a piece of paper to let someone know that I love them with all of my being. You have to take credit for the ignited hope in my heart that hasn't been washed down by my interaction with others and I would always be grateful to you for that. I do confuse myself sometimes. I remember the most strangest things about places. How the sun shines a little differently on the east side of the park, or how the leaves refuse to let out a scrunching sound on that particular lane because of all the shade, or how a wind blows as I walk down that small road from where I can see my home at exactly 6:26pm. I know it sounds all stupid, it probably might be but anything to hear you laugh. Seriously though, I got lost in a mall

Art by Owen Gent The scorching heat of the afternoon was unbearable, clothes melting into the skin, bodies becoming a salty sea, and minds wandering around frenzied. Estha, Rahel and Sophie mol looks like they are having the times of their lives, running around in the sun, playing in the boat. The sound of their laughter pierces through the walls of the old house, holding it together. Holding the image I have of my home together, a house that creaks with my past, drunk odours, the sounds of fathers slapping mothers and of sons slapping fathers. Their laughter feels like a small version of me picking up all the scattered pieces of the image with bleeding hands telling me 'one day, this will be home.' ..... I slowly undress myself, removing each piece of clothing and savouring the restricted air touching me. I step inside. As the water slowly makes its way, touching every part of my body I remember Velutha. I rest my head against the wall and wish it was his shoulder, the one whe