The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

She wrote down his name in the front page of her book in tiny letters. She loved how wonderful it felt to leave the book around in the open with her affection for everyone to see and touch but no one ever noticed the gigantic messages hidden in those tiny letters. She would smile to herself for the little mysteries she created in her life. Sometimes she would purposely let him borrow her book and watched him look so clueless and oblivious to her love. The excitement that follows made her want to scream into the open that she was so ardently in love. She wrote down his name in page 33 of her book. They walked home together everyday and one day he told her that her smile reminded him of someone beautiful he knew. She couldn't sleep that night, she tossed and turned in her bed and then she rushed to her mirror and smiled. She looked lovely. She decided to tell him that she wanted him to be hers to hold, to love and to cherish. She wanted to surprise him with her confession. She asked

The girl cried into the night, Sounds of her sorrows reverberating, And crashing onto the neighbour's roofs. "What is it, my dear? Why are you wailing?", the neighbours hurried towards the child. "My pa came home today and slapped my ma.", she said amidst sobs. "Oh dear. These men! Their hands are conditioned  To smack women so often, The women in the house flinch like reflex on touch, And hide in the dark to escape their wrath. Oh you poor child.", they held their chin in their palms, to hold the sorrow of the child and the misfortune of her ma. The next day she cried again  And the neighbours hurried to her doorstep, The misfortune of her ma being Mumbled under their breath. "My pa is bleeding. Amma hit him without reason. Please help my pa!"she begged for their help. The neighbours peered with contempt "What a spineless man!", they laughed and they left, The echoes of their laughter settling down, Weighing down like anchors of st

The cafe was bustling with customers on a Sunday. I ordered a milkshake and gazed at how beautifully the day gave way for the night to arrive. When the milkshake was delivered to my table after a whole twenty minutes, I took a nice long sip and was devouring the happiness when I could sense the shift of change in the atmosphere. A customer had entered and suddenly the air was sucked out of its components and replaced with confusion and unwarranted hate. A transwoman. She was different, said every nudge, every whisper, and every stare. She was different, as we all are and as we all take pride in. But she was really different, they reminded her. I wondered whether people really embraced the ideology that we are all different from each other.  She sat across from me. Suddenly I felt a huge rush of emotions and thoughts playing inside me. Was I scared of how people would react? Was I worried about how she'd feel ? Was I anxious about what I wouldn't be able to do? I glanced at her

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was a little crazy in her head. Or so they said. Wait, this is how you begin stories that people listen to,right? Okay, let's continue. She found a liking to my mother because my mother was a gem when it came to conversations. She usually exhausted her evenings by talking to the old men who exchanged words only to buy more time to stare at her breasts. But since she found a liking to my mother, she'd wait around and accompany her in her evening walks. There's someone who's excited to meet you, my mother would say and I would be excited too.  One day, I finally met her. She is the type of person you'd find a immediate liking to. She talked with so much love and joy in her eyes. She was also funny, well funny in a way that might scare the society. Let me explain. While we were walking,this middle-aged man passed us by and said to my mother "Oh! You have got the best walking companion.",looked over to the woman and said

The moonlight shined through everything broken in her, And he'd watch her become an aura of light when the night arrives. All the dark nights that had called for a friend, He'd watch her tears glow and brush them off. Now as he sits beside an empty chair, he wonders if he is broken too.  He wonders if he should have let her tears cascade and form a puddle in his hands, The warmth from it giving birth to words he wished he had said now. The outlines of her face softened with time, And he couldn't remember what her laugh sounded like. He was slowly forgetting her,  all that was left of her was an emptiness with so much love to give. So much love.  He wonders if he'll recognise her in the crowd after all these years, Or would he regret the photographs he burnt in an attempt to forget her. He wonders if he'll ever remember her like the day she left, And he couldn't ask her to stay. The longing for a person that would never come back, And the carefully woven sentence

We all think about tragedies. It doesn't necessarily have to happen to us, it could be anyone's. Maybe it is an underlying feeling in ourselves borne out of sympathy. No, is it empathy? The way we dwell in the sorrow of others like we have none of our own makes me want to believe in the world. Even if it would be a sad one.  When I see someone in pain, I hope that this isn't the first time tragedy has struck them. I hope it is the fourth or fifth or second time because by then you'll slowly learn how to cope with it. And the fact that we have to is saddening by itself but aren't we all done trying asking for things to be better? Aren't we all tired of kneeling and praying in front of everyone and everything that makes us want to believe in hope again? Aren't we all tired of making closed rooms, taps running and walls our solace? Aren't you?  But the first time. The first time strikes as loud as the clock strikes twelve at night, a feeling of unknown impe

Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself all day long  Only to find myself succumbed amid Words, poems, people and minute things, Glamourising every inch of the letter, rhyme, Body and feelings. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself when I come across  romanticization of emotions by famous poets and writers, Does a person make you feel like that? Do I have to feel like that to know it's love?  Because the last time I knew I was in love, I was just happy, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I listen to songs about heartbreak. Should I ache with every bit of my soul  And immerse myself in tunes of sorrow and remorse? Should I rock myself to sleep with every scenario playing in my head? Because the last time I felt heartbreak, I felt so very sad looking at them, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I watch the rain without a care in the world. My mind so empty and full of thoughts That I star