i have this thing where nothing i write begins without me, nothing i write ends without You.
i split myself open, slice off pieces, scatter my teeth like shattered relics across the letters i never sent.

i have this thing where all my sayings seem sordidly repetitive.
i tear my hair strand by strand, knot it around my fingers right by the ears i dream of slicing off—
the ears that witnessed the echoes of rosary chants in the cathedral shaped as Your name,
from a betrayer of a mouth that only ever ached to be silenced by Yours.
You—my moon pulling tides, pulling me in, swallowing light, swallowing me, closing me up, accomplishing me,

a labyrinth, a lapse, hovering over Lethe, a lunatic.

i have this thing where i claw for the extremest degree of words.
everything i’ve ever felt has cost me my sanity, brought my silence, fractured me against the darkened alleyways.
i break my legs, slither through different doors; my hands know no such thing as knocking on Your footsteps.
my eyes gaze upon things in a fictitious way, thoroughly glancing upon them so as not to watch them vanish right before the eyes which look upon You like the only existing realm—
those that have been torn and tormented in Your absence, my abyss, tantalizing, devoid of Your presence.
You—my sun, burning bright, stripping me bare, stripping me right, radiating the amber, radiating my life, framing me, stranding forever,

a famine, a fall, a frantic burning, fierce and deliberate.

i have this thing where i find myself engraved in the bruise lingering between noise and nothing.
i sit for hours shredding my skin, fibre by fibre, all of me—sinking toward an akin ache.
my lungs grasp for air adjacent to the wraiths of what‑ifs, inhaling storms, exhaling tides.
the lungs which are not only slammed in a rancid cage of ribs riddled with venomous vines of veins
but also rotting, drowning in the drought where flowers bloom and die in the same breath.
You—my earth, collapse me, collapse my cage, set me free, set me on fire, bury me beneath bedrocks, swathe and unleash and enwrap around me riotously,

a crash, a crush, a catastrophic chaos, crawling back and forth like a whisper.


and what else i have is—an abundance of lacking shaped as You.
i stretch myself to outgrow something, to be enough, to suffice, a ritual so despairing, nerves unbinding one then two.
my tongue splinters beneath the weight of promises undone.
tongue that twirled, bitten ’til bled, to leave room for You to dance and swirl along the roof, the sides, in between the space of ivory altars.
tongue so thorn‑laid, molten and minced in the process of what’s left unsaid, what gets said.
well, alas!
You—my heart, may have a word or two too. devour me whole, spit me out, split me apart, let me sink my teeth into Your skin, let me crawl, make me echo Your name over and over again.
pull my hair, pull me apart, crawl under my skin, pull me against Your vertebrae, tangle me in Your webs, scale my spine like bridges unknown.
haunt me, hunt me down, prey and pry on me.
bruise my knuckles with Your might, drag me beneath the hollow of Your shadow. spite me, despise me, be a heartache, be a heartbreak in a heartbeat, be mine.
make me Yours.

A yin, a yowl, a yearning, a yell—impaling me in, the chaos i crave.


No. Stop!

i have this thing—

𝘯𝘰?
Yes, Stop.

I carry a pierced umbrella in pouring rain
just to excuse my drenched clothes
just to excuse my drenched eyes

I cant articulate something
without succumbing into pieces
I dream of many people
but I cant recall your voice
My tears are always there
I know nothing about what I am doing

Yet whenever I see something worth living
I find myself bottling them into my pen
that bleeds in silence untouched by any page
I know nothing about rhyming
nothing about writing
I miss you
I am sorry

I have a poem in me
shaped as grief guilt and fury
Sometimes it turns into nostalgia
homes the ruins of your different phases

Sometimes it gets stuck in my throat
like a rotten apple for ages

My screams are always silent
I know nothing about how to deal with this
I find myself forgiving everyone in silence
I dream of being forgiven
I watch you forgetting me
I know nothing about your new favourite song
I miss you
I hope you forgive me

I carry an ache in me
I cant act on something
without an attempt to invent something new out of it
without carving god and sharpening its edges

I run out of things to say
I escape from things just not to get attached
I cant recall your face
my lies are always white

I lied about forgetting your voice
your face still haunts my nights
I know nothing about apologising
I miss you
I hope you never walk past me ever again

Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
got invited to a birthday party,
like I used to, a few Septembers ago.
Now, nobody sends me invitations.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be a birthday party,
like there used to be, a few Octobers ago.
No, there won’t be. I lied.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be traces of tears at a birthday party,
like there have been for the past few years.
No, not a party —
but bring your tissue paper along.

Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
will say “Happy Birthday”
through a feast, a little nod,
a few “you’re still a kid today” moments,
and more “leave it to me, love — live a little.”

Words turn into actions
when you're a little considerate,
or more so, if you’re a parent.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
you’ll hear the echoes of almost-said thank-yous.
disguised as 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭,
a quiet agreement,
a few 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵,
more 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

The graveyard of my gratitudes
has always been buried next to
my willingness to be present —
available, if you may.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
parties will be hosted again.
Birthday parties, even.
But attended by phantoms of abandonment,
because nobody really lives there anymore.

The permanence of everything is unsettling.
The house you grew up in
knows nothing about what the future holds.

And somewhere between all these celebrations,
the mourning of what was planted — and decayed — continues.
The phantoms still prefer
to live in the houses
we’ve always lived in.

Now, I don’t write on paper,
my notepad leaves no scars when erased.

Now, I don’t wait for miracles,
my solitude doesn’t ask to be entertained.

Now, I don’t lag behind,
my walk doesn’t cross their marathon.

Now, I don’t play past me,
my new self doesn’t validate her.

Now, I don’t think about you often,
my conscience refuses to hold the blur.

Now, I don’t regret anything,
my integrity doesn’t rely on mistakes, mishaps, haps.

Now, I attempt—
a constant trial of forming outlines:
my thoughts, my what’s, my if’s, my you,
the vastness, the voids, the rainbows, the sunshine.

A selfish occurrence—
I seek to make sense of my pretentious tactics,
to validate and hide the enormity of divinity,
and the desire I see in you—my ‘don’t’s.

Do you remember that forenoon?
When I envisioned you making macarons,
And how they turned out like a scrumptious moon
I described them as an ambrosial boon,
Wondering if it was their crackle, or the exquisite voice
Of fairies singing the song of the afternoon.

I pondered whether they were
A perquisite,
An alluring confection, or just a comestible cocoon.

Well, I can't help but request
That you come over again
To relive that same enchanted afternoon.