High waisted jeans.
Converse with the colors faded,
Socks that are too warm.
Coffee that you forgot,
now it's too cold.
Goldilocks with a pixie cut,
but it's grown out.
And dyed red.

Joking about suicide but taking it seriously.
Alive on a bed with petals and thorns.
While autumn decays the terrace around to warn
you of the winter soon to storm through and
separate you from the torn.

His smile faded worse than your shoes.
And you spent a lot of time walking at night,
through puddles, trudging up dredged silt
and kicked loam
on your way half-buzzed to your apartment home.
It took a season longer for him to fade from bright
to held steadfast against the backdrop of vacuum
stagnant light.

He smells of sweat and sweetly crunched leaves.
Popular spice rub and sparkling water throat-feel.
Your jeans you bought with the holes in them are *****.
You'll wear 'em 'til you're thirty,
you're thrifty,
and frugal, but you still tip thirty percent per purchase spent.
Because you were in their black shoes once,
dressed shirt pressed and smiled to impress those
who spent less than you'd guess on their own tips back then.
Mid-20s and all you are is memories of nineteen.
A few more to even the score.

Yoga pants as pajamas. Pajama bottoms to class.
It used to be about the glances, and remarks.
Now it's about delivering yourself from the past.

You'll tip handsomely to the ugly people.
And nod your head with your chin bounce up,
in a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

You'll smile when most frown.
You'll rejoice amongst the vogue of cynics.
You will, because will is what does and you don't give up.
In a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

She is made up of scars,
Hidden with the skin of elegance,
She is a captive,
To others' perception of her own fallacies.
She is made up of bruises,
Knitted with the yarn of invasion,
Her eyes reflect the burning agony,
She is the flowing torrent.
She is made up of blemishes,
Concealed with layers of optimism,
She is made up of bewitching beauty;
A crude exposure.
She is an enticing amalgamation of-
Rain and blizzard,
Oceans and waterfalls,
Breeze and vacuum,
She is a world of paradoxes,
Sealed with an air of rigidity.

- Kavya Mukhija

I see signs of high rock
and yet I still climb
in a blind fear
mislabelled Bravery

The current is fast underway
faster than the rabbit beating its warning in my chest
I know the jump
I know the jump like I know myself
but
Still, I am unable to take the chance

that the trees aren't laughing but cheering
that you won't get in the way when I take the plunge

Have you ever noticed that when you do something brave–
Something rattling,
Something that makes your heart bounce,
Something that steals the breath right out of your lungs–
That the world keeps spinning?
Time doesn't stand still,
It ticks on,
Passing by,
Moment after moment.
The earth keeps the feeling of invincibility just out of reach
After you've tasted one drop.
People don't acknowledge it the way you think they will.
That moment is gone in a few whispering breaths,
And it is forgotten by all but you.

Powerful enough
to change the world.
Loving enough
to care.
Beautiful enough
to show them it's true.
Brave enough
to dare.

To know one's limitations, my captain told us, is a lifetime's study.
For just as you think that you have the measure of it the sands shift, your heart moves and you surprise yourself once more.
So keep probing the flesh, keep asking the mind, sound the depths of your reserves.
For it is in that conversation that the answer may be heard and understanding found.
But it will not be found today.
You will not reach the bounds of your limitations on this field.
No.
Today you stand with me.
Today we will push on.

The uncomfortable triumph that comes from being brave enough to admit that you're scared