As you entered the room
stirring air with suppleness of walk
waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals
making curtains dance to the sound of bangles
aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks
my paintbrush grew restless
and pen became enraptured
my eyes, hands and other parts
became electrified.

My heart spread rainbow in the room
like colours of youth and
lilts of life's melodies.

You who are sitting before me
have the power to
change my consciousness
into painting, poem, melody
or anything else!

I know you'll speak no truth at this time.
I've to be guided
solely by your silence, your eyes and
the inaudible appeals of your heart.

I've to settle before I lose the presence of mind-
whether I should use brush or pen
or my eyes, hands or something else
and create a unique
composition
all in you.

-०-

Today, I let you go—
not because it’s easy,
but because I can’t live
in the shadows of almost
and what-if anymore.

I was your spare time,
never your choice.
I carried love like a burden
you never asked for.

But this time,
I choose me.

Let them watch—
I will not shrink to stay wanted.
I will not ache to feel enough.

Because I am.
And I will be more than enough
for someone who sees me clearly.

This is the ending.
But it’s also the return—
to myself.

I think the only reason I wanna change,
​is cause' I don't like me,
in any way, shape, or form.

I want to bury this tragic excuse of a human,
and create something new,
as if this was never there.
To start all over again.

No matter how many compliments I get,
or how you think of me,
I hate every inch of it.
This disgusting body,
with me slowly balding,
gaining weight,
and the joyful expression leaving my face.

You won't understand,
the feeling of pure resentment,
of filthiness,
just by looking at myself.

I hate this feeling.
It taunts my brain,
telling me I should better,
more perfect.

But, I know that'll never happen,
if i'm forever in,
this never-ending cycle of self-loathing.
And, in the end,
that's what's making it last so long.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Hasn’t even go to bed.
It’s past midnight and all over again.
Her bed’s still fully made.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Forgot what sleep is.
She spent herself but stably accepted
Her Destiny’s painful decrees.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Wants simply and plainly to be.
She stopped laughing long ago.
She rarer wants to speak.

A woman, who’s really tired
Of blaming herself for breathe,
A woman, who’s still feeling,
Has simply the right to live!

I’ve never been good at asking for what I need

when I do, I fight myself every step of the way

it doesn’t seem to come out right—
or maybe I just don’t say the right words

maybe I’m not being seen or heard

is there a misunderstanding,
or do I feel misunderstood?

I don’t know—
maybe it’s all in my head

what I do know is that I don’t have the energy
to fight to be seen

maybe I’m just being dramatic

maybe I feel rejected

I don’t know if that’s sensitivity, or if my feelings are actually valid

I feel a missed bid for connection

I feel as if I am giving more than I am receiving

at times, it feels as if there’s no reciprocity

I desire, want, and need
to not feel so alone with another human being

I don’t know if I’m being irrational with this,
or dismissive to myself

I have an intense want to avoid and withdraw

I don’t know if I’m just being sensitive

I just wanted ten minutes of time, and it seems as if there’s no time at all

I expect myself from others
and let myself down when I don’t receive that

maybe I have unrealistic expectations of others

maybe I am asking for too much

maybe I am just being sensitive.

The sun leaks in through glass and dust,
8 a.m., warm, golden, just—
enough to stir, but not to move.
My chest still bears a weight I prove
can pin me down through morning light,
then lull me back to lazy night.

I blink—and thunder shakes the frame,
rain drums the glass, it calls my name.
I reach again for glowing blue—
7 p.m. It can’t be true.

A whole day lost in linen seams,
swallowed by half-conscious dreams.
I whisper what I always say:
Tomorrow, I will not decay.

I wish I’d known that last goodbye
would echo like a final sigh.
Your eyes were quiet, voice unsure—
a silence I chose to ignore.

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t cry,
just turned and left beneath that sky.
If I had known, I’d have begged you to stay,
to steal a few more words that day.

No calls, no texts, not even views,
just empty screens and phantom news.
I hold my phone, then drop it fast—
what’s hope but shadows from the past?

They say move on, that time will heal,
but grief’s not something you can feel
and fix like glass that’s cracked in two.
I’d just have held on tighter—
if only I knew.

That goodbye was forever.