Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

What’s Wrong?

I told you,

I was lost,

and you didn’t understand.

It felt so foreign in my throat,

to tell the truth,

scratching against my intuition,

but I did it,

with good intentions,

because my vague whispers of “I’m fine” wound you,

in a way I don’t want to.

I’ve lived in many places,

but I’ve never had a home.

“I don’t belong here” is the only pin I’ve found that fits on a map,

but sometimes,

I’m still happy,


today I was not,

and I couldn’t tell the total truth,

because words,

as well meaning as they are,

make more wounds,

and honesty is a fallacy,

and you wouldn’t understand.

Not to patronise or condescend,

but there’s a movie in my head,

Black Mirror,

choose your own adventure,

and sometimes,

I find myself lost,

in all the paths,

I wandered down before,

because I’ve never had a sense of direction,

or the ability to distract myself from how distracting despair can be.

I told you I was lost,

and you didn’t understand.

You wandered down old paths,

with broken stones,

overgrown weeds,



apple trees,

and just like that,

you are just like me,

lost inside the movie,

pacing down the path,

avoiding the haunting hall of mirrors,

that shows all the heartbreak I’ve harvested,

in various awkward angles.

You get lost too,

seeing yourself,

on a path that isn’t meant for you,

and I try to pull you back,

but it’s too late,

and we are lost together,

but so distant.

I told you,

I was lost,

but I should have said,

that I was just tired.

You’d know I was lying,

and maybe we’d still end up in the same place,

but it would give me a chance to say,

that whenever I get lost,

I always find my way back,

to you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Some days,

I think I’ve recovered,

and then I remember,

the first time I thought I had,

and I miss my naivety,

so much,

that I drown myself,

in the knowledge that I will always be struggling for air.

I have a little girl,

but not in the way you think.

She’s so optimistic,

sticking around,

hoping for recovery that can never reach her.

People don’t get it.

I don’t want to spend my life,

with the word “oh” before my name,

as people who can’t understand,

rub my shoulders,

and tell me that it’s okay.

I don’t know how I want to spend my life.

I don’t know what “better” or “recovery” look like.

I don’t want their hands on my shoulders.

I don’t want pity in their voices.

I don’t want ghosts to still hold onto my little girl,


nobody really gets what they want,

in the end.

Do they?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


The telephone cord is a chain,

I am raining on the inside,

storms in my chest,

spreading to the rest of me,

that’s never restful,

on these stressful days,

that seem to last for ages,

raining rage on my desk,

trapped by obligation,

trying to survive,

salaried per second,

waiting for the welcome collapse,

of five PM.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Rivers Of Gold

I still reach for rivers of gold,

slivers of silver,

when I am half asleep,


he is gone.

Blue eyes,


as I bandage myself with time,

and sleep,

pouring with pity,

blueberry sunset,

seeing the day we met,

and a tornado of time since,

how he destroyed my world,

putting it back together again,

how destructive we both were,

how I hurt myself,

by how I loved him.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

It Can Be Lonely, Being A Lady

A million mirages,

a million ways to look okay,

when life looks bleak,

a million smiles,

that cost too much to keep,

when you close the door,

and are alone,

sliding to the floor,

with your heart in your throat,

your eyes a waterfall.

It can be lonely,

being a lady.

We are strong, but soft,

dainty, but depended on.

The whole world leans on us,

leers at us,

locks us up,

because free women are a fantasy,

and to be a woman is a madness,



in the rules we are set.

In our springtime,

we are sweet,

melded into our madness,

run ragged until we are rigid,

expectations flow like wayward strands of hair,

in rare moments that we forget,

and just run.

When winter comes,

free but invisible,

we will be our own broken dreams,

eyes closed,

wondering how far back we can go,

wondering how to reclaim ourselves,

from the life we were assigned.

It can be lonely.

It can be maddening.

It can be frightening.

It can be overwhelming.

It can be different,

if we choose it.

If we break the rules,




say it’s okay not to smile,

say it’s okay to let the world stand on itself,

say to your sister,

that you will stand for her too.