i’m scared that i’ll keep you so close that
when you want (have) to go away,
i’ll let go of you,
to your Somewhere
being oblivious to every bit of when i
always wanted you to be near.
– ruchita







you are the sunset from a plane window,
touching city lights from behind a transparent door,
black buildings on dark nights,
books I want to read before I turn 20
glitter stuck on my eyelashes,
you are the sunlight that fell on my cold pillow,
holding hands feel like watching stars,
fairy lights I like to hang someday in the living room
a home outside a house,
are my dying streetlight
the electric brown in my eyes,
goosebumps on the back of my neck,
the love in my palms I hold softly every night,
are everything
everything I’ve always loved in the present tense.

dear ananya

dear ananya, it’s 7 pm and i just i can’t find a way for you to talk to me.
i know you won’t be reading this because i’ve managed to create myself this pathetic blog where i don’t even know whether anyone reads it anymore except me.
i don’t even know if you remember me.
i texted you at midnight to wish you (after like a million attempts at saying hi) but you left me on seen and it’s not like i’m the only one who texted you anyway, right? but it’s okay. this is not sixth grade and i’m not waiting for thursday to sit beside you to show you my donald duck stickers, i miss that one in which he was wearing a hat. it was your favorite. i wish i had given it to you.
i miss you so much it hurts.
you got cooler friends and i was still applying black nailpolish you gifted me.
i still have the bracelets we got.
but the hardest part is forgetting and i don’t think i can ever do that. it’s just
i really really miss being friends with you.
even though i had to give up library to go to your class for lunch.
i can’t ever feel to have a best friend, you know? i wish you would have been there for 12th grade. you would have loved the biology classes.
i see like every social media of yours like EVERY DAY AND YOU ARE SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.
happy birthday.
i love you so much.

swaying in the background, as usual,


some poem i thought of, in psychology class.

a sun tanned orange wildfire
ran through the woods,
raged against the dry leaves,
reminded me of a girl with red hair
who ran over my feet the other day,
an imaginary friend from when i was 6.
i can’t remember if her hair was really red
or if it was the dying sun outside.
but how can we know the color of someone’s hair
when sometimes,
we point out to a wildfire and smile thinking
that it’s some undiscovered city,
that someone in their balcony is eating
mac and cheese and looking at the sky?
how can we not see the wildfire that’s dying
on everything that’s burning?
how can we not differentiate
between what’s dying and turning black
and what’s going to be alive
and bright
for a billion more years?


WhatsApp Image 2017-10-03 at 8.07.36 PM

I’ve had almost 4 mental breakdowns since I woke up today.
I saw myself in the mirror and wondered if anyone would find me pretty. I wanted more color on my cheeks, my eyes a little browner, I wanted a flat stomach, I wanted a perfectly messy bun (i couldn’t deal with the terrible oxymoron it was), I couldn’t look at my faded self-harm scars today. i felt ugly when i noticed my slowly chipping nail polish. I woke up at 4 am and cleaned my room. I put my jeans in the wrong drawer multiple times. I’ve had too many coffee cups today. I have been trying since 9 am in the morning to write a poem for my Bombay poetry event but I couldn’t rhyme ‘sunflower’ with anything and that put me off. I’ve read every poem I’ve ever written and I’ve rolled my eyes at some, and others I didn’t remember writing. Few of them, I deleted.
It’s almost 8 pm now and I feel a little okay because it’s raining. I love the rain. I love the cold and the gloomy sky. I love the sky’s grey and that it matches my shirt. I wrote a letter for a boy I love, and I feel okay. I listened to some old music. I really like Bryan Adams.
I love that this day is stretching like a trampoline and it won’t break.
It’s alright.
It’s alright.

morning coffee

i’m trying to hold more air in my hand than i can manage,
and lately, it feels like there’s a trapdoor to being good enough and i can’t find it.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor
my neighbor’s mail is on the floor beside me.
they’re out of town.
The sweater I have been knitting all week
is untouched on the coffee table.
a chocolate bar has melted on it.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor
with my pants, half rolled up to my knees.
my legs look like swollen barks.
I reach for the milk bottle a few feet away from me,
it has turned cold.
I add some of it to my frozen coffee.
I keep adding milk to it until it spills over and I knock the cup
and now everything is a mess on the floor.
I try to add more milk
thinking that
if I keep adding,
maybe, one day,
I’ll have enough milk in my coffee.