when we finally start talking to each other.

Would they lean a little closer to the sky,

whispering among themselves,

“Look—after all this silence,

they have found their words.”

Perhaps the constellations would rearrange themselves

just to listen,

and the night would hold its breath

so nothing interrupts the moment.

and somewhere above the quiet world,

a god might smile softly and say,

“So this is what courage looks like—

and it is fine that even if you leave curses at my doorstep, i would still open and ask the universe for a kinder life on you, but never tell of it to my friends. i am strong, but not strong enough not to be human, to stop my heart from bruising under the violence i learn in to survive, and to remain forever lost in translation.

but then, honestly, the weight of someone else's judgment was never ours to repair. it does not matter who lost more blood on the two edge of the same knife what matters is that we finally learned how to let it fall. learned to exist without apology, to stay strange and kind-hearted.

but life is also unbearably beautiful. and there will always be people who love you without condition, and there will always be people who love me without reason. the world did not collapse when you, and i were punished for our kindness. you have, and i have lived through ugly chapters we will never read aloud again. none of it should ever rewrite who you are, and who i remain.

that you stumble

into a life so full

that it leaves you

breathless in quiet moments,

till your heart hurts

with unbearable beauty

of the world.

and i hope that

i never learn

how softly it happend,

just as you will never

learn of mine.

let life do us apart, now and in next.

you are, and i am the worst person in the world but then you are, and i am also the most wonderful person alive, both of us carrying hearts swollen with breath and ruin. thats what being a human is called.

and it is fine that even if you leave curses at my doorstep, i would still open and ask the universe for a kinder life on you, but never tell of it to my friends. i am strong, but not strong enough not to be human, to stop my heart from bruising under the violence i learn in to survive, and to remain forever misheard in translation.

but then, honestly, the weight of someone else's judgment was never ours to repair. it does not matter who lost more blood on the two edge of the same knife what matters is that we finally learned how to let it fall. learned to exist without apology, to stay strange and kind-hearted.

but life is also unbearably beautiful. and there will always be people who love you without condition, and there will always be people who love me without reason. the world did not collapse when you, and i were punished for our kindness. you have, and i have lived through ugly chapters we will never read aloud again. none of it should ever rewrite who you are, and who i remain.

i see them, hear them

humming an old bollywood tone

shuffling around the house

doing their work

it's about eleven am, Monday

no extra ordinary task today

They appear to be extraordinary this morning

mother working in the kitchen for my lunch

my grandmaa ill, coming with a stick

ready to worry about the phone calls, the doorbells

they are also defeated in their own way suppose

but here i lay contemplating sucide

writing this at 24

and there they are

she said “i don’t deserve this”

like love was a punishment

like happiness was a knife she forgot she buried in herself long ago.

you’re bleeding because you never let anyone stitch the parts of you that swore they were unlovable.

you say you don’t deserve this —

but what you mean is:

“i’m not used to softness that doesn’t ask for something in return.”

you mean:

“this is the first time love hasn’t come with a leash.”

you mean:

“i don’t know how to stand in the sunlight without apologizing for the warmth.”

and i wish you’d see it —

you don’t have to earn this.

you just have to let it happen.

let love be the flood that drowns the voice in your head

telling you you’re hard to hold.

you don’t have to be a cathedral

to deserve worship.

you don’t have to be perfect

to be held.

so don’t say you don’t deserve this —

say you’re scared.

say you’re healing.

say you’re learning how to love without running from it.

just don’t hand me your heart like it’s a loaded gun

do you care about me—my soul, my flaws, my quiet days, even when I’m not giving anything back?

or do you love the way i make you feel?

are you in love with the version of yourself that shows up when i’m around? The high, the attention, the comfort, the thrill?