#raw writing

Except… I’m not.

I’m not cruel.

I’m not reactionary.

I’m not unfair. Or unwilling.

I’m not scary. I’m not angry.

I’m not the werewolf in my dreams. The one that lurks, and preys, and waits until I let my guard down to eat away at me.

I don’t demand people’s fear because I’m too afraid I won’t earn their respect.

I have empathy. I have emotional intelligence.

I’m not my father’s daughter.

No. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Except…I think that maybe I am.

I think about that time when I made a girl cry in middle school because she made me feel small.

Or the time I called my landlord a cunt because she made me feel weak.

How many times have I taken someone’s power

to stop feeling powerless?

I think I am my father’s daughter.

I think he’s in every part of myself that I hate.

I think that maybe he was his father’s son.

I think he’s tried and failed to cope with his monster.

I think I’m destined to repeat the cycle.

But fuck destiny. I’ll create my own.

I’ll scratch and claw away at the monster he's made me until it learns to fear me.

I’ll eat that monster down to its bones.

I’ll swallow it whole.

I am my father’s daughter.

even when the body wants to rest.

Passing the Days

They say they don’t know who I am any more.

Hell, neither do I.

Take a ticket, join the queue, and have a seat.

Sometimes they come round with a cup of tea—

got to keep up with the sensibilities.

They’re not too keen on smoking though,

but I sneak the odd one in when no one’s looking.

It’s a strange old place in this corner of my mind,

my personality, my loves and losses fade away.

And it’s just me, back against the wall making it up as I go along—and hell, sometimes a handful of pills washed down with whisky.

The uppers meet the downers in a wonderful party

where I move incredibly fast and monumentally slow at the same time.

It helps to pass the days,

although I tend to lose track of them.

It all blurs into one freewheeling ball of chaos.

The clock holds no power any more,

and I view 6am and pm with the same regards—a rough guide stick of what’s appropriate.

But again, I play fast and loose with that too:

vodka in the morning and flurry of writing.

Then a smoke and some of the live war feed on the news channel.

It’s around this time I usually take a nap

and have strange and troubled dreams.

Then wake up in a flurry of activity

and begin the day again.

Comets of the day—

Planes held high,

Releasing white trails

Above the bridge.

To the left, the river;

To the right, the rush.

Hurry, move forward,

While you have time.

The call is loud,

Beckoning me in,

Swaying my resolve—

The span, it barely stands.

Is there a way out?

A path to recede,

To leave not a mark

On those left behind?

If I act upon it,

Will they forget,

Or will I be missed?

I hover at the fence.

The crossroads:

A stark outline

Of a penitent heart

Hungering for grace.

The caveats are all in vain,

Echoing back to me;

It would be best

To quiet them down.

Rescue is not an option;

Waiting will not help.

Now I know what I must do—

The regret is mine to bear.

But I know he was cast down.

The moment he dared to question the truth carved above his head, the moment his own love—fierce and unmeasured—tried to cradle the world, they tore his wings apart.

He was beautiful.

Unbearably so.

Gentle as breath, yet carved from something more than a gasp.

And still, they named him devil.

He wanted to rise beyond the walls that hemmed him in. To see the sky with his own eyes, not through the fables they fed him.

But when he reached, the weight of his yearning dragged him under.

Or so they claimed.

The sky he longed for once lived in his gaze.

Now a fire nested there instead.

He bled for that dream.

Refused to kneel.

And for that defiance, they wrenched it from his heart, leaving only red ripples on the water.

They named him devil.

Because he would not bow.

Clad in vengeance for an armor, he climbed.

Every wound a rung, every loss a step.

Still bleeding, still reaching, still leaving marks the world used as a reason to blame him.

But what remains of a man who spends himself like coin, building a path out of his own bones?

Will the hollow shell remember his name when he reaches the summit?

Will the sky recognize him when it gazes back?

Those eyes—once pure—were stained when he was cast to the pit for the crime of loving too deeply.

The lesson they carved into his flesh was not mercy. It was warning:

Once you have fallen, you are not meant to rise.

But he did not climb for himself.

He—the devil they named him—carried a heart still burning with love.

A love bitter as ash, unpalatable to most, yet relentless.

Wingless, heavy with desire, his hands drenched in blood, he reached anyway.

For the sky that was always his.

For the heavens they denied him because no chain could bend his neck.

Changed and factured, he did not yield.

And when nothing else remained, they came for the last relic: his life.

Because a man stripped to the bone has only himself left to burn.

Still, he offered his heart.

Still, he wagered his soul—the very thing they swore he’d long lost.

To the past, he was a fallen angel.

To the world, a devil who almost unmade it.

The future will never whisper his name.

Rain has scoured his blood from the walls.

No memory, no monument remains.

Not for him.

But to me, he was a man.

A man who hungered for more than chains would grant.

A man who would not bare his throat to the teeth that waited.

A man who lost everything—except his faith.

On going mid life crisis-

In a couple of months, I am going to be 28 years old.

Judging by the average life expectancy where I live, statistically, I have already spent 50% of the time I have in this world.

And this thought alone is shaking me to my bones.

I always had very high expectations of myself.

I used to imagine that I would spend most of my time in the pursuit of mental, physical, and intellectual excellence —

that every single day I lived would be full of life and excitement.

The realization that I have spent most of my youth just barely surviving is wearing my heart down.

𓆩...WELCOME TO THE GRAVEYARD...𓆪

or HOME.

Sometimes they’re the same.

But definitely a place where language is feral and grief never learned to walk upright.

I don’t believe in introductions.

If I did, they’d sound like a confession given at gunpoint.

I’m not here to convince you I am worth following. I’m not here to organize myself into a palatable format. But I'm a twenty-three years old human from India and I already carry the stench of rot like perfume.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I don’t write to heal. Or for engagement.

I'm not even a writer.

I try to write because it's the only way I can bleed without anyone calling the cops, and… because there's nowhere else for it to go.

Every post is a torn-out page from a diary that never wanted to be found. I like using a lot of metaphors because plain language isn’t enough to hold what’s inside me.

My feed isn’t curated. I don’t reblog. Not even my own posts, not anyone else’s. I know it’s pathetic. I’m still not sorry (but I do often stalk my favorite writers here in silence like a creep and screenshot their posts so I can go through them at midnight and cry ugly.)

I don’t present myself as anything other than what comes up when whatever’s left of me decides to breathe through fingers and ink. In short, it looks like the diary of a mental patient (I am, lol) who escaped into the internet and never found the door back.

Tags are unreliable. But emotions are not.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I do occasionally write TW content (chronic suicidal ideation, anxiety, erasure, cPTSD, PTSD, BPD, derealization, death, trauma, grief, SA, SH, numbness, obsessive attachment, dissociation, intrusive thoughts, grotesque imagery, and a few more things I might've forgotten to include).

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I'll be honest.

Most of my writing meets its death in my google docs and MS word.

Some of it makes it to my tumblr drafts, and very few of them make it to posts. Mostly because I feel like it doesn’t matter if I post them, and they carry no point or meaning (to myself).

But oh Satan, do I grieve all the words I backspaced and all the PDFs I burned down to char.

My writing swings between morgue reports and large bouquets made of black hellebores with white baby's breath (I'm not lucky enough to see a black hellebore flower in real life, but it's the flower I want, need, for my grave). Both are written by the same trembling hand.

If you think those cancel each other out, you don’t understand me at all. (Tbh, I feel fake thanks to my relentless contradicting thoughts, so I can't blame other people for feeling the same about me.)

They coexist, they breed and... they turn me into something I don’t want to be closer with.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I am honest about the fact that a lot of what keeps me alive are the elaborate worlds I build for myself inside my head and the exacting demands I make of them.

I have a room in my head that flips between white and black. Sometimes I stand in the doorway watching a younger version of myself count the patterns on the ceiling. Sometimes I am the one who ignites the matches (mostly to burn my inner child, because why not).

I like laughing at thoughts that should gag me.

I am someone who's trying to exhume and bury themselves simultaneously.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

This is where I bury the things I can’t say out loud.

It feels like I’m trying to apologize to the ghost of myself, and sometimes it also feels like I want someone to find me, but only after it’s too late ☺︎

It’s about the mess of staying alive.

The body rotting in public.

The mind chewing itself to stay warm.

I'm not here because I want to be.

I'm here because I'm too much of a coward to go through the painful process of erasure of my existence before I claw my own way to a place/path where no one will be able to interfere and save me.

•

•

•

So till then, it's just me.

Spilling.

And spilling.

And more spilling.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

So, bring your ghosts if you like my writing ⚘( ၴႅၴ

And thank you so much to whoever you are who's still reading this. I hope you’ll have a calming, comfortable presence wherever you go so you can attract stray cats, and that you always look human and pretty, but mostly, real... in every candid picture of yourself 🖤.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓇢𓆸