Who is the messiest of them all?

I told my friends once; at 3 am, in a dorm room lit up with Christmas lights, that I wondered sometimes I might be bipolar.

I stay in a drunken, flushed daze for days on end and then descend ever-so-swiftly into grey pits of white noise that eat away at my edges, making them rot.

They looked at me for a second.
A moment of vulnerability, of apprehension.

Then – in the spirit of slumber parties, I suppose – some girl in the corner said something snarky and they all burst out laughing.

So much for solidarity.

I sat stiffly all day once.
Spine starched straight like a pole, nails clawing into the flesh of my arms; gasping because I kept forgetting to breathe.

I was at the airport that day, waiting till I could strip myself clean of the miles and curl under the covers on my bed. Or my couch. Or the floor.

I went over to a café to buy some coffee – because 8 am and I don’t get along very well – but when the barista held out my change and my latté, I spilt both – over my dress and down the floor.

She just stood there, looking at me. Didn’t even try to hide the judgement that had already been passed.

“I have my days!”, I wanted to scream at her. To make her understand that sometimes it was hard to breathe; that sometimes the voices in my head rioted for days.

That anxiety can be a real bitch.

The days, weeks, months, years that passed by in my rearview while I took stabs in the dark trying to find my way – they vanished so quickly, like fog in the winter sun.

The chronic inkiness engulfed me, filling my lungs until they burst.
And when I finally emerged again, my bones were heavy with weariness, heavy from the dark.
I felt a thousand years older.

I bled my heart out, learned how to play with sharp objects, use them as tools; as weapons against my demons.
I drew crimson scars all over my body to keep them away.

Some people don’t care.
Some do. Some say they do, but they don’t. Not really.
Some make it even harder.

The Devil is real.

The monsters under your bed are real.

But they are yours alone to face. Everyone dreads the shadows, but the battle can only be fought if you’re not worn out from the monsters of daylight; the ones you sit next to in class, the ones you go to the movies with.

Don’t be so caught up with your own demons that you end up being one in someone else’s story.

and she cried tears of blue.

Numb, aching hearts.

Dried, rusted drops of blood on the edges of sharp little things hidden away in your many drawers.

Darkened rooms lit up wistfully by the passing of cars at 2 am.

Lips cracking into a chapped patchwork of blood when you finally open your mouth; because you refuse to talk or eat or drink or be – for days on end.

Long sleeves and sporadic haircuts in a hopeless attempt to battle the gloomy winter chill, because the sun never left the sky of the city you grew up in.

Listening to obscure grunge bands for an entire summer, so every time you hear the melancholy tune again you’re taken back to that time you went to the beach in the back of your friend’s truck – stale beer on your breath and salt in your soul.

Fake smiles slapped onto sad faces.
Crimson-veined eyes defying the many layers of mascara.

The feeling that empty blue horizons bring, the feeling that makes you turn off all the lights and stare into the empty space; the seemingly endless pit in your stomach that makes you wake up and break down at 4 am in the cold.

When you force yourself to tears because you don’t feel anything, at all, anymore.

The colour of loneliness.

Of emptiness.

Of voids that refuse to be filled.

An entire generation raised to drink and smoke and fuck and bleed in so many shades of blue.

to the stupid little girls,

Stupid girl,
broken child.

Tell them how you cried when the cracks in your soul spread deeper,
when the broken dreams lay like so many shards of glass on the floor, cutting your feet bloody as you tried to stumble past them.

Tell them how you didn’t learn from your frustration,
your shattered expectations;
from the fury you unleashed upon yourself.

The little girl who ate her lunch in the bathroom in middle school grows up to be the girl who seems lost in the middle of her colleagues as they crack a joke; eyes so far away, heart so distant from all the laughter.

“When is daddy coming home?”

The 7 year old who used to bounce around the house with gleeful delight when he pulled up in the garage grew up to wonder if her father will ever call her as she was going off to college.

Fall and rise.

Sink and drown and rise.

She’ll rise every time, no matter what, because she might be stupid but she has never been weak.

Her eyes might be bloodshot but they still dream.

Broken she may be from all her falls, but she’ll rise again – like Rome, from her own ashes,
because the stupid little girls are the strongest of them all.

Everything and Nothing

Lipstick stains on your cigarette
Mascara stains on my face
Let’s call it a night, shall we? ‘Cause I don’t think I can take the white noise anymore

Two blocks down, three bottles down
The back of your Maybach, our usual crime scene
Sinking in those plush leather cushions,
I lie as I pray you don’t take anyone else in along the way

But it’s almost like you can see the wheels in my mind turning,
‘Cause the car comes to a halt alright, and it’s not my stop yet.
You pop open another bottle with your new friends,
And I can hear her whisper hush-hush in your ear when she finally sees me,
Lying like a corpse, paralyzed in the lonely blue

Maybe I’m paranoid,
But when you leave me on the pavement
The concrete numbs my skin
No touch, no feel, no sense

All the chemicals and the poison that we light up,
the smoke and the white lighters,
the heat and the cold –
Everything blurs into nothing.

So I just lie there under the streetlights,
and you know me so I guess you know,
that when the party’s over I imagine life pouring out of me;
gushing at first, in a frenzy to break free,
but then it slows down to a trickle




The Nowhere Princess

Gold rimmed cups,
Trembling fingers,
Floating goblets full of wine,
Crimson stained lips curled into fake smiles,

Princess –
with gold between her teeth
and steel choking her lungs,

Seemed like she could scream for all eternity,
But the poison that the Sun-God
had traced onto her lips
made them burn
every time she gasped for breath,

Sweet little Cassandra,
Mad little Cassandra,

Fall asleep quickly now,
I’ll sing you a lullaby,
Don’t let the others see
How crazy you can seem to be,

Don’t scream
Or kick in bed,
When the monsters of your nightmares
run wild in your head,

Paris is your brother;
A prince of Troy,
And the wooden horse is just another toy,
Your warnings of doom are but a mirage,
Hovering over the hordes of your city
but never quite settling in,

Drink some more wine, my Lady
It will help you hold your breath
while you sleep,

For your screams
fall on empty ears,
And Troy, in all it’s glory,
will burn while they all sleep.

3 A.M.

Sometimes, when no one’s home, I like to feel my tears dry on my face, running down to my lips so I can taste them.

When I was younger, I used to cry myself to sleep very often. And I used to hope that my pillow remain wet till sunrise, so that maybe someone would notice something was wrong.

But it never did.

No one ever knew.

What’s it with pain?
It comes and goes like the waves in the ocean, crashing so unexpectedly.There are moments when I know I’m hurting, but I don’t feel hurt enough to cry. Others when I don’t know how I ended up on the bathroom floor at 3 AM, with tears streaming down my face.

Sometimes I envy the little girl I used to be. She could cry so easily.
But then the world taught her that her tears were pearls that should remain locked up. She learned the lesson dutifully, along with her arithmetic and literature.

And now that she doesn’t know how to cry anymore, she bites her tongue to stop her tears from spilling and crashes onto the pavement, with no one by her side to catch her.


Where does the pain come from,
when everything is so shiny and perfect?

It’s almost as if I want to be sad.
and I keep asking myself, why can’t I heal?
Just let go, set myself free from all the scars and ghosts that haunt me?

And the answer is simple, really.
We love playing the victim. Or atleast I do.

There’s something intoxicating about the madness that courses through my veins every time I watch crimson flow down my cuts onto the bathroom floor.
There’s comfort in my deep, dark hole. I’m the only one who knows every nook and cranny down here. Nowhere else is safer.

When I was younger, I used to look in the mirror and wonder, who could ever love that face?
Growing up, I realised that it’s easier to lust after the face than to embrace the chaos.
Sometimes, I catch my reflection on the window of some passerby’s car, and I just loathe everyone who claims to love me.
Because no one even knows me.
Do you know what that feels like?
One word. Lonely.

I’m desperate to be understood but I won’t ever spill any of my secrets.
I want to be loved but I don’t ever let anyone close enough to look through the smokescreen.

I know I’m long gone before dawn and you wake up all alone.
But do you really think I care?
And yes, I know that I’m distant. But you’d get lost in a minute if I let you in my head.

I’m fucked up.
I’m jaded.

The pain sets me free.



1. of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines, especially in being susceptible to weaknesses.

See, the thing is, ever since you’re a kid you are asked to shut your mouth every time you burst into tears.
Your Mom looks at you helplessly, your Dad calls you weak and walks away, your friends call you a crybaby.

So you grow up to believe that emotions are your Achilles heel. You figure out that maybe tears are a show of vulnerability and you learn to cry yourself to sleep, hiding them from the world so that you no longer embarrass your parents.

But then one day you’re hanging out in the cafeteria with your friends after college and one of them says,”You dont ever cry, do you ?”.


I do.

On the bathroom floor at 3 AM.
Because that’s what they taught me.

So, instead of raising humans, the society ended up raising a generation of kids who don’t know what to do with the mess in their heads.

We ask for food when we’re hungry.
We ask for water when we’re thirsty.
What stops us from asking for love when we’re hurting ?