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.


You corrupted everything.

I still can’t think of waffles on a Monday morning without thinking of you.
I still can’t listen to the songs we danced to at midnight without feeling my hand give in.

I remember feeling you breathe, late one Sunday evening, when you told me that you fake pretence when you have to.

And I said that I don’t.

Because I don’t know what grey is. I never did.

I should have walked away right then. Little did I know that you’d been wearing your mask ever since the moment I first met you.

Every lane we’ve walked down together, every café we had coffee in, the rain in this little town – everything seems tainted now.
Our seas met, but the gulf remained.

Knowing that it’s over hurts.
But knowing that it never was; that’s the poison that killed us both.

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.