There's a bump there
On my skin
I need to peel it off
It's making mad
I scratch at it
Pinch it
And then rip it off

What have I done?!
I think as blood starts gushing out
I am such pain but I have to keep a straight face

I knew I was doing it
I knew I was picking at it
But then again, I didn't at the same time

I hide my injury
But it hurts terribly
I want to keep it a secret
But it's killing me
I need them to know
So that they can stop me
Because as much as I hate to admit it
I am not in control of me

After it bleeds
It is a scab
And it's taller then the rest of my skin
I need to pick it off
Once again

And when I do
It bleeds again
I am mad once more
At myself
For I did not stop my urge somehow
Like I promised myself I would

And this time
It comes back as a scar
And it taunts me for the rest of my life
A living portrait of my mistake
That gives me a look of judgement
Whenever I dare to glance at it

IwishIcouldhugthemallofthepeoplewhoeverhadtofeelthisawfulawfulfee­lingoflonelinessandunwillingnesstomoveortalkoropentheireyes Iwanttotellthemthatit'sokaythey'reokaythey'renotalonetheyaren'tth­eonlypersonhavingapanicattackinthebathroomtheyweren'tthe onlyoneswhofeelthisbadandIwanttoheartheir storiesandIwantthemtohearmineIwishwecouldallgotoafarawaylandawayf­arfromtheruinersoflivesandthethingsthatmakeyouwanttocommitsuicide­Iwanttotellthemthey'renottheonlyoneswhofeelthekeyboardintheirmind­isglitchingmakingnopunctuationorspaceforabreakfromthought

I love
The idea
Of thanksgiving
It's a holiday
To be grateful and eat good food
But I hate
How my dinner
Will just be two people
Who ordered takeout
Because the rest of the family
Is dead
Mad
Or thousands of miles away

Why can't my
Heart be empty?

I cry
For fake characters in movies

I dream
Things that could never come true

I lie
To myself

I walk
To places only on the map of my mind

I jump
Into an invisible hole

And I miss
Things and people, when they're alive

I found my old diary
And some letters I made to my future self years ago in it
I cried
I wish I could hug her
And thank her
I'll be doing this every year

We often ask ourselves
Why we are even crying
And I promise you that the answer is not that we are babys
pathetic
Or stupid
It's that we are human
It's we're made to do
Though it's painful and cruel

My mother,
She claims that I need it
Because I
"Have a lot going on"
But I'm quite clear on my thoughts
And I pretty sure I know what I want
And that she won't tell me anything I don't know
She is nice and all
But I don't believe she can help me with squat
My therapy is poetry
And long walks
Not an old lady writing notes in an office

I am aware of my problems
I know my mistakes
And I know how deal with the ones
I didn't even make
How?
Years of experience

Plus, when I ask her questions
She just asks me ones back
When I needed answers

It might be helpful for some
Which is great
But for me
It doesn't work that way

I am aware of what's going on in my head
I think I even know too much about it honestly

today I saw her
beautiful as ever
my eyes followed her every move , every turn , every lump
how beautiful she looks with huge glasses
and an even bigger smile
she wore a pink bow on her hair today

She didn't even look at me,
I don't want us to be lovers
but a simple hi or hello
would make my day
but there she goes
as far away from me as possible

oh how i love you
the way you would never love me back
so beautiful yet so empty .

There is a girl, and she doesn't believe in the existence of god.

She once told her best-friend that if there is something like BIRTH and DEATH, then there can't be anything like heaven and hell. However, she uses both HEAVEN and HELL as metaphors in her poems for pointing at the good and the bad while
wondering what distinguishes a devil from an angel.

Once someone asked her- “Do you believe in the power of DESTINY?”.
She didn't answer the question and ended up writing a whole essay on the value of HARD WORK while reflecting upon the lives of many who are working hard since ages without any fruition.

One day her grandfather told her that she should have at least some amount of FAITH in her life, even if she doesn't BELIEVE in worshiping any sculptures or images. She told him that the only thing she believes in is his selfless love for her.

She has a closet,
and it's full of secrets and MYSTERIES,
the secret letters of pain and grief, of existential crisis and restless nights.
They were written to someone named as GOD by her ten-year-old self.

Every night she joins her hands and closes her eyes to make a wish and PRAY for the well-being of
the boy who claims to be in love with her.
And every morning when I wake up to look at her face in the mirror, all I could see in front of my eyes is a portrait of an ATHEIST in love.

-Prachi