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When I was five,
my mother told me I was loved.
Years later, she asked me to leave because
I was the reminder of the gruesome past that haunted her.

When I was ten,
my father told me he believed in me.
Years later, he refused to accompany me because
I was an embarrassment to him in front of the society.

When I was fifteen,
my friends told me I was funny.
Years later, they all laughed at me because
I was the gullible teenager who fell for their flawless façade.

When I was twenty,
this guy said I was beautiful.
Years later, he trashed me, tormented me because
I was ignorant enough to overlook my inevitable flaws.

So, sorry for not believing in you,
for questioning your intentions, inclusively, in-depth
when you told me you loved me because
I didn’t want to wind up years later,
learning it the hard way that people often don’t mean what they say.
"Pistanthrophobia is just not everyone's cup of tea."
dying
dead
dirt
dirt
worms
burst
melt
disappear
only to be born again
as the flowers under my blanket
as i curl up and read
while thinking of you
  Mar 2018 Srijani Sarkar
Creep
Each and every text hit me like
Little sparks of fire,
Each of them igniting
And enveloping me
In this new feeling,
Spreading warmth across my body
Like warm butter,
Seeping in and soaking.
Popcorn popping in my stomach,
Bouncing up and down,
Warm and addicting.

I smiled.

So this is what it feels like to be loved.
Feeling loved by many ♥ I love you guys! Thanks for all your support! :3 it means a lot ^^

Honey honey
By abba
  Mar 2018 Srijani Sarkar
Indigo
Forget their kiss
Forget the gaze in their eyes
Erase those lips
And the touch of their fingertips
And their scent, and their lies
Now cry
and cry
and cry
Then forget
how to cry.
---
i.

i used to only write sad poems.

ii.

you see,
i am a cynic,
a cemetery,
a holocaust,
a chaotic, distant, lost girl
buried in her own
self-destruction.

but with you
i am different.

i want to wake up,
keep my promises,
make up for lost time,
spill blood and ink,
try again,
live

for you.

iii.

you walk me home
and the skies blush
pink cloud summers
mid-December.

we part and i marvel
at the sepia tint
of backyard roses
blurring my lenses.

you came in
like the missing palette color
i never knew
i needed
my skies painted with.

iv.

now, you are all the love poems
i didn't know i could write.

and every metaphor i create
is just a lengthier version of
'i love you'

i really do.
  Mar 2018 Srijani Sarkar
Nayana Nair
There is a soft tune that
moves beneath your fingers
as they move over the pages
and words and worlds
that you will never see.
All the words of hope
that I whisper
to the you
who exists within these barriers
of skin, bones and sorrow.
I fear these words will be like the music
that doesn’t stop but fades,
dissolving into time and distance.
Like that music
it will pass from me to you,
from you to nothingness.
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