I got my room painted today; my old walls were scarred, chipped,   worn...memories
But the past is in the past, the paint has already  dried. So why can't I forget? Why can I still hear them, the memories echoing through the room like restless spirits.
I just have one question, if I peeled back a coat or two, would the scars beam with pride? And would the walls still bear the scars proudly?

I guess a new coat will be good.... still underneath the glaze of perfection, the scars are still hiding and the walls are still whispering...
Yet I will remember,
only
me

expectation's a sin in secret
and i think i might know why,
because somehow disappointment is apparent
no matter how many times you try.

to please those around you,
forgetting about yourself.
in the end it's all in vain
if your heart is on the shelf.

please don't expect from me
and don't make me promise
i'll fulfill your dreams.

it already seems like
i'm living your life,
i'm becoming you, it seems.

because when she was young,

people would ask her

"what superpower,

do you wish for?"

so without any hesitation

she replied "invisibility."

and then,

and then she grew up realising

it came true.

I devote myself to you.
I have found every bone in my body and every inch of skin on them.
This is all the treasure I have in the world to give you.
Skin and bones is all we are.
If you would, we could fill it up with the air of your words.
I’ll validate myself and sprout wings.
I’ll sit in the temple of your mind and listen to your thoughts.
Sing songs of these words I will learn to understand because that is all I need...
... I need to get through to you for myself.
Listen to my pleas, my secret love.
A secret only you and I hold in a box we forgot the key to.
I rise to the altar to look you in the eye.
I will not be blinded by your divinity,
nor by your claims of redemption.
Hands and knees don’t need to be redeemed.
They need to be held.
Hold me, for I have nothing but this body to give you.

Here's the thing--
I don't like to lie.
So, if you asked me where I am from,
I'd have to assess you and your prejudices before announcing in a single breath --

"I am a Malayali from Bombay raised in Saudi Arabia."

My identity comes in as a triple threat.
And people treat me like an escaped convict
"Oh, how many burqas do you own?"
"Four, and they're still not enough to save me from your ridiculous questions."

I don't like to lie.
So, I'll tell you I've had a terrible day
and the best thing that happened to me today was lunch.

I will voluntarily admit that my feet hurt in those shoes
And I'd rather be at home.
But, my pen refused to stop writing.

I choose not to wrap my truths in acceptability
Because my identity does not need to be graded
(not like I deserve less than an A+)
I decided to let my bottom sit on a throne in my own mind
Rather than at the feet of self-proclaimed lords of the universe
I'll fix my sights on what's here today.

I'm a queen of my own will;
Of shoes that fit
and jeans that never will.

I am also confused and I write to confuse some more.
Maybe I'll just wrap myself in words
And hand myself over to you and say --
"Congrats! It's a story."

Is there a way to get the touch of a hand out of your head?
There is no one who has truly been touched and forgets the feeling.
What do I say of your touch
except that I crave it?
I'm clutching at air here.
I'd like a hand to hold instead.

When you accidentally stumble upon something that stings-
What do you do?
When you see that message of someone making fun of your depression, your grades, your being- but have to pretend you didn't.

I want to tell you how deep that cut me.
I want to cry and ask how someone can be so cruel.

But then I think-
Someone who can make fun of suicide, who can belittle a person's feelings and reality..
That is a tragedy in itself.
So I'll pray for you.

I will pray that one day you find the peace that you so desperately need.
I will pray that the ignorance you possess on something that takes lives is replaced with knowledge about how serious this issue is.
I cannot imagine living a life with such an oblivious tone.

I may be ****** up, but at-least I am know I am.