My lease is up, with my old memories
I have to stop going through the treasuries
I walk down the halls, looking over my old things
The old band of pots and pans has stopped ringing

I walk past the lines on the walls, measuring my happiness
Though the lines kept getting smaller, becoming less and less
The light bulbs of hope seem dimmer then before
Now each **** has a lock, I felt a need to change the doors

I locked myself away, I became enclosed
I dwelled on old memories, the ones I never told
The ones that stayed silent, the ones meant just for me
The moments of love and laughter, the only ones I need

Though as much as I want to stay, it's time for me to go
I've stayed here too long, this house is growing old
As much as I don't want to face my fears
These memories are too aged for me to live here

all this hurt is so heavy
but I'm afraid I can't put it down
see I've grown attached to it
no matter how often I drown

I’m not ready to let go
I can’t
How could I
I’m attached
My life is attached to it
I can’t let go easily
I hate thinking about the fact of having to let someone go
It feels like leaving
It feels like betrayal
All strings are attached
I don’t know how to loosen them
I don’t want to loose anyone
My personality can’t let go
I just can’t
It’s hard when it happens, once it happened and it’s going to hurt in the future.

They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Panchali's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.