i said your name last night,
to no one — just my shadow on the wall,
softly, a suggestion of a whisper,
pretending it didn’t hurt at all.

i carry you like bruises,
and although i swore i wouldn’t beg,
here i am, on my knees,
inside every text that i don’t send.

it’s not the act i fear,
but the breath before the yes —
as our worlds begin to unravel
like silk, shredded by violence.

if i break, please, break with me.
let’s fall apart together now.
let’s cry, as we burn to pieces.
i expect you to break me right.

These thoughts we have that swirl around in our head,

Sometimes all they do is hurt us instead.

All I want to do is embrace you in my arms, but I must say I find it hard. 

Perhaps in another time, in another life we should, be everything that I know we could.

I know how you feel, I feel it too.
But what your partner think of you.

This is written with love because you know I care
Please tell me what I should do, because I know it's not fair.

My little sister called me tonight.
Her voice cracked before she even said hello.
She saw the heart I typed,
and thought I was saying goodbye.

She shouldn’t have to live like this—
bracing herself
every time I answer too slowly,
learning to read my silences
like warning signs.

She’s just a kid.
My baby.
The one I used to tuck in
and promise monsters weren’t real.

But now I am the monster.
Not to her.
Never to her.
But to myself.

I am the nightmare she can’t wake up from.
The danger she can’t punch away.
The reason she checks her phone
like it’s a lifeline
and a bomb
at the same time.

And I hate it.
I hate that she’s learning
to live on edge
because of me.
Because I might break
and take her with me.

So maybe—
maybe the kindest thing I could do
is just end it.

Once.

Not again and again
in panicked calls and whispered fears
and “I love you”s that sound too final.
Not in sirens or hospital beds
or birthdays where I couldn’t come.

Just once.
One clean tear through the timeline.
One scream.
One silence.
And then nothing.

She’d cry,
yes.
But she’d stop being afraid.

She wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.
Wouldn’t have to scan my messages
for signs of collapse.
Wouldn’t have to carry
this slow, rotting dread
that her sister might be dying
in a place she can’t reach.

Maybe grief
would be easier than fear.

Maybe heartbreak
would feel like freedom
after years of holding her breath.

I think about that a lot.

How maybe
the kindest thing I could ever do for her
is disappear.

You’ve given me grief, you’ve given me pain
You’ve made me meek, you’ve made me vain
I should hate you, should crave ****** revenge
It’s insane that I miss you to no end.

Youve screamed and yelled and made me forget
My dreams and wills, the futures I’ve set
I’m finally free yet now I still ship
Notes over seas that I bet you just skip.

It’s not only me that you’ve given pain to
Lots of my loved ones you’ve also made blue.
It makes it much worse to me that I still
Love you this much against my own will.

Once a day, thoughts of QUITTING,
It was ages before or is it just me who aged?
Hearing whispers—
"Oh girl! Don't overthink, you're just a child."
But... how did this girl learnt to feel this way?

Back in days, this messy, inactive Angel…
She made mistakes and advancements at the same time.
Following her years with Covid-19,
Grew an ache of anger with a belief that—
The world was completely against her.

Then that day, when tears fell…
Wait—were those the thoughts of the overthinker me again?
And that was the time I recognised
Myself, with numerous talents to shine.

Today, an orator, poet, painter—she transformed.
But never gained the courage to own the title of best person.
She changed me, my young self, but…
Why is it me writing all these things as a memory of guilt again?
Maybe… it’s just me who aged—
Not my guilt.

-Parisha

i was born and on fire. my skin, open flesh wounds that bled onto anyone in a close vicinity. my face, a cloud of black dust. i knew that i had love in my heart to share with the world, but no one could see past the mold on my skin that would spread to them if they got too close. i was born into two things: a fruit that appeared ripe on the outside but leaked out a decayed, rotten mess, and the hands that opened said fruit with blood that held on. i watch the destruction i've made, that i didn't mean to make, but i believed that it was justified. i wait for someone to understand these words, not to pity me, but to find a part of themselves in me. i have found nobody. i fear that as of now, i am a walking, moldy model of decaying flesh and raw meat. i did not want to be this way. i did not want to be the black sheep. i did not want to be bad. i am a sculpture of wet clay that they could mold with their pure hands, and despite all that creativity in their alive and well minds, they have carved the word "rotten" in my flesh.

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“I'll find them"
I say as I come across another corpse
The blood leaking out of the open wounds inflicted upon them.
Turning their intellect into a poison
that eats them inside out.  
They're gone now (blanched from existence),
I look around
And see the bones on which
My “exceptionalism” stands.
Unnoticed by most
but I sense their ghosts in the spaces that should be filled.  
The same system that killed my kin,
demands I cannibalize them
to sell me as a relic - a reminder of what was
But I never forget - or forgive - a murderer.