I miss how the hours passed—filled with joy, connection, and pride.
How the city night lights accompanied me home.
The routes, the journey, the walk.
How some nights were long, exhausting—
And reaching home felt like heaven-sent.
I miss the mundane, the routine.
I miss living the days I once prayed for.

Now I wait—to heal, for time,
For the days to pass and release me.
A better version—the one I’ve prayed to grow into.
How expensive it is to be deserving—
Of a better version, a better life.

I promise to do better each day.
Promise not to let this drag me down, consume me.
I promise to savor this:
A break that is a gift.
And I promise not to regret being given the chance to rest.

Learning that I, too, deserve unconditional love.
I’m thankful for this pause
And I know it will not be in vain.
Receiving love does not mean
You have to spare your bones for it.

I can smell it in the distance. This pause,
This current life I’m living.
It’s pulling me closer to a better version of me.

So now, all I do is try.
Survive.
And savour this life,
The one that’s slow,
The one that crushes you on certain days.

I promise to survive this.
In triumph.

Family has always been  
a vague concept to me.  
You let me into yours—  
still, I didn’t feel at home.

It takes time to unlearn a broken mold,  
a family so heartless, so cold,  
to find one that truly loves—  
through thick and thin.

At your family’s table,  
laughter rings like wind chimes—  
familiar, effortless, soft.  
Your family leans in, passing bowls with ease;  
My family stands back—hands buried in pockets.

My family could never sit that close  
without shattering glassware,  
or silence heavier  
with every breath.

My family was meant to be broken...  
too many flavors of opinions,  
none who get along,  
forever far from resilience.

Even yours isn’t perfect,  
But their warmth comes so easily
Why does mine freeze at every smile?
You say your family is crazy,
but they show up—  
more than mine ever did.

Some remember me—  
a cousin, a daughter,  
a memory with laughter,  
on quiet Sundays  
when the kettle’s on  
and the world feels soft.  

Others keep me tucked  
in unopened branches—  
too polite to reach,  
too distant to prune,  
unbothered by who's missing whom.

But your family—  
they make it seem effortless,  
being together for a reason  
other than obligation,  
regardless the season.

They love openly,  
and welcome those who are new—  
an additional member to be let in,  
a new story to be explored and loved.  

That’s never how my family was.
Just hands in pockets,
and doors half-closed.
Not even close.

I wake up with weight
Bt not from pain
Just the heaviness
Of feeling nothing.

I search my chest
Like someone lost their keys
Bt there's no spark
No trace of warmth.

Just silence
Where love used to echo
Now even the ache
Has gone quiet.

A woman dragged to court by her hair,
on her red tide —
torn and insulted — hey you,
look at her, and wipe your tears.

Was it blood or silence that spilled over her destiny,
chained her soul to the weight,
left to pain all alone?

Her five souls stayed mute —
for whose sake?

Whose verdict was her fate?
Whose vengeance was her life?
Who takes the blame for her pain?
Whose ego made her scars?

Men chose.
Men fought.
Men gambled.

But —
who was stripped?
Who got hurt?
Who bore the injustice?

She — Draupadi —
her tears, her strength, her wisdom —
shook the whole world like a storm.

Her rage, her wounds, her curse —
set fire to Kurukshetra.

She was the fire never meant to be unlit .
She was the mind that housed the might.
She got struck by fate,
but strengthened by faith.

Her face — as beautiful as the ocean,
her eyes — shining like pearls,
her hair — like the waves;
with unfathomable strength.
Echoing her power across generations,
praising her alluring soul —
isn't this the time to unleash the Draupadi in you?

magnolia’s cream-mottled cheek
   marking yet another bygone era
   plunked into the abyss as sorrow
   burrows into us, roots that become

our prisons / our refuge, the delirious
journey into what we've come
     to recognize as our shadow selves'
   last fragments of a fallen season

that last slanted sunset reflected off the lake
hinting with its brilliance at what we simply
could not admit to ourselves. The expanding
distance between us we hide in and seek thereafter

I did not leave the desert unchanged.
The heat shimmered as if reminding me that all I had beheld was a mirage, tempting as it was to grasp it tightly
in my palm.

The rumble of the charge still echoed
in my mind, my spirit fully awakened, body upright now. So many decades
of being bent and not realizing it.
My vision shifted

to the impossible becoming my reality.
The warrior women who spoke life over me, poised and unwavering
as those with wisdom often are.
Their eyes peered deeply into mine

and the dry bones were made flesh anew. Somewhere in the distance,
the little girl I once was (who had fought so fiercely to procure
my safety) waved at me

one final time. Thank you, dear
little one, for being there when I felt like I had nothing else left. You no longer have to spring to my rescue.
I can handle my battles now,

knowing that the ultimate victory
is mine through Him who strengthens me. As I left the desert, I didn't look back. I was free. And so was she. Somehow, it was enough.