I die a little bit inside,
every time your delicate lips broach about her.

Yours,
only best friend.

The advertisement remarked, "Fair and lovely skin."
"Why not my colored skin?"
wondered the 7-yr-old oblivious to the misogyny of dark shades in the society.

Dear you, I'm sorry you had to hear a sigh of disbelief from my end of the phone line, when you were trying to convince me that it's not all my flesh that you fancied. The people around this place had already made me believe, I wasn't loveable.

Dear you, I'm sorry about the time none of them in your family believed your truth.  When you were sobbing into a puddle of tears and babbling that you didn't even touch her, in a gasping, broken voice. The people alongside had already deluded their thought process. I believe you. If only she confronted them too.

Dear you, I'm sorry for when you couldn't decide what you wanted for yourself, or maybe you did but couldn't stand up for yourself. You fell apart after choosing what others made you believe you should. I'm sorry for all the times, you had to choose them over yourself. For all the times you tried to love them a little more and yourself a lot less.

Dear you, I'm a tad bit sorry for all the times I had a breakdown while we were trying to make love or now and again when it made you feel like you were wrong somewhere, and you didn't even let out a sigh. I'm not very proud of my narratives with men before. consensual touch is still quite alien to me.

Dear you, I am sorry for all the times you felt like you don't belong or sharing a shoulder was a shame. No, you deserve all the love that there is. The people around you don't know better. But you and I, we do. And we will survive this. You can be whoever you feel like. Let's lift the load together shoulder to shoulder. And never stop being artists, please.

Don't worry, I won't tell her about you.
Don't worry, her first word will always be "Mama".

Don't worry, I won't tell her about your deep love for strawberry milkshakes.
Though, she refuses to have milk in everything but strawberry shakes.

Don't worry, I won't bother telling her how good you were at volleyball,
I would tell her its a good sport to play.

Don't worry, I won't bother telling her science fictions are great,
I ask her to just give any of them from the shelf, a read.

Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that she can't bunk classes.
Because she is allowed to but, also read her textbooks later.
Though, she doesn't know how pridefully your attendance used to drop, then.

Don't worry, I won't bother not going to movies with her and yeah, she can choose them,
alternatively.

Don't worry,  I won't bother her to grow up.
She can always have brownies and chocolate ice cream in the middle of the night.
Though, she doesn't know how you used to be lectured for doing the same.

Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to learn singing,
she loves  Jazz dancing.
Though you never stopped moving your feet, to those Irish beats.

Don't worry, I won't bother saying how blowing bubbles and balloons were your favorite pass time.
It's her 16th birthday and all she wants is the party hall to be crowded with red and white balloons.

Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that black is the color.
I tell her that she can always wear black to dates and sometimes, they work out really well.

Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to give me a call
every once in a while.
Because she loves writing letters and mailing them to me.
Little does she know, about your handwritten notes that still hold a place in my diary.

Don't worry, I won't question her choices.
But, will for sure forbid her from falling for a man like you,  
who will soon fall for someone new.

Oh did I forget to tell you, she writes too.

"You don't understand what it's like to be a parent.
Until you become one."

"But, I know one thing, and only one thing for sure.
I"ll never force my dreams on my kids."

We share a bond,
and poems and songs in the spaces between.
We love ice cream,
and the conversations that come with it.
We dance,
and pour our hearts out into the lyrics.
We share hugs,
and giggle through those bedtime stories.
For us, friendship is more than Snapchat streaks.

she is a happy ending,
not everyone can wait for.

I have seen it coming.
I have felt me drowning,
slowly, and then all at once,
I don't like it here, you know.
It's different,
maybe I knew it was gonna be.

I talked to them.
No, it doesn't get better.
Every time I try, it gets worse.
Maybe I don't talk like them,
maybe I don't want to.
I don't like it here.

They don't get me.
Well, no one tries to.
And it's utterly fine,
I like it that way.
I'm that socially awkward damsel, who is mostly seen under the covers of her John Green-book.
They do talk to me about those notes from class
and once it's arranged,
they are nowhere to be seen around me.
But, remember?
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen me losing myself,
piece by piece, word by word.
I have been trying to reach the bright smoke of expectations that hovers around my head.
And for the hating love of reading,
I still manage to slip through the pages of that fiction novel,
at least once a day.
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen old mark sheets of the dead,
I have seen those good grades fade.
I have seen me,
dead.
I haven't risen up from the dead,
I am trying to.
But,
I don't like it here.

My friend puking out her Christmas dinner like a little girl trying to scrub off that uncle’s touch who tells her she is his favorite kid.
For her dad fat shames her every day.


My friend’s parents sending her to therapy because they don’t get how she can like a boy as well as a girl. Or rather don’t try to, because calling it phase is so much easier than explaining to the neighbors how that is who their daughter is. They are oblivious to what it is like to live in a home where you are treated like a victim of your existence.


My friend needs help, a little attention and someone to talk to.
His family is ashamed, how they could have done better for him, how they’re responsible for the things inside his head and I still don’t know what depression does to him, his family doesn’t like to talk about it.
They’d rather consider him possessed because anything is better than people knowing that he needs therapy and love and care. “Their son can’t be suffering from mental illness, they’re a happy family.”


My friend tells me she’s turning into her mother, and her mother let me tell you, she’s fabulous and fierce for she has been through things harsher than a lover who never says,'I love you’ but wants you to be their ***** little secret and you love them a little too much to deny. My friend, she had an anxiety attack last night for she can’t go out with her guy friends, neither talk to a classmate for too long because her boyfriend might start ****-shaming her. I disapprove and tell her she is not turning into her mother but when I sit in their living room, and aunty brings me snacks while talking to me about life within these faint green walls of the house and what did I eat for breakfast. I ask her to go out sometimes because there are so many things out there that she’d be experiencing and creating, friendship, weather, languages, people, art, emotions. And smell some sunlight in the lush greens fields. She says she’s not allowed to, like a kid calling its mother, "Ma". Her husband loves his ***. And her helplessly hazardous heart, too drained to take ‘harlot’ for a word from an alcohol-soaked throat.
The same walls that once adored their wedding photographs now question their love.


My friend’s girlfriend telling him she loves him but they can’t be together because she’s doesn’t want to be seen with him in the streets. But she seeks his warmth in the winter and leaves right before spring. He loses a little bit of himself every time she does that. He blames himself for what love does to him.


The woman who wears a heavy heart to the bed, finds it difficult to put herself to sleep, holds her dog for a little too long. Whose husband refuses to try therapy.
For I can't margin in metaphors, the agony within the wives who haven't been touched for years.
And the woman who feels a little less human after every night her husband forces himself on her. Because she's, his wife. His. Possession not prized but objectified.
The wife whose husband refuses to wear a ******, she gulps down pain every morning with the pills.
Families of these women, who were taught to think that is how the society functions and who are unwilling to unlearn.      


My friend’s brother asking her to stop wearing that short skirt around guests. There's a hole in her heart every time she remembers the traces his hands left on that infertile body of the kid that looked just like her. He pretends like it never happened.

I die a little bit inside,
every time your scarlet lips broach about him.

Yours,
only best friend.

"What is an indulgence?"
"A crispy sun-dried towel after a nice warm bath."
The lazy soul replied.

Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all dreamy, and fabled.
She was brave enough to love you.
She was brave enough to be crumpled to shreds yet fake a smile flawlessly.
She grew on you.

Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was graceful and too kind to be true.
She was the daisy of your garden, where flowers weren't just a few.
She loved sunshine as much as the misty moon.
She was ravishingly rhythmic. Forming melodies out of those midnight stars,
adding beats and verses to your mundane mornings.
Your Juliet, your Daisy, your sanguine Sestina
all of them. Yet, nothing better than a reverie.

Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all chirpy and consoling.
Solace was what made her.
Her love was fire, worth burning for.
At times, her eyes form glaciers,
arctic and numb.
At times, she feels worn out and ready to drop.
But, Juliet's audacious to hold on tight yet, taken down by you. Remember, she grew on you.

Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was delicate but humorous.
Compassion knit her soul together.
You tell her, she is all you ever wanted and is grateful for.
But, the woman lying next to you hears the same.  

She was a writer and left you one.
Juliet, your Juliet.
Not anymore.

The moment you traveled back to me,
I couldn't love you the same.
I couldn't pick up, just where you left off,
or even couldn't start it all over again.
There wasn't any beginning or end to it.
I couldn't move, it suffocated me.
I couldn't care less, how she was holding you then.
I couldn't find the same old you.
And you weren't my treasure trove of tenderness anymore.
I felt as if my love was temporary,
maybe it was.
You tell me it's all the same,
the daisies you planted,
the walls we painted,
the smell of my hair,
though its new red color glare.
The night-light I bought,
the candles you got.
The books that you read,
the ones I'd like to keep.
And you still like to smell them in indeed.
The places we navigated,
the ones awaited.
The moments we collected,
the ones enlisted.
you still hate socializing,
and humans aren't my special liking.
You're lactose intolerant,
but love ice-creams.
And for me, ice-creams are eminent.

But lovers lie, don't they?

Now I'm not even sure if I loved a coward,
or didn't love you enough.

No, this time it didn't hurt me much,
maybe I am used to it, now.

Maybe I have had enough of us.
Maybe the fact that you're not there, doesn't bother me anymore.
Maybe I became more independent this time.
Maybe this time I knew where each of the pieces goes.
Maybe I don't expect from you anymore.
Maybe I grew up a little bit.
Maybe this time, there's no jack to my Jill.
Maybe this time, Jill knows how to fetch some water, all by herself.
Maybe this time, I want more from life.
Maybe this time, you just stick to the white-ruled pages of my diary.
Maybe this time, the whispers around streets aren't about you and me.
Maybe you don't lie close to me anymore.
Maybe, those peals of laughter are now replaced by the smell of coffee and battered laptop screens.
Maybe, my hands don't search for you in darkness, anymore.
Maybe, my eyes don't search for you in our favorite hangout places, anymore.
Maybe, my lips don't mumble your name while sleeping, anymore.
Maybe this time, I finally get that you don't care about me, you never really did.

Ever felt as if, some people are good
just over the phone?

Maybe there was a time,
when roses had no thorns.
Just like we did before.
Now, we guard ourselves,
just like the roses do.

Seeing her bald seemed pretty fascinating,
While he wondered if anyone would ever look that beautiful without hair.

Three things that should always be strong.
Coffee.
Poetry, and You.

There's this guy I call my best friend,
He is sweet and sound.
Yes, we complete each other's sentences.
Calling him just a 'friend' would be a disgrace.
He is more of a diary for me.
Deliberately, he listens to my pointless thoughts
with his stillness, softly pardoning me,
connecting the dots,
he smoothly stirs my soul with indulgence.
letting our smiles exchange their scents.
Yes, I know he does his job too perfectly.
You would say he is just a fantasy,
right?
But trust me, he holds true.

There's this guy I call my best friend,
My constant companion,
he helps me untangle my obstructions,
just the way you untwine your hair,
and let it spare.
He is like coffee,
in the mornings that aren't glee.
His eyes proclaiming that it's a good day alee,
as that smile reaches his ears,
letting my heart sing a happy song,
all day long.

There's this guy I call my best friend,
Some of you may think, this is again someone friend zoned.
But no, this is someone I have owned.
He is more of a family to me,
who never lets down to me.
He touches like a happy pill,
he is the Jack to my Jill.
He is more than just a poem to me.
I hope, together we blaze,
forever and always.

I hope the new year,
will be a little easier than the last one,
and gets you some more sleep and even more of mom's food,
gets your room messier and home, happier,
lets you see a rainbow, and mom lets you play in the rain,
helps you find that internship or the job that sets your soul on fire,
or gets you into that school.


I hope over the next year you,

are invited to that party and have someone to go with,
meet some amazing new people, who share the same the emotions towards those mere things in life as you,
finally get to learn skate-boarding or go trekking,
see that old friend from school and get to spend some good time together,
never run out of coffee and smiles,
save enough to buy that guitar,
receive a better gift from Secret Santa.


I hope in the upcoming year you,

edit that draft,
find a publisher for your first novel,
discover your true calling,
create that Youtube channel and keep working for it,
read some good books and donate some,
travel more and grow into yourself,
drink plenty of water, and your skin gets softer,
don't give that person too much of you, who deserves none. don't carry your insecurities along from the past,
become some more self-aware and find time for yourself,
love yourself a little more and never lose hope.

We share a bond,
and poetries and songs in the spaces between.
We love ice cream,
and the conversations that come with it.
We dance,
and pour our hearts out into the lyrics.
We share hugs,
and giggle through those bedtime stories.
We steal kisses,
and some untold stories that peep through those peals of laughter between the drinks.
We gossip,
as if no one's watching.
We cry,
while watching movies and pamper each other after finishing.
We live in different cities,
and still, never miss a call a day whether it's for just five minutes or fifty.
We miss each other,
and write letters about it.
Distance.
The distance feels really unread between us.
Maybe.
Maybe, that's why we're just best friends and not lovers.

"When the sound of his warm breath was not enough
to fill the emptiness in our conversations,
I knew it was over."

What we had was legit,
you were not.

She, as a writer,
was never liked by them.
Little did they know,
they couldn't limit the rain.
And she was a Hurricane.

3:30 a.m.
when all of them were studying,
for their board exams.
The future bestselling author
was busy stitching her new story.

Your guitar speaks a lot about you.
Through the songs you sing,
and the tunes you play.