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Nitika Feb 2018
I drowned myself in this water,
I called it some place home after too long.

I let it soak into me,
I let it surround myself with nothing else.

For so long I clung onto hope,
But now I knew it would never get better than here.

It was a moment of settling,
Something I knew I had to adapt for a lifetime.

I was from where they said words and actions mattered a lot,
But somewhere over here, anything would mean nothing.

For so long, I had told myself,
For as long as I can imagine,
I want you know it was since forever,
I recall,
I told myself everyday,
I had hope, and with this breath I could change.

But below the water, it was just bubbles,
And after a while when I stopped struggling,
I realised the satisfaction of not constantly reminding myself -it gets better

I had almost filled my lungs with water,
When I came to this realisation,
But the thought of no reminders,
No push through’s or
a show for everyone else;
To let the world know I would be fine
I was
doing okay right now
I really was only doing okay-
right now.

I don’t have a problem with you,
I fear you’d not be able to keep up with my problems,
Cause it’s not everyday some new tragedy,
It’s just a new understanding of my troubles.

Everyday deeper,
What wore be out the most,
Is to having to keep up for everyone around me,
So they could understand me more.

Right before

I’m living death.
Nitika Jan 2018
I could visualise my brain as the inside of an art museum.

Every wound and every scar on white canvases; 4’10” , 51’15” ,

As much as I’d imagine, as rare as it’d be,

It lit up one by one,

In progression to no music,


I did a little dance moving from veins as strokes;

But, I of no colour, just bold sketches and lines with no fillers.

29 hours of open gallery,

5 more for the overtone,

Deep blues and mellows;

I’d lie if you said you saw them all before.

On different doors, across different streets,

On some Hotel sheets it bleeds,

The innocence trapped in her mind;

You say it’s because you never got over it in time.

But you see the depths,

The fissures too,

The same cuts, different depths too,

It fit right in your hands,

You felt it was only for your hands,

But the brushes were just tools,

And they made moulds of tropical brass,

Something sharp enough to cut layers of skin,

Edges that made you feel it’s worth every touch of it.

Little did you know,

You know as much as you do about art now,

Because inside her brain

You bled on to her,

Every time you touched a new surface,

The way you discovered,

The unravelling lavish mystery,

It did hurt even now,

Cause you never really escaped her insides,

The 5 hours was you invested in her,

Every busy Sunday, where you stayed saying she wouldn’t mind.
Nitika Jan 2018
I felt her crawl up my skin, 

I let her. 

I felt down trodden by her presence. 

I let her. 

I felt like a goner. 

I let her. 

I breathe through my skin now. 

I let her.

— The End —