Born in a hospital room, I was marked a girl.

Lying in the incubator, they labelled me with a name.

A name that would give my existence validation.

I had no say.

At 4, I was marked as a daughter.

My father’s hand hitting me hard across the face.

Too fragile to fight back, I cried.

I had no say.

At 14, I was marked as a girlfriend.

A kiss and my hands in his hair was all it took.

No matter my age, nobody ever asked.

I had no say.

Marks and scars grew with age

Hand in hand, pain and gains.

At 20, I was marked as a student.

He should’ve taught me psychology, but I got a piece of his mind.

Groping me by my waist, I stood there, numb, aghast.

Too humiliated to respond, I ran.

I had no say.

At 26, I was marked as a wife. On our wedding night.

His touch set my scars ablaze, like burning through a flame.

He’d come home every night, take me for 11 minutes and would push me over to my bed side.

Too used to sustain, I cringed at every turn with pain.

I had no say.

At 32, I was marked as a mother. It was a feeling like no other.

The little fingers touched my now yellow bruise.

I’ll never mark you, I said, it’s a truce.

No scars for you, no writhing with pain.

If there is, I’ll flush it down the drain.

You’ll always have a say.

Be marked, you never may.

I’ll Hold You

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Why didn’t you come?

I said I’d wait for you.

No matter how long I had to,

But I would.

And I know for sure,

That if not days,

If not months,

You would come by years later 

But you would.

But, you stomped on my trust and faith in you.

In time and in love.

You showed me a dusty mirror.

Which was squeaky clean with a promise of fruitful longing.


My love,

I ask of you.

Every time I offer you my hand, 

My hand is a tree.

A tree,

With branches for fingers.

Fingers that are lush

And fragrant of care and love.

Bloom, will flowers.

Once they feel you warmth.

Grab onto any one of them

I’ll make it the highest branch.

The branch which takes you closer to the sun, 

To all the warmth it has to offer.



She burned herself

In the quest of the unknown.

Someone called “him”

And hysteric conversations at odd hours

Of the night.
She screamed.

Exploded in tears and fresh sweat.

“I see him.”

She was comforted, by mother and father alike.

“But, there is nobody.”
She would know, 

By the ticking of the hour hand.

When it strikes 4 

And everyone is in a slumber deep.

He would make her scream.

Yet not letting her take his name.

She would call out,

“It’s him, it’s him.”

“Save me, it’s him.”

But his mention is silenced by the tear of her dress
And the blanket that lays slumped on the floor.

He leaves just as the hour hand strikes again.

And she knows it’s time.
When she would gather her gown lace,

Wrap it around her hands

And muffle her scream into a ball so made.

When she should sit in the blanket.
Too afraid to drag her naked, 

Scratched frame any further.

When she has to start accepting,

Yet another morning

That she ignited this war.

Taking Back

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If someday, ever, we collide.

Cross each other’s path on a road wide.

I’ll look at you and smile,

Maybe you would too.

Even if out of sheer courtesy.

Maybe, we’ll try to break the ice,

We never could.

You’ll ask me out for coffee, or maybe not.

But, I’d rather believe that you would.

For old times,

For our time’s sake.

We’d walk in silence.

Just like the last leg of our relationship.

Finally reaching somewhere, anywhere,

We’d sit and talk.

About work, pets, life.

Which you and I already know.

4 years is a long time, dear.

The conversation would drag,

The onlookers would smile

At the two friends who are carelessly laughing.

Not a care in the world.

No matter how many hours we sit there,

Trying to escape the tension,

Hiding with smiles.

You’ll ask,

” Do you miss it?”

” If you want a day back from our time, what will it be.”

“Do you love someone now.”

And an array of questions,

Which, if I answered, would hurt you.

But, I will answer one of the questions, if you asked that.

” If you want a day back from our time, what will it be.”

I’d say, without a doubt,

Or a frown,

“I’d want the one, the day you left me,

And decided I wasn’t enough to make you stay.

I’d want to relive that day, just as it was.

No, I won’t stop you.

And just when you’re about to leave,

When you are about to bang that door,

Whose bang still wakes me up in the middle of the night.

I would tell you, everything that I’ve been wanting to say.

All these months, all these minutes.

I’d tell you, our four years, were beautiful.

And you made me cry, you made me yell, you made me smile.

And I’d bid you goodbye.

One that I never had.

With a chaste kiss,

But no promises to drop by.”

Filling Up

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The mind has piled up an endless array,

Of thoughts, beliefs, contemplations.

The heart refuses the notions,

Reversing the role, often in motion.


The mind, as wild.

Wanders in lands of fears and fights.

Opens the gates of grounds forgotten.

Jumps through the darkness, throttles.


The heart admonishes, screams perpetually,

Dreads the forthcoming penalties.

The battle grows beyond sunset,

Killing heartbeats and peace with every concept.

Hands now riddled with a red maze,

Solved only with battle’s decline.


But who’s giving up?

Ask the heart and the brain,

Realization daunted,

Filling up the carcass,

Mistaken for the living.

Yes, Again.

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Yes, he lied again.

And you know it’s not the first time.

Yes, console your heart, he truly is late coz he is caught up with work.

Even when his secretory confirmed he left office at 6.

And now, its 2

Yes, keep the food laid on the table.

Because, he will come home hungry.

And with savor the dishes you cooked.

Yes, keep the lights off,

Surprise him when he comes home to you.

Even when, he isn’t really coming home to you.

Yes, wait eagerly for him to kiss you.

Even when, he’ll pass out on the couch before he even has the chance to blink.

Yes, he will hold you against his chest.

Even when he smells of another woman.

Yes, he’ll make love to you.

Even when it’s just a customary 11 minute ritual, where he will say inaudible, incomprehensible sentences, only ending In her name.

Her name. not yours.

Yes, moan and pretend. even when it hurts like seven hells just descended down on you.

Yes, believe he’s still your man.

Even when he’s long, long gone.



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If you had a palette,

Of colors dark and bright.

And I were to be

A painting of your dreams

And fears, all alike,

How would you paint me?


Would the strokes be gentle,

Like wind ruffling through the leaves,

Or bold and cold,

As a tide clinching a wavy sea.


Would it be bright,

Like the sun’s first ray.

Or pale and murky,

Like the moon making its way.


Would you draw me,

Like every other canvas, you framed,

Or would I be absolute,

Your heart taking over your mind, day by day.


Would I be just a painting,

Ready to be sold,

Or a whole, a masterpiece,

For your eyes to behold.


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While spattering some colors,

I ran into a memory.

She waved hello from underneath the sheet.

Where it was a nimble shade of purple.

Admonishing the remembrance, I dribbled a duskier shade.

A mix of black and lilac.

The lilac was almost dominated by the black.

But at some places, white brought it out.

And all over again, I teleported to a memory.

This time, I couldn’t resist dwelling in the lanes for longer seconds.

I walk down this narrow road.

Pitch black, when I hear knocking at the door.

The door to my left is pounding.

The door to my right is pounding too,

But nobody is seen.

A short while later, all 12 houses on the right and on the left are smashing.

The clutter is deafening.

I am writhing, striving to eliminate the clatter.

But there’s only so far the ears would allow the fingers in.

Should I turn back?

But then, another shade, another memory.

I stay still, the deafening banging and smashing come to halt all by itself.

Slowly, opening my eyes.

Tears start flowing which I hadn’t realized had arisen in my lids.

Maybe because it was all so agonizing.


As I regain my stature,

A lady opens the third door in the right lane.

So does a lady of the third house in the left lane

They both look alike and wear a purple apron,

Difference is, the lady on the right has the lighter purple, which I tried to cover.

And the lady on the left is a mixture of lilac and black, an evenly blended mixture.

No, hints of the light lilac peek from beneath.

They both invite me over.

But why should I go, I should keep walking.

But, it’s my memory lane.

Moments I had lived.

Reliving them couldn’t be dangerous, at best, it could be hard.

Before I prepare my mind,

The lady on the right,

Beckons; “Forget what you lived, move on. Darkness prevails if you let it.

Wipe it off. Embrace the lights. It’s no longer a battle you fight.”

As if a counter, the lady from the left speaks in the same breath as the right lady stops.

“You always have to live with your fears. Fears are never pleasant,

Come in nip a little and drown in a murky lake. After all, it’s all you.

Drown in yourself, honey.”

After being resorted to the agony and discontentment.,

It’s not hard to give in to the temptation of being under the dark.


None of the ladies speak now, they both await my pronouncement.


I am dragged back to my desk,

The purple color, in both the shades all over the canvas.

I think that’s the best.

Not choosing, just living a little of both lives.

Misery and joy.

Smiles and frowns.

Lilac and dark blacks.

Painted Red

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I painted my lips

In the colour of your love.

Dark, everlasting,

On the show, for everyone.

So deep, it burned.

The desire scorched deep into my bones.

Passion was a feeling,

I showed everyone what it looked like.

With you.

Every night, you took my breath away.

Every morning, made me glow with grace.

In your company, I knew what happiness is.

Your kisses so ferocious,

They made me dance on thin air.

Your touch so gracious,

It made me tumble into a pool of heated mess.

Oh, what are you doing to me, love?

It’s driven me senseless,

I’ll try to contain my longing.

Till the next time, I paint my lips red.

The Petal Count

What will your existential prop be?

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Everyone on this planet

Has a regular ritual.

A belief that reminds them of being in this world.

They do not dwell in their homes or rooms.

They reside amicably.

The reassurance of having something to them,

The sacred secrecy.

Is placating to the heart on the days it grows desolate.


Mine is petal count.


I pick out a flower from my backyard.

Lie down on the freshly watered grass and close my eyes.

I can always feel the grass growing a little dewier,

Than it already was against my back.

It urges me to begin the everyday affair

And the sky looks down yearning for today’s findings.

The grass and the sky,

My only audience and accomplices.


I hold the flower high up,

Eyes still closed.

And pluck out a petal.

No, it’s not “Love me, love me not”,

It’s not for the crush who has no idea of my existence.

Neither for the ex-boyfriend who goes back the corridor,

God forbid, our eyes meet.


It’s for my subsistence.


Every day I pluck a petal,

If it’s a crushed, pallid one.

I clench my fists,

Prop myself for a day at the battlefield.

If not, and I’ve plucked one out in fine fettle,

It’s a lucky day.

I put the flower in a vase,

Vowing to come back

The next day.

To pluck out a petal again,

To be in this world,

To be animate.