The Softness of Words

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A spoonful of honey and holy basil,

it’s good for your throat, my mom would say

maybe those years of gulping it down

sticky sweet, trickling down my throat

softened my words at last

blunted the sharpness of my weapons.


Last year, I stuffed my words

into a dark and dank trunk

they grew mouldy and coughed up blood

I am so very ashamed to tell you

I seemed to have always peeked inside the trunk

When I had nothing soft to say.


I let them rise up to my throat

and roll onto my tongue

balancing their heavy weight at the tip of my tongue

I tried, I promise you I did, to taste its shape

But my bitterness stretched its arms in its sleepy slumber

and knocked my desperate words at your feet.


You didn’t hear them, you heard nothing

you let silence overstay its welcome

grow wild in a valley of its own

walk barefoot there if you caan

you will find a basketfull of my words

growing lush alongside wildflowers and ferns.


Months have churned in the great belly of time

now I count my words like change

a teaspoon of honey and holy basil

and a tablespoon of honesty

a dash of kindness and a sprinkle of softness

words sticky sweet, clinging to your ears, collecting in your tongue.




Foolish Lonely Girls- A Symphony

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Artwork by my fav Neha Mestry aka  @procaffeinator_ on Instagram

My loneliness has a sound; loud and desperate, it screeches when I open up my heart. The beasts come sniffing, vulnerability is an easy prey. They don’t tell you this about loneliness, about the desperation coating its hands, like grease they run up and down your flesh. So you find another body, you rub yourself clean of this mindless need, your loneliness lies content in the tangle of limbs. They don’t tell you that your desires are lying to you; a stranger’s body is not a time machine. Their tongue in your mouth is not a portal to when love found you, when it called upon you like an old friend. Fuck that nobody ever told me to stitch up my heart, I pimped it out till it was blood red and goose pimpled, an old whore wearing a loud lipstick and a cheap wig. Ghosting these midnight streets, heels tottering and a shadow of a smile, selling my affections to the highest bidder. Loneliness is a disease and I am its favoured host.

“Dear Heart, It Might Not Be Alright”

Glasses of whisky and an alchemist’s experiment gone wrong,

We are a Frankenstein disaster set in motion.

What did you do with my soul?

Did you hang it up in your wardrobe beside your own?

I am not empty; I feel everything,

I am made up of cells and fucking tectonic plates.

The sea is an orphan I foster in my eyes,

I wish nobody owned me too.