(i) So for loss 

I can’t frame you a sentence

Let alone a poem

Or god forbid (read: if only) an obituary.

(ii) So for death

I love you too much.

Don’t leave me, don’t go

You’ve made home in this chaos in my head, just stay.

I might never have the courage to bring you to life,

Excuse the irony, but I can’t seem to think straight.

(iii) So for love,

Are you death’s long lost twin? Fairer though, 

Making me believe just because you look the same, you’re still different on the inside. 

You’re not, and i trusted you enough for you to let me know

That you made a pact with loss;

That it will take care of my ashes

After love burns me down

After death turns me down.




To You, 

My chosen one, mi eterna primavera, my sin. 

I wish I had the patience to turn you into a poem. 

I wish you could just stay still as I tried to remember how you looked under this pale blue sky; how your voice still found its way to me through the chaos of that marketplace, through the shrieks of babies and the cuss words of shopkeepers. I wish we had more time, more memories. I feel bad that I have only so many days to miss, only so many kisses to try to feel against my lips again. Some days, I just wish you could have held us together with your lies a little longer. Now you see, I’m tugging at the edges of my dress nervously. I don’t know how to say ‘Hello’ anymore, I just stick to smiling politely, coldly. But not cold enough for anyone to see the broken heart inside, or the absence of it. 

I know for a fact that you wake up in the middle of the night after a disturbing nightmare, a little before I decide to switch off the light and try to fall asleep. In those few minutes that we share our consciousness, I know you sigh my name and I’m here, on what feels like the other end of the world, taking a deep breath and counting the colours in your eyes on my fingers. I wish you’d never have loved me, and I wish I wasn’t so lost in my imagination that I never knew what reality felt like. I wish you didn’t know how to weave fiction like a fairytale, and I wish I had never let you read me your stories to sleep. 

Loving you wasn’t hard, I still feel like I’m back home when I try to listen to you speak in my head; and loving you didn’t drive me insane, I definitely don’t smile at inanimate objects. 

Loving you was just different and I’ll never know how, and so I wish I could have loved you a little more, just long enough to know the bones under your skin and how they held you without failing; just long enough to learn from them. 

Take care, you. 

You’re spring, you will never wither. I’m autumn, I will never bloom.



You say yellow, you say sunshine; and frames from Bollywood movies. You say ‘I Love You’, you say it like you mean it. You say yellow, you say stay. You say paint me, paint us, you say come let’s take a nap. You say yellow, you say cold flames, you say flowers. You say yellow, I say stop. I say poison. I say ‘I Love You’, I say let me kill myself. 

Wake up before the sunrays reach your skin,

And I know, I know you’re here.

Keep playing with these matches, 

There’s not a lot of time left before

We turn into ashes. Wake up. 

You know, the sound of your tears as they

Trail down your cheeks, they remind me how

Our angels get drunk too, and they paint the sky

In shades of tequila. Look at me. 

Look at me, I’m shifting silhouettes for you.

Inhaling poison, grainy smoke, so much chaos.

Can you hear this thunder, hear it roar under my quivering lips?

Can you break away from your toxic stupor, just to watch me?

Watch me fall from grace. These walls, look,

These walls that surround you aren’t white anymore, they aren’t white anymore. 

Can you feel me die? Can you touch me?

I’m a feather. Wake up. Look at me. 

I’m a feather, I’m flying. 

I’m a feather, I’m still breathing.




I have memorized the bends of your body,

Like a prayer, I have the sound of your name

Nestled carefully in my ribcage, and so

Every time I need air; or the lack of it,

I put my hand down my windpipe and pluck you out

Syllable by syllable, mixing you with blood

And tears, and blue paint. 

When I try to sleep I feel your hands

On my body

Moving carelessly from the nape of my neck to my thigh,

Marking your territory. And some days, 

I wake up under unfamiliar chalk white sheets.

And some nights, 

I sober down to find lips against my lips tracing outlines on my loneliness. 

So I politely excuse myself, and run 

Back into the abyss that surrounds me like an eternal winter.

I have you saved like half a tablet,

The one I crush with the back of a spoon, neatly drawing lines

And then messing them up with my fidgeting hands. 

I wish I knew why I needed you. 

I wish there was a way to stop. 



There’s a part of me tracing back memories, I 

Feel this heaviness in my chest; the weight of your promises on a frail, little heart. 

I love you backwards, from the 

Last day to the first. 

This way I know your favourite song before I know your name, 

Loving you backwards comes easy. 

I watch you fall asleep and then wake up into the dead of the night. 

We run towards each other, not away. 

I love you backwards because you confuse me otherwise. 

This way, I don’t write strange words on strange hearts after you go; all my misery comes before you do. 

This way, it’s a happy ending to a terrible start.  

I talk to empty rooms for days till you finally appear. 

Loving you backwards reminds me of how much I hate kissing hungrily; and this way our last kiss becomes a stoned blur and our first a heavily engraved memory. 

This way I know the sound of you saying ‘I Love You’ before you say ‘we’re not meant to be’. This way, it doesn’t hurt. 

Loving you backwards makes me want to love you more, makes me want to roll your silences and singular syllables and smoke them away into a misty morning. 

Loving you backwards, is like writing a poem to my past.

You see, loving you backwards is my answer to the void. It is all of my stupid theories about infinity burned to ashes. 

It’s my way of making this goodbye stop hurting. 

Loving you backwards is like drowning. I’ve heard the death is euphoric.

Playlist; shuffle.


​Welcome to my music library.


It’s weird. 
Here’s the song that my mother sings under her breath as she wipes beads of sweat off her forehead standing by the kitchen stove. 

I sometimes want to ask her to sing it a little louder. 

But then, it won’t stay the song she sings for herself. 

I let this be her song. 
Here’s the song that I loved when I was four years old. I knew every dance step, and I carried it off with such perfection that I was sure I could star in a dance reality TV show. Reality TV show.

 I didn’t know what reality meant, and I sometimes want to go back to the four year old me and tell her. 

But maybe not, my dreams were better back then. 

I let this be my happy song.
Here’s the song from the time when I was scared of death and couldn’t imagine that romanticising self harm was actually a thing. So I thought this song about being exhausted by the very concept of existence was nothing but a few words sewn together, that sounded nice.

 I sometimes wish I had someone to tell me that suicide attempts are real and I would want to run away from every single person who was ever so grateful for each one of my heartbeats.

But no, sometimes when an illusion is beautiful enough, it’s called magic. 

I let this be my song of innocence.
Here’s the song that a boy once sang to me. His voice was rough around the edges, borderline mesmerizing, a hundred percent made from the harp strings of angels and deadly stares of devils. A naïve little me thought he meant it, a naïve little me did not know that he didn’t. Love wasn’t supposed to come in faded gift-wrapping paper and already popped bubblewrap, was it? 

If only his voice broke when he tried to touch the high octave notes, I’d have known his heart wasn’t in it. 

But that’s alright, the cracks in my ribcage now have flowers growing from them.

I let this song be a lesson. 
There are a few more songs. 

And these songs are nothing but excuses to remind myself of a life that I am trying to wash off my skin. 
My playlist isn’t made for house parties, 

Or for sex.
It’s made for love letters and amateurly written pieces of poetry.
It’s weird. I warned you. 

I am too.