Dear Girls,

Pretty girls pretty girls everywhere,
Pretty girls don’t care
What you have to say about their hair,
They laugh, they cry
They’re of all shapes, sizes and heights

Pretty girls are of all kinds,
Cheap mascara running down their faces,
Cheap lipstick and shoes with laces,
Pretty girls aren’t all fair
And like I said, they don’t care.

Pretty girls sway their hips,
And words as sweet as honey,
Words that sting,
Words of pride escape their lips.
Pretty girls are our warriors in braces.

Pretty girls? Don’t see their pretty,
All they see in people’s eyes are pity,
They make a lacklustre world lustrous,
Their hair cascading till their hips,
But not all pretty girls are princesses.

Pretty girls have stories to tell,
Stories of sorrows,
And stories that go well.
Pretty girls are all about making your heart swell,
Even if they don’t speak your language, oh well.

Pretty girls, pretty girls everywhere,
Not a soul to spare,
They are true and bare.
Not only behind a screen,
They include the girl next door who screams.

Pretty girls need to be aware,
They are pretty, witty and loved,
No one else decides,
If their eyebrows need be plucked,
Or if they need a good fuck.

Dear pretty girls everywhere,
Look at the mirror and repeat after me,
“I am a girl,
I am pretty, angry, but wise
And fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

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About Time.

Tick -Tock tick-tock,

The clock is ticking,

Time is running,

But here I am,

As still as a cheetah,

Waiting for its prey.

Except, I’m not waiting,

Not for a prey,

I’m waiting for time to stop.

 

I’m stuck in the room,

Inside my head,

Unable to move.

Then came the death,

Of the fire inside of me,

Unable to breathe.

Time waits for none,

Leaving me not a second,

To feel,

Not a second to think ,

The air in my lungs,

Choking me,

The blood in my veins,

Draining,

Too rapidly.

 

Drip drop, drip drop,

I miss the feeling of rain,

Slapping down on my skin,

Mumma running behind me,

A towel in hand,

Hoping I don’t catch a cold.

And again,

I wish time had stopped.

 

Tick-tock Tick-tock,

Not a second to look left,

Not a second to look right,

Not a moment to be alive,

Not a minute to waste.

No fucks to give,

Made into a machine,

No will to live.

To The Laws of Physics And The Chemistry Between Us.

You know what I love about kissing her?

When she kisses me back.

When we’re pausing to catch our breaths,

And she looks at me,

As if she were in a trance.

She looks content.

Hypnotized,

Like a snake to a tune.

 

I love the feeling of her lips,

Smooth as the surface of milk,

It reminds me of home.

I love that she looks at me,

Like I’m the on she wants,

Like she too has found home in me,

Even though,

I am perhaps the worst kiss she’s had.

 

I love how tender she is with her love.

Her kisses aren’t desperate,

Forceful,

Gasping as if I were the oxygen she needed.

No,

It was more than that.

It was like she had gotten that ice cream she craved,

Every summer noon,

Satiating her need to balance the heat from the outside.

How typically like us,

Opposites attract indeed.

 

I love that ven though she knows,

I’m terrible at kissing,

And I’m babbling through,

Questions about if I’m doing it right.

She laughs to herself,

Asking me to shut up,

Pulling me in again.

Or that when we decide to give it a rest,

And are almost out the door,

She turns back only to let loose this sultry smile,

Pulling me in yet again,

And did I mention, kissing is not my forte?

But she didn’t complain, and did it all right.

 

She is the right to a wrong,

The angel to the devil,

We’re two contradictions,

In a big world of polarities,

Yet, we too mold ourselves to the laws of physics.

Opposites attract, indeed.

 

I am grateful to the laws of physics,

and the chemistry between us,

Pulling us,

Binding us,

millions, maybe trillions of atoms,

And hey, maybe even Biology,

For creating a relationship between us.

Surely, I can say,

From empirical research,

Opposites attract, indeed.

 

Voice

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a five year old girl.

Mumma told me not to speak,

Pappa told me, no true woman is loud.

Grandma told me,

“It isn’t lady-like.”

I didn’t understand.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a ten year old girl.

My whole school shushed me.

“I got excited, I’m sorry!”

But it didn’t save me,

From being the embarrassment.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a fifteen year old girl,

Too scared to speak a word.

Maybe I’d be too loud,

Be the embarrassment I’m afraid of being.

I got so quiet,

I don’t have a friend around.

 

Yes, I have a big voice

No, I don’t care.

I’m an eighteen year old girl,

And I’ve learned,

A woman with a big voice?

I’m not the only one.

We’re fighters,

We aren’t unique.

I won’t shut up,

I’ve found people who don’t mind.

 

This big voice,

I use it for all the right causes,

So don’t you tell me to shut up.

Yes I have a big voice,

And yes,

I’m proud.

 

The Danger of A Single Story

“How old are you?”, the older woman asked.

“Ten”, said the scraggy girl.

“Ah! Little children won’t get it.”

Dear older woman,

That ten year old girl,

Works at the restaurant near your house,

Cleaning bathroom stalls,

Dealing with men objectifying her,

She’s seen more than you have,

On your vacations funded by ‘daddy.’

Is age but just a number?

 

“You’re lucky you’re fair,

Your skin tone’s great!”

All that aside,

She was called ‘yellow’,

For her relatively small eyes,

But she was Indian too.

Is she not human,

Her looks put aside?

 

“Africa this, Africa that”

Does one fail to realize that Africa,

Is a continent,

With fifty-four different countries,

The people patriotic,

But wanting to be recognized,

As something more,

Than just an African.

 

Dear boy who supports the queer,

Quite ironic you say so,

When ten minutes ago,

You used a homophobic slur,

And called someone gay,

For not being a stereotypical boy.

Does going against the stereotype,

And being oneself make you gay?

Perhaps if you meant ‘gay’ to be ‘happy’,

Then you’re absolutely correct.

 

Her dresses were baggy,

And maybe terribly long,

But did they consider,

Her having an oppressive father,

Where all she wanted to do,

Was cover the marks,

She was willing to forget.

The galaxies on her skin,

Caused by havoc and not pleasure?

 

‘Slut’, this one was called.

They didn’t understand that,

All those times,

She was an innocent girl,

A hopeless romantic,

Too trusting for her own good,

But was taken advantage of.

Suddenly, saying ‘no’ meant,

Trying harder and being forceful.

Suddenly, ‘No’ meant,

She was asking for it.

 

They saw the hijab,

A quick judgment made.

‘Terrorist’, she was labeled.

Funny how four letters,

I,S,I,S,

Ruined the reputation of one religion ,

When in actuality,

The people of that very religion,

Fear and are against that very organization,

Defaming their innocent faith.

 

Stereotypes,

They’re nothing but a single story unexplained.

 

 

 

Dear Future Lover,

To describe the perfect kind of love,

Would be cumbersome,

But I for one,

Am a hopeless romantic.

 

The perfect kind of love,

Is discovering cute little cafes,

Down the street,

‘Round the corner,

Discovering old libraries,

The smell of old books in the air,

And stacked on the shelves,

Would be novels and memories.

 

The perfect kind of love,

Is holding hands,

As we walk along the shore,

The waves of the sea,

Teasing our toes.

Trying to avoid the rain,

But getting wet anyway,

Because where’s the fun,

In missing out ,

On the little adventures,

That come our way?

 

The perfect kind of love,

Is when,

That comfortable silence settles,

As the two of us,

With a book in hand,

Sit on the couch,

In an apartment we share,

Because sometimes,

All we need is a little space,

To forget about the world around us,

Letting our minds wander,

To a distant place– A land, far far away.

 

The perfect kind of love,

Is when,

There are days,

Where we just lay,

On the bed we share,

Day to day,

Our limbs entangled,

Our breaths in sync,

Basking in all our lethargic glory,

This, I crave.

 

The perfect kind of love,

Is rambling to each other,

Of our mutual passions,

You, taking the words,

Right out of my mouth,

And I, yours,

Because that,

Is how in-sync we’d be.

But rambling to each other,

Of our varied passions,

You learning to love,

What you never did, before.

And I learning of,

What I never knew before,

Because that,

Is how out-of-sync we’re allowed to be.

Because that,

Is what the perfect love is about;

There will be differences,

There will be similarities,

There will be distances,

But the perfect love,

Is when we cross those distances,

The spaces between us close.

 

Because, the perfect kind of love,

Is when at the end of it all,

You’re still there,

Sitting at the table we share,

Across from me,

And we’re giving each other,

That reassuring smile,

For we know,

Our love?

Not a war,

Not a hurricane,

Not a single disaster can tear,

Our beautiful, beautiful love apart.

Distortion.

In a gallery, laced with white walls.

White walls decorated with squares of different sizes.

The squares of different sizes, with works of art enclosed in them.

Works of art, showing distorted faces.

The crowd stared at it. Contended, they smiled smiles, showing how emotionally linked they were to the pieces.

The artist, who stood distant from the crowd, smirked a knowing smirk. Of course everyone of them related to distorted faces.

The crowd, as expected by the artist, seemed reminiscent of all their flaws, be it mental or physical. Somehow, they all seemed so unsatisfied with some part of themselves as they stared at these paintings, as if someone acknowledged and accepted these flaws.

‘Society’. “‘Society’ is to blame!”, their minds yelled in unison. And with that, they went back to simply admiring the work.

The artist smiled pitifully at the crowd. His conscience ranting, going off about how, “It’s so very sad that today, they relate so well and find solace in art with distorted beings painted across the canvas. When they who gaze upon such work so admiringly, look perfectly normal. No eyes replacing noses, no oddly shaped faces, limbs which look perfectly fine and functional. And all they do is look at themselves in these paintings, feeling insecure, thinking that this is how society sees them –flawed.

And yet what they haven’t noticed is that they are very much part of this society that they blame, as if it was some external force they were never part of. They never realise that eventually, it’s in their hands to change views, to turn heads, and to trigger, in people, the need to question. It’s all in our hands.”

The artist couldn’t agree more. Yet, like everyone else, he chose to stay silent about it.

————————————

Yes, hi-hello. This is me, not being silent.

Too Late.

I stared and stared,

His sun kissed, dusky skin aglow.

I searched and searched,

For a deafening silence and a space, darkness-clad.

I tried and tried,

to wear a smile, every time he shunned me.

I cried and cried,

Every night, thinking back, about us.

I moved and moved,

Along the lines of forgetting him.

I thought and thought,

Back to the days when I thought I loved him.

He tried and tried,

To convince me to love him back,

For he finally loved me.

But it was too late, as I moved on,

Only to wake up, every morning, next to the girl I loved most.


Train rides. That should explain it.

Pain

Anger. It coursed through her veins,

Flooding her body like poison.

Anger. A feeling so great, She felt like

The world was under her power.

Anger. He criticized her, made her feel

so powerless at the same time, for no reason.

Anger, a feeling so familiar,

It made her feel as fragile as a flower.

Anger. A feeling which long left her body.

And when she felt like everything was under control, it wasn’t.

She could never stay angry for long,

She hated herself for that.

She could never stay happy for long either

For the feeling of loneliness overpowered her.

But at the end of the day, she’d wipe away her stoic face.

She wore a mask, portraying glee instead.

And before she knew it, she’d be asleep.

Tossing and turning, as tears filled her eyes

And stained her pillow.

After all, pain was the overpowering one. Not loneliness.


Yup, a rant.

White Noise

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It blares through the room. It embraces me

And I feel a comfortable warmth, spread through my body.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It erases the words, etched in my head,

“noisy”, “Annoying”, “Stupid”, “Dumb”,

And so many more I’ve forgotten.

Everything, just white noise.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It reminds me that the feeling of loneliness,

Lingering within me, is merely there until I hear the familiar noise

Take over my thoughts and it makes me forget that I am.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It reminds me, that I am nothing but static at that moment.


Inspired by my insecurities! I’m facing them and dealing with them. Hope to find happiness…~ (I’m not depressed or anything lol)