And though she be but little, she's fierce.

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  • she_writes 124w

    In case you don't notice, the cities mentioned in the first half of the poem belong to the countries with the highest number of Coronavirus cases.
    Here's a small homage to everyone fighting this war, everyone combating this battle.

    Love will find a way to you, no matter what. And we will survive against the odds, 'cause hey, we're in this together. ��

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter #pod #poetry #love #life #inspiration

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    Love in the Time of a Pandemic

    Dear itchy-footed-nomad,

    You found me in the canals of Venice, with sweet gelato dripping on my fingers, with old, tall buildings acting as my guide.

    You found me in the remains of Pompeii, reminiscing the once thriving Roman city, now buried under meters of contortions of bodies, giggles of children, and ash.

    You found me in the cobbled roads of Paris, staring up at the Eiffel Tower in utter awe, with a book in my bag, with a hand in my hand.

    You found me in the noise of New York, with a ticket to Broadway in my pocket, with a yearning to simply sit in Central Park at sunrise.

    You found me in Lhasa, the Forbidden City, amidst ancient wooden sculptures, with hidden inscriptions of the hushed Ming Dynasty, flying lanterns like fireflies in the open sky.

    It has been quite a few days now that you have kept your windows closed –
    The fragile glass panes, who have seen you break more often than themselves.

    I will park the bicycle against your wall,
    And gently tiptoe into your territory of isolation,
    I will tell you how wonders of the world sit inches apart in your soul.
    I will tell you how you've got the Budapest skyline in your eyes,
    And how the Pisa tower leans in to whisper a secret.
    Words spill out of your heart, like fairylights,
    Spilling out of a personalized champagne bottle, from Amsterdam.
    I will tell you how you sound like the tune of La Vie en Rose
    That an old man played on an accordian in the Times Square,
    And made strolling young lovers pause
    To share a kiss.

    Someday I'll walk into a postcard,
    And cross oceans only to end up at your doorstep,
    And into your arms.

    Someday I'll walk into a postcard,
    But until then, here,
    Keep my words.

    With regards and the last piece of macaron,

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 134w

    //They won't tell you fairytales
    Of how girls can be dangerous and still win.

    I guess to them
    It's a terrifying thought,
    A red riding hood
    Who knew exactly
    What she was doing
    When she invited the wild in.

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter #pod #poetry #love #life #inspiration

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    "It isn't ladylike to raise your voice."

    Her solitude has soured over the years.
    It hangs around her in a rancid cloud of bitterness,
    Seeping every now and then into her words;
    Making her remarks sharp,
    And pushing the sound of her laughter towards cruel.

    "It isn't ladylike to look unpleasant."

    She is a case of mistaken identity.
    The ugly truth.
    The need for cosmetic surgery and terrifying diets,
    For breast enlargement and labiaplasty.
    Her love has been reduced to a number in the Indian Penal Code.
    She seeks justice from a woman,
    Who wears a blindfold,
    And turns a blind eye.
    Oh, and she was asking for it.

    "It isn't ladylike to fight with a man."

    There's ash
    Caked beneath her silicone nail extensions.
    Castles in her bones, and coronets in her heart.
    If you threaten her with a battle,
    She will raise you a whole war.
    So show her your kings,
    And she will show you the queens that willed them, that bred them,
    That taught them to be better.

    'Cause the last time I checked,
    This Ariel had no problem killing the two-timing prince,
    And restoring herself to the giant sea.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 138w

    //Does my sexiness upset you?
    Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?
    ~Maya Angelou.

    Here's an ode to all the women out there, slaying their own dragons and protecting the little princesses inside them, in the high castles of their modesty. ��

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter #pod #poetry #love #life #inspiration

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    She leans over the earth from the windows of the sunset.
    A rogue page of yesterday’s newspaper,
    Stained with the blood of some girl's violation,
    Is chased by the wind, like a pigeon
    With wings fluttering with feathers of rhetoric,
    And melodrama.
    The houses are paintings,
    Cold in their rendered realism,
    Merging on a horizon rapidly shrinking.

    She lives alone
    In a house across the street
    That always looks a little unkempt,
    Despite the absence of any visible clutter.
    Sunlight settles slow
    Like a paste of haldi on her cheeks.
    She wears your lips on her face
    Like fresh mangosteen.
    She seldom looks complete without a piece of rectangular cloth;
    Sometimes yellow, even blue, often red.
    She is told to speak mellow;
    She often senses the need to scream,
    But rarely makes any noise.

    You bring her a pair of anklets,
    Hoping that they would weigh down her gypsy soul.
    You press your tiredtrembling words
    In her tiredtrembling hands
    And tell her,
    You can make it rain
    If she stays.
    But hers is a stubborn isolation.
    Back in the immodest hush of her house
    She holds carefully her words,
    Along with sweat
    In the creases of her palms,
    Like a slow shattering henna pattern.

    Her feet do not resemble the heroine who walks on her man's arm bridge to cross the water.
    She walks barefoot
    Through the ponds and puddles of her existence,
    With sand and soil buried in the edges of nails,
    Flaunting them ugly and scarred.
    She tells you,
    If they judge a warrior by his coated palms,
    She'd tell them to judge her
    By the meandering marks on her feet.

    The walls don't scare her anymore
    For she has painted her soul with the charcoal
    Of silence,
    And the weeds of colours inside her are fighting a war
    Against darkness.

    She is no roses and lillies and carnations
    She is the wildflowers found only in fields shrouded
    In the purple tones of a sunset,
    Day after day.
    Forgive her,
    For she is no Jane Austen heroine
    Or Nabokov's Lolita.
    But watch her in the moonlight —
    She is the mother;
    Dancing around a tribal bonfire with the wolves,
    And breastfeeding her children in public.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 150w

    //The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.
    ~Khaled Hosseini.

    Wrote something after a long time.
    Something very different.
    Something very close to my heart.

    Read and let me know what you feel about it? :)

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter #pod

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    The Flowers I Brought You

    You wake up to a blue ruin of old flowers.
    The night has crept through your quietness,
    Like a turtle inches to the sea.

    You make a walk everyday
    In distilled solitude,
    Except for the songs
    The fishermen's wives sing,
    While they cook food in their huts
    To send with their husbands
    On their day voyages.
    Even these tunes,
    Are unwilling companions.
    You sit on the stairs.
    The riverbank is a sullen affair;
    The wind is your mother, wailing.
    And every sand particle,
    A reiteration of each of your absences.

    A stranger stands at your doorstep-
    A wiry man in a great hurry,
    Holding something paper-wrapped.
    He thrusts it into your arms
    With an unconvincing bow,
    And turns more sharply than courtesy allows.

    You unravel the threads and remove the paper-

    Blue lilacs.

    Stems are the hue of spring grass,
    And petals so thin that even the air,
    Made dim by the plumes of debris and smoke,
    Can shine through them; bestowing an unearthly glow.

    The windowsills and the furniture have been dusted.
    The garden has no weeds.
    The sleeves of your blouse gleam on your frail arms,
    As the afternoon light runs along the delicate golden thread,
    That is used to embroider intricate details on brocade.

    You feel like your muse;
    Weaving iambic poems in the air
    That sails on the clouds,
    And perhaps rain on somebody,
    In another time.

    Your mother asks you to always speak good.
    So you chant verses in a language you don't understand.
    Your head bows down and hits the ground.
    The hair on your scalp-
    Thin, fragile, black,
    Touches the soil mixed with sandalwood
    And a tinge of Vermilion.

    You feel like a prayer
    That never left your lips
    And died in your palms.

    I see your honey dipped in tea skin
    Akin to the ground beneath my feet.
    It's raining in the wrong season
    And flowers have grown in all the wrong places.
    I uproot them delicately and place them over an old newspaper-
    Blue lilacs wrapped with matrimonial ads for 'a fair and virgin bride'.
    And obituaries.

    A lover brought you flowers that afternoon,
    Because he could not see them withering
    Without a home.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 215w

    //We're made of all those who've built and broken us.//

    Can a broken person be made to believe in love, again?

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter #pod

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    Like an old man of the hill, the castle lay.
    It's like touching history;
    Like a world trapped within a building,
    Like a time machine,
    Connecting you to someone who lived
    And loved so long ago.
    You sit with your back facing the sun.
    Beneath your skin's veneer
    Lies cemented fear.
    The shadow reminds you,
    You're not only your soul, but a walking
    Creature, treading upon this miracle,
    Finding your way through things,
    Without knowing what half of it is like.

    The castle has broken locks,
    One for every promise that wasn't kept.
    Missing bricks,
    One for every part the waves had washed away.
    Gaping holes,
    One for each arrowhead of old hilts
    Of broken swords and armour,
    That failed to protect.
    Your body looks like a half knit sweater.
    People come and leave with a ball of yarn,
    But never halt to fix it.

    There're signboards all over the castle,
    Which say:
    "DANGER. Fragile roof. Shaky walls.
    Keep out".
    You put billboards marking the freckles on your skin,
    "Danger. Fragile heart. Vulnerable soul.

    Moss clung in the shade of the ancient walls,
    Like a straggly beard.
    The twisted locks and bars aren't oiled to perfection.
    The castle crumbles in slow motion,
    Only the sun and the moon themselves
    Witness the steady deterioration
    Of these abandoned turrets and ramparts.
    You're tired of listening to "You'll be okay",
    In return to a "Hi".
    You're a masquerade of something whole;
    A mosaic of broken pieces and stretch marks.
    You burn too brightly,
    And collapse into yourself every night.
    I stand by your umbrella eyelids,
    And watch them open to all the wrong season.

    They say the castle needs to be demolished,
    For the walls are too broken to last.
    You say you need to escape,
    For you're too battered to be loved.
    And I show you my palms,
    With roadmaps etched like tattoos.
    Roadmaps that smell of warm coffee
    And fresh beginnings.

    Love is tangible;
    Like the tired fingers that write poetries,
    For someone they can touch the heavens with.
    I spend the nights writing
    Things I'd rather whisper in your ear,
    Tiptoeing into your territory,
    Stealing epiphanies.

    The walls have defied eons.
    The whispers of the ages,
    The voices of old, the clash of metal on metal, And the pounding of horses hooves,
    Remain cloistered in the castle dungeons.
    When the loneliness gnaws at you,
    I animatedly whisper to you
    Parts of Hansel and Gretel.

    Darling, you're not alone inside.

    Today we took a trip to the ruins.
    You lost pieces of your heart here and there,
    Like confetti.
    I built a home with those pieces,
    And wrote a poem under the starlit sky,
    Where we both stood at one-hand-distance,
    Still making each other feel
    The safe kind of alone.

    And I let the broken window slightly ajar.
    If you change your mind.

    Just in case.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 220w


    Wandering through the aisles
    Of a second-hand bookstore,
    I catch a whiff of a perfume,
    Very familiar.

    "Are you ready?"

    Words barely escaped my mouth,
    When you kickstarted the yellow vespa,
    And we rode
    On dusty roads.
    With outstretched arms,
    Listening to the notes played
    From the violin
    Of a man
    In an underground tunnel.

    Blue skies and airplane trails.
    Children made soap bubbles;
    The lovers stole kisses.
    And we.
    We were like dandelion seeds released to the wind
    Two little daisies in a vast field of roses,
    We spent the afternoon
    Writing letters to the ocean,
    And the stars;
    Reading the goosebumps
    On our flesh
    Like Braille.
    My jhumkas dangled,
    As I danced around whirlwind woods
    Against the beat of the 50's pop song,
    Playing from the mixtape you had made me.

    Today, you and I
    Are at the highest point of a ferris wheel.
    We open bottles of our past
    And share glasses of liquid sunsets,
    As time collapses into one tiny speck.

    Still in stillness.
    Quiet in quietness.
    Abstraction in blank spaces,
    We take no form.
    Bereft of any breath,
    I sit down and rest my head on your arm.
    We talk about
    Favourite songs, family problems, and think
    About how the earth was made.
    Nothing grand.
    But in the little moments one tends to ignore,
    Our missing pieces started filling up,
    Blissfully unaware
    To the fact that we have secretly found 
    A roadmap to home.

    The pitch-black curtain slowly draped
    Over the sky,
    And the stars made twisted, warped shapes Against the blackness.
    The citylights started glistening
    Like fallen stars.

    We hug our fears good night
    Across the bakery on the crossroads,
    And navigate in the dark,
    As if the map to the city
    Is etched on our minds.
    No classy dinner date,
    A long gown,
    A dozen candles or
    A single long stemmed rose.
    No scarlet lips, nor a perfect smile.
    But a rooftop, cloaked in partial darkness;
    Barefeet, dangling legs, and windblown hair.

    Tonight nobody is watching as we walk;
    The shadows of two colloquial hearts tangling, bare.
    Petrichor lurking in thin air.
    Tonight nobody is watching as we dance;
    To no music,
    To nothing but the beat
    Of our own hearts,
    Across every street and boulevard,
    As the lamp posts paint us neon.

    I took all our memories,
    And pressed them inside my old diary.
    You took all my jagged edges
    And broken pieces home,
    And placed them on your window sill,
    As if they were some kind of souvenirs.

    And no sooner did we part our ways,
    Than we realised,
    We've left pieces of our hearts,
    Scattered like confettis,
    In all the places we went to.

    Maybe the city too likes to keep
    A little souvenir of us.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 226w


    My mother used to say,
    We take pictures of what look interesting to us.
    You, standing in the farthest corner,
    Took pictures, of wilted flowers,
    Parched leaves,
    And the sky broken up by tree branches.

    Today the sky is nothing at all.
    It's like a child began to draw
    On it, with a charcoal pencil,
    And then erased it in a way that
    Smudged and spread the grey.

    You struggle to get out of bed.
    I don't remember places on maps,
    But I remember the glitter in your eyes.
    The tilt in your head.
    Quiet lips and awfully loud eyes.
    You hardly know who you are
    When you are surrounded by people,
    So full of who they are.
    Your bones prick your existence,
    As if telling you,
    Just like that broken crayon,
    That crumpled note,
    That unsent postcard,
    That unsaved photograph,
    You don't matter.

    You think you're made of numbers
    Like pounds on a scale,
    Likes on a photo,
    Price tags on clothes,
    T&C's on love.
    But you don't realise
    You're made of early sunsets.
    Warm coffee.
    Big sweaters.
    And messy hair.
    Of late nights, and good conversations.
    Darling, you've more substance than number.
    Silent mostly, you speak in rains.
    Rage in storms.
    Love in thunder.

    Your struggle is relevant
    Even if it means stepping out of your bed,
    Looking directly into people,
    Or showing up at a get-together.
    You don't write poems on timelines,
    But leave words
    On tissues in cafes you go to.
    Like a coffee mug,
    You're poured out differently
    To different people.
    You comfort some,
    Some don't like you.
    But that's okay.
    Not everyone has the same taste in coffee.

    When you were a child,
    You were taught life in tables and charts,
    In chapters and lessons.
    But you,
    You believed in magic, and unicorns
    And miracles.
    With big bold eyes, and a brave heart
    You painted the sky with colours
    That don't usually belong there.

    Today the sky is nothing at all.
    Mellow blues and pinks blurred together
    In a silver mist.
    But the daisy sun finally shows up,
    In the porcelain sky,
    To remind you that even when
    Your world is drowning in grief and hardship,
    You can still be
    Unabashedly brilliant, scarlet, hypnotic.

    Don't spend all your life
    Being a little too sceptical
    To be truly happy.
    Don't have to grow fast,
    Like flowers.
    Grow like trees,
    Slow. Ugly. But strong.
    Live running against the ticks of clocks.
    Smell the rose while you may.
    Learn the colour of the sky,
    The smell of earth,
    The touch of waves,
    The beating of a heart.
    They'll make you realise that
    This's what life's abt.
    This's what it means to be,

    You're not some broken window
    That warrants fixing.
    You're a beautiful mosaic,
    Made of love,
    And every fracture caused
    By the lack of it.
    You're a poem,
    With metaphors in each line.
    Not everyone gets you,
    But that doesn't make you any less beautiful.

    Oh, darling. How long will you be afraid
    Of your blemishes and scars,
    When the colossal night sky, too, is freckled,
    With stars?

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 231w

    "It’s in the click of my heels,
    The bend of my hair,
    The palm of my hand,
    The need for my care.
    ’Cause I’m a woman
    -Maya Angelou.

    To all my lovely ladies out there.
    Happy Women's day! ♥

    A post quite close to my heart. For it speaks of me. It speaks of us. Of the beautiful mess we all are. ��

    Special thanks to @nachiketa for inspiring me so much, that I came up with this post. Check out his lovely piece written on the occasion of Women's Day, too. ❤

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter#pod

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    A perfectly carved hourglass body,
    Like that of two-dimensional photoshopped models,
    Gracing any billboard or magazine cover.
    Lips carefully tinted red.
    Skin fair and flawless.
    Wearing a form fitting dress
    Of lacy hot pink.

    Well, she has none.

    She, is a mess, of burning chaos.
    She stumbles on stars,
    And wears the prettiest scars.
    She has every freckle you hate,
    And every scar you feel ashamed of.
    She collapses,
    And crumbles,
    Marking not her destruction,
    But her birth.
    She wears her flaws,
    Like a pair of
    6 inch high stilettos.
    They hurt,
    But she'd make the pain look beautiful.

    A perfectly put together mess she is.

    She is synonymous for war.
    Her hair reeks
    Of rebellious streaks.
    There's ash
    Caked beneath her fingernails.
    She is war.
    There's no army more fierce than womanhood.
    No breastplate more unfathomable than a woman's love.

    She is a woman. With a notepad.
    Scribbling battles onto paper.

    Her brown skin matches with your favourite coffee.
    She talks about stars and the night sky,
    And gets high on liquid sunsets.
    You take trips down her body,
    And talk about the shape of her lips,
    The outline of her clavicle,
    But do you see beyond?
    Her pupils dilate seeing racing cars.
    Her earthy eyes
    Hold all wilderness.
    She unhooks the bra,
    And bites her bare lips.
    Her overwhelming presence
    Sends chills down your spine,
    Trickling all the way down
    Into your deep waters,
    And make tides rise.

    She isn't intimidating.
    But you're intimidated.
    There's a difference.

    She is a girl,
    Not made of sugar, spice
    And everything nice,
    But with pieces of light, love,
    History, stars- glued together with
    Touches, smells, music and words.
    A girl
    Made of love,
    And every fracture caused by
    The lack of it.

    But because of them,
    She doubts her own liberation.
    Questions her own limitations.
    She dresses herself up in their guilt,
    And pretend that it looks
    Rather good on her.
    Her opinions are like that old satin dress,
    In a dark corner of your wardrobe.
    Wrinkled, so far gone.
    Never talked about.

    Skinned knees,
    Broken heels.
    She wears a little-black-dress,
    And tells that the bruises on her skin
    Are because she slipped and fell.
    Her voice is like music under a summer breeze,
    Almost lost against the noise
    Of the Monday morning traffic.
    An outsider in her own country,
    She seeks justice from a woman
    Who wears a blindfold,
    And turns a blind eye.

    But she slays her own dragons,
    And walks through fire.
    She burns in stamps and labels, and
    Her whole body goes up like a pyre.
    She isn't just strong enough to withstand the storm.
    She IS the storm.

    She's art,
    That doesn't need metaphors or abstract lines.

    She is war,
    And everything chaotic you see.

    She has been you.
    She has been me.

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 236w

    "That's the thing about introverts;
    We wear our chaos on the inside,
    where no one can see it."
    -Michaela Chung.

    ***Major post***

    Very long, for it contains a lot of me.

    Hope you relate? ♥

    @readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter#pod

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    Dear Introverted, Overthinker Self

    You're learning to be comfortable
    Alone, on tables-for-two.
    Choosing books over people for company,
    On long train rides.
    3:15 am.
    "Did I lose you again?",
    I ask,
    Snapping my fingers at you.
    And you're jolted into reality.
    Blink blink.
    You can't feel your body,
    Until you touch your skin.
    You pinch it, squeeze it, scratch it.

    You look in the mirror,
    At your puffy eyes.
    Lips quivering,
    Like the flickering of an old tubelight.
    You smile,
    Because you've always liked your face
    After a meltdown.
    When the blood washes
    The bruises of your skin,
    The scars on your arms.
    Like a polaroid exposed to sunlight for months,
    Memories begin to fade.
    You glorify pain.
    As if it's a cult film,
    Artsy, intelligent.
    Like you're superior
    Just because you suffer.

    The dark corners of your room
    Have long dangling creepy fingers.
    Your heart pounds so loud,
    You feel like a boom box playing a rock song.
    You cover every inch of your soul
    In fairylights,
    But you hardly realise
    That even on nights like this,
    When you feel cold and bare,
    You can still be breathtakingly beautiful.
    Darling, you're darn strong.
    No, you don't lift weights,
    You lift souls.

    You don't realise,
    Your crumpled yesterdays would be soon torn apart.
    Your anxiety, stress and depression will leave
    To a multi-verse.
    When a thunderstorm will wake you up
    And you are terrified that it's the demon
    Inside your head,
    It'll take you a few seconds to realise,
    That it was never to here to last.
    Just like the bad weather.

    You've always been shifting
    An inch away
    From latching onto everything meaningful.
    The moment you tried building a sandcastle,
    The waves would steal it from you.
    You picked seashells.
    And when your hands grew bigger,
    You only wanted more.
    So you became a collector of things,
    Memories, souvenirs, remains
    Wilted flowers,
    Unsent postcards.
    Your body is like your childhood home,
    A mosaic- pieces of light, love, history, stars
    Glued together
    With magic, music and words.
    Your heart is floating in the sea,
    And your hands still collecting
    Silly, tiny remnants.
    And most of all, pieces of your own self.

    The most beautiful of things in this world
    Find themselves in the most wrong places.
    A rose in a vase at a dining table.
    A bird in a cage.
    They're all trapped in the wrong things.
    But it doesn't matter,
    As long as they know how to stay beautiful.
    Bloom, for as long as you can.
    Sing, if you know your voice stands for something.
    Write, if you know your words make an impact
    Because even if the world forgets you,
    Your song will find a place in someone's favourite playlist.
    Your poetry will be someone's cure.

    This, is a world of half finished sentences.
    You'll find words
    Hidden under beds,
    Thrown around on the street.
    In crumpled notes,
    With crushed expectations,
    And thrown away bouquets.
    I know,
    You've given a lot to this world.
    You've stayed up nights for people
    Who won't stand with you for two minutes
    In the rain.
    You're vulnerable.
    Just like those raindrops,
    Which fall so effortlessly.
    Without the slightest promise of a safe landing.

    Stop encaging your thoughts,
    For they're like the lions destined to roar.
    Stop being silent, because I know
    You still find stories in the people you meet,
    And your heart still aches to be a part of one.

    Let people come, even if you fear them leaving.
    I know it'll hurt,
    When they'll get off the chair.
    Parts of you will break,
    Leaving you a total mess.

    But then, you're gifted
    With an OCD for cleaning.
    And trust me,
    A similar lover will soon walk by.

    You're not a 5:29 pm sunset.
    Or that perfect cup of coffee
    People can't stop talking about.
    You're the type of chaos
    That gives birth to stars.
    You're wild,
    Like the ones left alone in the forest
    Collecting memories in their firefly jars.
    The best form of love,
    Lives right inside you.
    Darling, don't ever give up on that.

    Love always,

    -Aishwarya Roy.

  • she_writes 242w

    A bit late. A bit long.
    Merry Christmas, you beautiful people! ❤

    Would heart your feedbacks. :)

    #rwu_christmas @readwriteunite
    @mirakee @thebackstory @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter#pod

    Read More

    That One Christmas

    The disappointed look on his face stayed.
    It's the Christmas eve.
    The enormous Christmas tree,
    Adorned with glistening ornaments
    And glowing fairylights,
    Looked brighter than his own house
    Ever did.
    Draped with lights his father could never afford.
    His father-
    The Santa Claus for others' Christmas parties.
    Until last year.
    They said he couldn't play his role too well,
    For he was thin and lanky.
    So this year, a more suitable Santa
    Has replaced him.

    Scent of freshly baked Christmas cakes
    Is coming from a neighboring bakery,
    Amidst the bustling streets
    Of the Christmas Market.
    The hand-crafted greeting cards
    Made with papers which smell of jasmine,
    Folded with warm smiles
    And stitched with love.
    More love than the little boy
    Has ever received.
    Stalls tossed freshly roasted,
    Golden brown chestnuts, carefully
    Into paper cones,
    And added generous layers
    Of whipped cream.
    So many lights.
    Beaming grins.
    And synthetic love.
    The little boy hated Christmas.
    To him, love never came in a box,
    With a pretty ribbon, and a prettier price-tag.

    As the evening sky faded away,
    The pink and orange hues were replaced
    With dark shades of blue, whilst the amber light of the street lamps
    Spilled on the stone-paved streets.
    He dared to lurk
    Behind the inky black curtains
    That hid reality, and saw children
    Enjoying love.
    Children, whose hearts and his were born
    In the same corn fields,
    That danced in the winds.
    And the little boy laughed at how
    They must've been dusts from the same star
    Or the waves of the same bold sea.
    Never calm.

    The boy craved simple things,
    Yet dreamed complex dreams.
    Dreams that were like a crumpled piece of paper
    You're too lazy to throw away,
    So instead you put it in a drawer
    Never to read again.
    Dreams like daisy flowers,
    Lone specks of white and yellow,
    Growing precociously where
    They aren't supposed to.
    Unwattered and lost
    Without sunlight,
    Struggling to wake up.
    Life was a carousel of little adventures
    And he was a silly kid on sugar rush
    Not knowing it was a sin to dream.

    Valleys grew deeper and mountains inched higher,
    But the little boy and his eyes,
    Full of gleaming hope and delicate dreams
    Were like a hamster on its wheel,
    Kept running away stationed to the same place,
    Moving not an inch.

    The giant church bell rings.
    It's 12 o' clock.
    Skies tainted in nostalgia.
    Trees hazed,
    Like his father's vision.
    The boy begins to miss his father,
    Father, whose arms were warmer
    Than the thin blanket in their house.
    His lullabies and tender sighs.
    Their entangled limbs, untangled minds.

    The boy chokes and crumbles,
    As he hears a terrific thud,
    The sound of black boots falling
    Fom the earth's heavens as they slid
    Down the chimney,
    And covered the white floor with grey ash.
    The outside as dead as the dreams
    He's still mourning after.

    His face glowed,
    And so did the cuts, the scars,
    The deeply etched marks on it,
    Like on the barks
    Of a tree,
    But only some you could see.
    The little boy hid them well,
    In cobwebbed corners of his mind.

    "Santa? Is that you?"
    The dark room illuminated with the blinking of his eyes.
    And when Santa's numb fingers found his,
    The way braille finds the blind,
    For the first time,
    He felt a tinge of happiness
    That for once didn't slip
    Through his little fists,
    Like quicksand.
    The gift-wrapped diary felt like
    A friendly neighbour
    On this forlorn land.

    His father, after all, was never too thin
    Or lanky,
    To be his child's Santa Claus.

    That was the best Christmas he ever had.

    -Aishwarya Roy.