Cruising Alone

  I know that you don't like me, Even if he was the one who first wrote to me. You never really understood Why I cared for him. So I kept my distance. Because I could never have him The way you do. He only remembers me When he's feeling blue. We started off as friends, And perhaps that's How we were always meant to end. He chose you To be his wife, And he's grateful You became his life. I exist only in his memories. You lie in his embrace. You stand beside him In sickness and in health, Through the trenches and life's wealth. And I would never wish To be the cause of pain, Or the reason Love begins to strain. But sometimes I wish He had kissed me, Back when I believed We were meant to be. Because you get to share Your tears with him. I hid mine Whenever life turned grim. You will always have him. Yes. You will always have him. I will simply Be  A memory.

I can feel the distance, But my body craves you. I am howling at the moon, Hoping you love me until noon. It’s winter, and everyone is covering up, But I will drop every single layer for you. Will you make the bedpost creak? Like the way we break our Duolingo streak? Or will you be my Count, And leave your marks on my neck? Will you drink away my life force, Or give me your immortal kiss? Who would care about saving it for daylight? We are creatures of this starry night. Will you save me with your sword, Be my Guinevere’s Sir Lancelot ? These boys keep talking about getting high at the pub. Would you do me the honour of the Mile High Club? Will you track my curves like an F1 circuit? Or be like kids fighting over the gully cricket? Come get me, while the night is still young, And we erase the distance with our tongues.

  You might crave your new woman’s touch, long for her embrace like a cherished clutch— but I have wanted to self-immolate because of your touch. Run around, claim you’ve won a jackpot , but it’s not rejection I fear— it’s your filthy gaze, your uninvited touch . You said you were being cruel to be kind? I’d love to press rewind. You begged for my love first, but now you chase another— just hunger, no soul. I know how it feels to be touched without permission . Yet, you—relentless—pressed me to submit, to erase my no as if it never existed. While you laughed, busy painting me as a rejected soul, I spent nights undoing every single touch . So go ahead, call me vile— but even after all that, I was good to you.

  Would you understand my situation, my choice? How could I? I am not you nor your voice. You want others to accept you as you are, But have you even accepted yourself for who you are? You say I’m like your mother, Or sometimes, I act like your brother. I may reflect the familiarity of those traits, But I am not your mother—never will be. I am my own person, just like you are. When you can’t understand yourself, Why impose your voice on me? Then you say, “Oh, I can’t generalize, it isn’t right”— So why should I dim my light? You’re human, not a machine, Yet you judged me— That laughable, smoke-screen test, When you can’t even talk maturely. I am not a test paper, not a multiple-choice, Where you say, “I fail” and you win, Or “I won” and you fail. Who is winning this? Tell me, who? Because, in the end… does anyone? "I liked you for who you were." "Do the same as you did before." "But I need someone who does more." I was not a teenager, and neither was your ...

  You teach us the divinity of temple grounds, The sacredness past the mortal bounds. You explain how "Pran Pratishta" is done in those stone moulds, And how it feels closer to the divine home. Yet you often forget this body is my temple too, My soul lives between these skin and bones too. You go to war if they disintegrate or ruin it, And energy released is painful. Then why do you say I am dramatic? Who will fight my war? I never said I am God, But am I not a creation of that divine thought? Then why can't I weep for how they touched me with their lust? Why am I called names for my rightful outbursts? You teach me in detail about the sacred grounds, But forget that I am as much a part of it. You love adorning them with flowers and jewels, When I put on makeup and adorn myself with silver and gold, Why must it be seen as vanity, not a reflection of my soul? You bow down in temples and ask for abundance, But hurt my very soul. The others might have looted this land and ma...

  You crave a woman's touch, You crave a lover's skin brush, Yet you never adore or respect her, All you do is lust over her. You lecture on love, As though you understand its depth, But you disrespect her very existence, Then pretend you know its breadth. You call it a genuine connection, But it's just a disguise for your desire, Hiding behind words, masking the truth, A hunger that only feeds your fire. You speak of need and long for her grace, But what you want is to take, Not to cherish or honour, Just a feast to partake. You don’t see her as a woman to adore, Only a prize to be won, And in the end, you're the one to destroy, What could’ve been, what should have been spun. You pretend to be “the nice guy,” But you’ll never treat her right, You want her to be your conquest, Not your equal in the light. So stop calling it love, Stop calling it connection, When you only see her as a reflection Of your animalistic obsession.

  Would you like to explore societal norms, gender expectations, Or personal struggles against limiting beliefs? I’ll tell you one thing, but you better listen— I won’t let you define me, not even for a second. The body you lusted for is a body I hated being born in. And you laugh, saying you "hurt my ego" and "hit me below the belt." Did I harass you? Are you going to talk about equality and respect with me? Have you ever respected anyone for simply existing? No, you have not. Because every time, it's: "What do you have to offer? Your 'fayada'?" Or "Why should I come to you? What do you even have?" If that is the case, then I had no fat on my chest as a kid too, But that still did not stop a man. Or when I was simply walking down the street, And a man groped me between my thighs in broad daylight. And you still think I wanted your money? That you would be good for my image? You, who crave money, power, and status, So a policeman does...

  Go ahead, flaunt the size of your wallet, I was never in it for your pocket, Because I don’t “phasao a man” nor view them as a “catch.” Ah, the false notion you have— That you were the one who brought me down to my knees, As if I was hopelessly in love with you. If only you could comprehend what was really beneath the surface. It wasn’t about losing myself in you, But in losing my purpose. If you think it was all for you, Let me make it crystal clear: I wanted to burn my skin off, To rid myself of the stench of what you think you touched. This was never about your age, race, or face. It was about the rhythm of your aura, And how your energy consumed mine, Pulled me into its pace, Until I could no longer remember my own. You mistook my confusion for submission, But what you didn’t see was the storm raging within. Your power was nothing more than an illusion, An empty shell that I once thought I needed. But now, I see through it— And realize my worth was never tied to your validati...

  When you have his baby, Always remember how he paraded your "sexy" body, Like you were his goddamn property. But I stood up for you, Even without knowing your story. Because that man has no spine, He’d brag about how he made me whine, How he dimmed my shine, Puffed up with pride, Claiming he’s the only one touched by the divine. He’d mock my belief in something deeper, Sneer at my refusal to measure worth in the shallow, Calling me irrational, Just because I wouldn’t rate people along the hollow. But I see you, Caught in his games, A pawn for his claims, And I hope one day you’ll know— That I spoke for you, Because I saw what he’d do. Not for pity, not for revenge, But because I’ve learned to stand tall in this storm. And while he’ll claim divine favour, The truth is simple— He never even deserved a glimpse of your form. So when you cradle that baby, Knowing this truth I softly hum: You were meant for love, But maybe, Not with this one.

  They say they are practical, And I have no grasp over the world. Yes, indeed—because their practicality It is how easily they can buy a woman. "How does it matter what she earns? I’d rather prefer a teacher who comes home." But he would have roamed around Seeking the so-called comfort he could find. Yes, so practical you are— Laughing at women and their issues, Then wanting someone who obeys you. Funny, this "practical guy" Talks about equality While proudly proclaiming, "I’d rather be with a dumb girl." Someone who simply listens, Never raises a question. A practical guy Who makes practical investments By sleeping with women of profession, But suddenly becomes a scared little boy When faced with the truth. So he silences your voice— Not with reason, but a lightsaber stick. Yes, indeed, so practical.

Have you ever paused to marvel at your reflection—not through mirrored eyes, but with the wonder of love-struck skies? To be star-struck by the essence of your being—the curves of your own landscape, the wild elegance of hair that dances across your face? This poem is a celebration of self-love, of seeing oneself not as an unfinished canvas but as a masterpiece worthy of adoration. It reminds us that we are as much a work of art as anything we create with our hands and that before anyone else, we owe ourselves the love and reverence we so deeply deserve. Wanna make love to you... Yeah, wanna make love to you... Tired of seeing through mirrored eyes, Craving the gaze of love-struck skies. Glide fingers on that caramel skin, Play symphonies as if a velvety violin. Lose way in the maze of silky wavy locks— Not confined to a predefined box. Not scared to scale those mountain ranges, Find the fountain of youth in those trenches. Make the valleys feel the quake, Not leaving it still like a q...

  Now you are a better man, Because you found spirituality in a foreign land. But aren’t you the one who shamed me once, Claiming I was “old enough” and should have watched porn? Why? Because being a woman who made food with love wasn’t enough? Do you think I needed to be “cool” to have a man? That after every objectifying glance, I had to shape myself—quirky tees, muted dreams, Just to be a shadow of what you demand? You labelled me a gold digger—way to go, divine coder. Was I afraid to ask or learn because I wasn’t a nine-pointer? Shy, not assertive—was that my crime? When I wasn’t sure if I could speak my mind? You enjoyed more freedom and independence than me, But can you even relate to that disparity? I dreamed of strength, of standing tall, Long before I understood these walls. Now you felt violated when someone touched you without consent, But I’ve carried that burden since I was a child— Do you really think I’m fragile? Weak? Do you know what goes on in the back of a woman’...

When I was quieter, more reserved, and unable to communicate the depths of my pain, they called me calm, motherly, and nurturing. They admired what they saw as my gentleness, unaware of the storm I kept buried inside. But when I finally began to stand up for myself—to voice the ways I had been hurt, the pain I had endured, and the things I had dealt with—I became a “psychopath,” a “nutjob,” someone to be pitied. Suddenly, I had “no self-esteem,” and my assertiveness was too much for them to handle. Isn’t it ironic? The very person who said I needed to stand up for myself tried to snuff out my voice the moment it became inconvenient for them. They talked about being a “good person,” about respecting women because they had a mother and a sister. But where was that respect when they mocked my pain, dismissed my struggles, and invalidated my truth? This poem is my response to their hypocrisy—a voice they couldn’t silence. So, when I tried to confront you with all the ways you hurt me, With...

I wrote this poem after listening to Lana Del Rey’s “F ked My Way Up To The Top,” a song that resonated with my own experiences of betrayal and disillusionment.  I guess no one would know, Everyone assumes I am here for a shallow show. Scheming and waiting for the right moment, To put my soul in an endless torment. If that were true, I'd be climbing another pole, Not dig deep and go down the rabbit hole. Easy to throw these pebbles and stones, And I’ll take it until I'm just flesh covered in bones. They say they don’t like my tone, Maybe it’s because I’m in a different time zone. Yeah, love to throw in words like "b*tch" and "wh*re," But they imagined what it would be like to have them on their floor. You talk of God, love, and life partner, Then ask questions like, "What's your favourite colour?" As if I’m a kindergartner. Umm, well I was learning about the xylem, And still, they would have me stay in a mental asylum. Picking on girls with bic...

This poem is my way of confronting a chapter of my life that was both agonizing and transformative. It’s not just about heartbreak—it’s about the lies, the power dynamics, and the twisted emotions that left me questioning myself. The Corpse Bride isn’t just a metaphor; it’s how I felt—like someone stuck between the death of who I was and the birth of who I’m meant to be. Writing this isn’t about revenge; it’s about reclaiming my voice, my story, and the parts of me I thought I’d lost. A boy who tried to find pleasure in someone else's lap, Told me I should rise up from my nap. I would have left this alone if you did not try to bring me down, And then said Indian girls make you frown. A boy who acted as if he was superior, As if everyone he came across should kiss his posterior. I am not the girl you thought I was, Well, who told you that you were my boss? Oh, I was in insurmountable pain, But you talked about your "fayada" and what you can gain. You called me crazy, a wh...

"Winter’s Tale" - A Song of Betrayal and Rediscovery Set against the quiet chill of a Bangalore December, this piece tells the story of a young woman who, for the first time, let her guard down, only to be met with betrayal. Written in the rhythm of a song, it captures the fragile beauty of trust, the sting of abandonment, and the fierce resolve to rise again. It’s a journey through cold endings and the warmth of self-discovery. Verse 1 He couldn’t believe, someone loved him so, A heart laid bare, but he let it go. Played his games, kept his cards down low, Then threw out names in a cruel little show. Chorus Promises grand, but always a no-show, Words so cold, like the winter snow. He laughs at me, with his Ho Ho Ho, But the truth will shine, let the whole world know. Verse 2 He chased the cash, he chased the fame, But his empty heart just fed the flame. A victim’s mask, his favourite game, While I fell apart, drowning in pain. Chorus Promises grand, but always a no-show, Wor...

Inspired by the quiet intensity of " La Petite Mort" , this piece seeks to weave the sensations of release, stillness, and renewal into the natural world. The ocean’s rhythms—the pull of tides, the storm’s fury, and the calm that follows—become  a reflection of the feminine experience, where every ebb and flow carries the weight of life, death, and rebirth. Beneath the velvety amethyst sky, The warmth of candles mirrors the stars up high. Fireflies flicker with the same gentle glow, Their light a dance, warm and slow. Lavender thrives where the waves kiss the shore, Its fragrance carried through the air, wanting more. Aroma fills the chamber, sweet and pure, Like coastal breezes, soft and sure. The tide stirs within, gentle and deep, In a quiet rhythm, the body begins to leap. Like tectonic plates shifting far below, Emotions rise, the currents grow. The water swells, higher and high, Pulsing and crashing underneath the sky. A storm stirs within, fierce and untamed, The waves...

I used to think I had it all figured out—sweet, bold, or somewhere in between. But life’s struggles have a way of shifting that. How do you hold onto yourself after losing pieces along the way? I thought I am a Betty, sweet as can be, But sometimes I’m a Veronica, wild and free. Even if I’m chatty, I won’t hide my claws, I’ll be a little catty, breaking all your laws. I can dance on tables, sing all night, Or curl in a cradle, tucked in tight. That’s how I felt, oh, that’s how I felt— Once so bold, now the cards have been dealt. All my hope turned to despair, What’s the point to share or care? When the youth of my life should’ve been bright, A monster came creeping in and stole my light. Now I just hope to live with that loss, No clue where I lost the girl boss. The world didn’t scare me, I held my ground, Now every whisper feels like a wound. I pretend I’m grown, I pretend I’m whole, But it’s just a mask over a fractured soul. Still, deep inside, there’s a spark I won’t smother, A dre...

Have you ever felt forced to shrink yourself, to fit into others' perceptions of who you should be? What happens when your truth is twisted and your silence is mistaken for peace? I shrank myself into shadows, tucked small, and Fed myself tales like, You’re lucky, after all. Not “too beautiful,” not “too tall or fair”— As if these were shields to what I had to bear. I wore my “short, dusky” like some magic shield, Fooling myself with a fake battlefield. Friends and well-wishers, oh, they played their parts, Saw my silence, my cracks—but stitched their hearts. Now I’m uncapping the jars of what’s bottled inside, But they call me crazy  and say I shouldn’t mind. They brand my memories a lie, my pain a disease— How bold to twist the truth when I finally find ease. Retard, they said, if a tear broke the calm— How dare I disrupt their peace with my qualms? Now I speak for the girl they told me to smother; I’m growing back to my full, unshrinking colour. But what if you decide to uncap...

The fear of being raped has been deeply ingrained in me ever since I was a child. I still remember preparing for a school assembly in the  primary class , tasked with reading the news. As I sifted through newspapers, I came across horrifying reports of small children—kids like me—being subjected to unspeakable violence . That fear took root in my heart and stayed with me, shaping how I viewed the world and myself as I grew older. It’s easy to say "not all men," but for someone like me, that fear isn’t abstract . It’s a shadow that darkened my childhood and adolescence. I hated being born a girl . I hated the changes my body went through during puberty  as if they painted a target on me. I still remember cycling one day , feeling carefree, only to hear someone laugh at my developing chest . That moment stays with me—a sharp, stinging reminder of how even innocent joys could be marred by the world's gaze. I know this isn’t just about me, or just about women. Being ...