My therapist is very weird.

My therapist is very weird.

I’ve always wondered what my therapist would be like if I ever went to one. I’ve also wondered what I would be like if I was a therapist. Well, I guess you could say this piece is a mixture of the two. It also has the cutest ending ever. I hope you like it. Comment and tell me if you did. Enjoy!


“So what is it like – being human and all?” My therapist asked.

“That’s a very weird question.” I answered.

“I’ll rephrase. What is it like – being you?”

“It’s crazy, honestly. But here you go -” and I told her. I told her about my favorite childhood memories like the hundred family long drives with songs and hot chocolate and how they the memories shaped me. “I don’t have coffee anymore,” I told her about my tenth birthday and how I spent it chasing my friends in a ‘catch-me-if-you-can’ game. “It was hilarious. We were in a shopping mall that had these gaming sections and furniture shops spread over three, maybe four floors. I was running, trying to catch my friends who were always on a different floor. I’d take the escalator for the first floor and they would giggle and take the escalator to the ground floor. And then I’d try to run down on an elevator going up to catch them faster and every time I did that, they would do the opposite. Those days,” I said and smiled.

“Do you still feel like you’re chasing things and are on the wrong side of the escalator, Afra?”

“God, no. Chill. So anyway,” and I continued my tale. Eventually, I reached the tough parts of my life. I told her about how my days seemed to be going nowhere and how the nights had promised to stay forever. I told her they were damn good at keeping their promises. I went on and on about weird things like how I was claustrophobic everywhere except in my own room and about Christmas parties that I wish I’d never attended so that I wouldn’t have met the guys I dated. “Everybody keeps telling me about the ways I can make things better but they’re all just shitty ideas. I’m headed nowhere. Me living like this is like a dog driving a car except that dogs don’t drive cars.”

“Well, you clearly have never seen my doggo.”

“You’re a weird therapist.”

“Look!”



Liked it? – My therapist talks too much
Instagram – @myspirals

Old metaphors for love.

Old metaphors for love.

Happy Valentine! I hope you’re having a great day! I don’t have much to say except that this poem is based on one of the oldest metaphors for love – beaches (or oceans or water, whatever it is). I came up with it while talking to a close friend and I decided that today would be the right day to post it. I hope you like this poem! Comment a lot? (Tell me anything about love)


Beaches have been metaphors for love
for the longest time.

In 2008, I was a scarecrow
standing at the edge of the world
where the sand and the water conversed for days.
With my arms spread wide, I would stand there
and let the wind run around me
in circles, and we would giggle together
at the horrible ways the sand
would flirt with the water.
Once, the sand recited lines
from John Legend’s ‘All of me’ –
“My head’s under water,
but I’m breathing fine.”

and it was hard to tell if the water was blushing
or if it was just 6 pm.

Continue reading Old metaphors for love.

Too much.

Too much.

It’s been a while. Hey! I hope you like this. It’ll mean a lot to me if you can share this with your friends through the buttons at the bottom of every post. Do share if you like it and let me know if you did in the comments section. Also, tell me what breaks your heart. Enjoy!


Steve was heartbroken the day Husky died but was always afraid to admit it because he believed heartbreaks had become cliché. There were too many poets writing about it, too many eyes crying over it, too many stories ending because of it. He believed heartbreaks had become ‘too much’ and he was born a minimalist.

Continue reading Too much.

Cinderella’s shoes.

Cinderella’s shoes.

“Upon the palms of my hand, I have written your name.”  – Isaiah 49:16

Never had he felt the warmth of her fingers before. He had anticipated it to be like the warm sun on a cold morning, something that would make him shiver and smile. He had imagined it to be like hot coffee or the softest quilt, or the rush of caffeine in his veins, and pictured it to be normal, with a shade of love. It was nothing like it.

Late at night that first day, as they looked at each other, too tired to say anything, he touched her face. His fingers trailed on her skin, as he touched her cheeks. They were cold and he would want it no other way. He held her face and looked at her as shivers ran through him. And then she touched his face. Her fingers trailed on his skin. They were cold and he would want it no other way. Everything inside him froze, except where she held him. He felt no rush of blood, and he could feel her fingers getting colder. And he liked it. It was like walking toward the sunset.

He placed his hand on top of hers, and let the fingers intertwine. They fit like puzzle pieces. The cold was slowly ebbing away. The warmth was returning to their fingers, their cheeks were getting redder, and their eyes were locked onto each other. It was 3:04 A.M. and he remembered something. “Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.” And he knew he was screwed. That made him happy.

They say hands are like Cinderella’s shoes – magical.
They say hands are what makes tomorrows.

With her hand in mine, I think I had more than just tomorrows. This wasn’t normal, with a shade of love. This was love, with a shade of insanity. The sun was setting.

“People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe just the touch of a hand.” – Ed Sheeran


Instagram: @myspirals
Related post : Midnight.

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Strangers with Pizza boxes.

Strangers with Pizza boxes.

I hope you like this. Read, comment, enjoy, and smile! 🙂


If you look carefully
when walking on a busy street,
you’ll see rainbow kite strings around the neck
of every stranger.
Tales of broken reds,
ribbons of blue,
poems of brown eyes,
micro-tales of turquoise skies
and a thousand more colorful stories.
But only if you look carefully.
If you do not,
they’ll just be flesh and blood
and you’ll remain flesh and blood too.
Of course, eyes won’t do all the talking,
but do let them start
and then your lips can bring the stories to life.

I’ve tried.
That’s how the Pizza boy became my best-friend.
Pizza one,
he was just a man in red
with a beautiful smile.
Pizza two,
I saw his eyes
and the wrinkled galaxies his smile caused.
I saw how his shirt was half-tucked in,
very similar to mine
and he had sports shoes on.
Pizza three,
He told me his favorite sport
and I told him I wrote poetry.
Together, we gave football a human story.
The ball that was of no man
and no fields.
The ball that fell in love with the net.
Together, we laughed at the horrible story.

I guess you get the idea.
See, look, converse, connect.


Instagram: @myspirals
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