Blue, Pink, Grey

Blue, Pink, Grey

The strangest thing I’ve seen her do is build a sky on her own. She took a piece of paper and a blue crayon and started coloring from the top left. She colored diagonally, and when she was half-way through, I thought she’d stop and pick up a different color to finish. The sky’s never all blue. Sometimes a little red seeps in and it can look beautiful and at other times, it’s white, full of clouds, as if it is a clean slate for you to look at and reboot. It blushes pink sometimes because there are so many poets constantly flirting with the sky. And sometimes, the sky sees people for what they are and goes grey.

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Self-love or otherwise.

Self-love or otherwise.

Your first attempt at love
teaches you true love.
The ‘I’ve got to make this work’ kind,
the innocent, ‘vanilla is the best’ kind,
the unconditional, ‘always? always.’ kind.
For me, the girl was a reincarnation
of everything I had ever loved.
There were no terms and conditions,
no warnings,
and we didn’t take steps one day at a time.
Our bed was a cosmic sky of fairly dust
and we didn’t need hope.
There were a few fights
here on text messages
there on WhatsApp statuses,
but all was good forever
till one day it wasn’t.

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Sevenfold

Sevenfold

Till the day the world is a safe place to live in, I’ll write about the reasons why it’s not. While I do sugar-coat things very often to give people reasons to smile, I know that being raw is the only option to spread awareness. This post is about marital rape and justice. I hope you like it. 🙂 Let’s talk about it in the comments?


What I know of this is: if someone did something to harm Cain, the damage would come back sevenfold. The same goes for anyone with the mark of Cain. I’ve used that as a prop to give seven hells to the villain of this poem.

(TW: abuse, rape)

When you touched me that night with
one hand around my neck
and the other on parts of me that still scream,
I tried my best to stop you.
I hit you across the face and dug my nails deep into
your empty skin
but nothing seemed to wake you up
from the monster that you’d become.
Sometimes I wonder if people found out that I’d hit my husband
because he was raping me,
which part would they be more concerned about?
Your hand choked my cries inside my throat,
and your lips curled into a smile
that still makes mine quiver.
My tears were the mark of Cain
and for every piece of me you broke,
life was going to fuck you up seven times.

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Lost and found.

Lost and found.

I hope you like this! Enjoy.


Before I tell you a story,
I have a dictionary
that I’d like you to read.
I call it – My Spirals.

Home (noun)
pronounced /’memories/
– a constant blur of memories, and random pauses.
Nomad (noun)
pronounced /’lost/
– People who travel too much
– or stay too little
Travel (verb)
pronounced /’found/
– Taking someone away from one home
– and towards another.

I love to travel.
When I was fourteen,
I spent a weekend living alone
on top of a mountain.
I remember how often
I’d yell ‘hey’
and the mountains would echo back a story.
I don’t stay too long
with places or people,
with stories or poems,
with the light or the dark,
I travel too much
from love to nostalgia,
from photographs to flashbacks,
from home to home,
So, if I am pronouncing this right,
I’m lost and found.


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Instagram: @myspirals

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