“What are you afraid of?”
This has to be one of the most commonly asked questions. Instinctively, I say, “lizards”. People laugh at that, and say that it isn’t a *fear*. Some of them happen to be aware of the dedication and passion with which I chase after a lizard, broomstick in hand, when I see it lurking outside my room.

They ask me about things that terrify me and leave me momentarily disoriented. And I tell them that a lizard IS that thing. I try to avoid further interrogation. You see, I have learned that your fears make you vulnerable, and that your fears must be guarded well.

Vulnerability was my fear. I say ‘was’ because I happened to be going through the phase where you’re at the brink of adulthood, weighed down by the pressure of emotional maturity.
I had few friends, and I was convinced that it was because I had successfully erected a safety wall around myself.
The impenetrable fortress of closely guarded secrets where nobody was allowed to enter.

Luckily, I managed to sail through the phase unharmed, my emotional (im)maturity very much intact. The adult in me decided to take a leap of faith, and I started to share my experiences, secrets and fears with someone, realizing how futile those years of fortification had been. Of course, lizards continue to remain what I’m TRULY scared of. You’d be, too, if you could see the streak of evil in the spherical eye embedded in that brown, scaly skin.
But there are a whole lot of other things on my list. There’s a secret list, too, that I do not discuss with anyone. But vulnerability is not on any of the lists anymore. Sharing my fears has enabled me to accept them, to laugh at how ridiculous some of them are, to pat people’s backs when they have the same phobias, and most importantly, to understand and be absolutely sure that my fears will never make me vulnerable.



I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with.

I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with.
You won’t fall for me, and I definitely won’t fall for you. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure of it.

I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with, simply because I don’t have the time for you. I work my ass off, and on most days, the only ones I have actual conversations with are my quote-wall or my non-existent cat, while simultaneously texting three people.
I have learnt to live and be comfortable in my own company to the extent that it will make you uncomfortable.
And most of all, there’s no way you wouldn’t be a part of my work life in one way or another.
The lines between my personal and professional lives are blurry, because you never know what might end up as something I’d classify as “work-important”. My life is my work. I don’t know what forty-hour weeks are; I don’t understand the concept of sleep very much, and the only time I’d be able to give you, is twenty four minutes on a long, stretched voice note at 4.56am.
This won’t be your ideal relationship- the one where you don’t have to do a lot, because I will still demand your time. Sometimes, in the middle of your office meeting, when I’m having a nervous breakdown over a project in broad daylight; or at ten pm, refusing to wait for you to finish dinner with your family as my body swallows itself in a panic attack- sometimes, I will demand your attention, even though I can’t ever give you mine.

I will warn you about my schedules, but if you still want it, I will tell you about my days every night, every single one of them.
How, some days, I fall in love with conversations I have with people I bump into on the metro. Those are the good days. I smear my eyes with kohl and pretend like I have it together. Sometimes, I actually do.
Other days, I snapchat my way through the day, making my story 230 seconds long, hoping nobody sees through me.
I will make you tired of listening to my days every night, every single one of them.

I will not let you make the effort. I will pick up the bill on the rare days that we go out for dinner, it is the only way I know how to apologize. I will tell you I don’t like flowers or chocolates, or that I don’t really believe in having favorites, even though I really, really wouldn’t mind if you sang Alt J or Adele, right about now.

I will spare 39 minutes in a day, once a week, and since you can’t possibly do anything else as I knock at your door, we’ll just end up having sex. And like an alarm clock, I’ll realize time is slipping through my hands and I’ll rush through it, but make no mistake- it will be the best sex you ever have. I will prefer it over you. It is the only way I know of being intimate without really being intimate.
On the days that you suggest we talk about our feelings for 39 minutes instead, I’ll fumble and bring “open relationship” to the table, so you’ll know, you can’t ever really be in a ‘real’ relationship with me.

I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with. I’m the girl who helps you with your project, I’m the girl you fuck, I’m the girl you learn to hate. I’m never the girl you end up falling in love with.

free fall.

when my great grandmother heard
we have artificial satellites
in space, she said
“I wonder what would happen
if someone were to shoot them.
would they just float around
with no tether
with nothing to bind them
waiting to explode
with no one to hear them
just a tiny speck
lost in space.”
and i remembered
a science class i once took,
that said the millions of objects
in space don’t float;
they’re pulled by the gravity
toward earth, but the earth keeps
curving away,
refusing to comply
and i guess what they’re really
doing is falling with nowhere to really go.
sometimes i wondered if that’s
what i was. with no force to guide
no path to follow.
but then you came along
and it was like whispering
into a soundless room
with my voice reaching
every nook and every corner
without me even trying
like tasting stardust for the first time
in a world bereft of the sun.
i had no one to tell me that
that was what an echo
was like.

things are like other things.

things are like other things
like people about to fade away
are like flowers about to wilt and
those who’ve already ceased to exist are like
the stars in the sky- bright; North star, in turns.
shooting stars- like the death of a star- the death
of a dead person- death of a wilted flower- dead
Although I still don’t get how
what is already dead can cease to exist and leave you
all over again. Hollow- like your spine is a bowl
full of dreams and hopes and aspirations and fears
and someone scooped it out with a huge spoon- filled
the spoon
to the brim,
and got hold of everything you fear and everything you’ve ever
wished for. Wished for, at night, or at dawn, or just before you
sleep- like something that means everything to you-
or something that means nothing at all. Nothingness is a void.
Empty space. Blank spaces. Like songs that have somehow come to mean
too much, without you ever meaning them to. Meaning, you didn’t want
it to hold meaning; meaning it’s too much thought to put into something
with no meaning. Thoughts, captured. like ideas, memories- in a pensieve.
Memories of happy people, memories of lively people, memories of
sad people, angry people, lonely people.
Memories of dead people- wilted flowers,
shooting stars.
Things are like other things.
Poets- they just show you

birthday song?

i’ve written you letters
and poems and longish messages
that you probably never read
but it’s been a year
and it’s here again.
you can brag. you’re old.
(i know this sucks in rhyming
and worse, in verse- bear with me?)
it took one long conversation to get this
started- and three tries on a creepy website
(you couldn’t have warned me enough)
but i still can’t write you down, or
capture your essence, in the slightest.
i guess like most people, i can say you smile
and laugh (always) and make witty remarks and
draw and play instruments- or that you dance and
hop and work and talk (although even the latter is a lie)
but what i can say,
and what i will,
is that i know you’re almost never there,
and you’re too busy for 30minute ranting and whining
but if i had to choose between a five minute talk with you
and an hour long lecture with new people i come across..
oh who am i kidding.
i’d pick you.
you’ve created a soft spot and a weird sort of feeling
and you almost always never respond
but i miss you more than i can explain and
it sucks we didn’t meet last summer,
but go attend expensive adele concerts and
meet pretty ladies,
just don’t forget to tell me how it went.