Sapphirism

i can't pinpoint the time when 95% became the bare minimum. like those maths questions where you assume an unknown value to be x, my parents assume that i'm smart. they think it's linear, they can put x in any equation, push me to participate in every competition and expect me to do well because i'm smart . what they don't understand is that smartness is not set in stone, it is more like a dynamic equilibrium, like homeostasis, and i need to smoke this textbook jargon on a daily basis if i want to be remotely good.   funnily, it's always unspoken. the pregnant pause when i come back home on results day. their expectant half-smile. how the numbers flood their eyes like a slot machine and how there's always a 9 in the tens place if the hundreds place is empty. the question is tossed with feigned nonchalance over the dining table, how much did you score ? if it is satisfactory, then dinner goes on without any hiccups. if not, then the numbers are wielded agains

Today, the lake has frozen over, And the raucous, murky serpent swirls Beneath the still water. A state of sedation. Every movement, a slice into the unknown. The lurching device desperately pumps, But the great many sheets of ice lay unresponsive, Like an unimpressed lover, Or a website with no internet. Oh, to restore the connection, To redraw the lines between the self and the other, To grace the nurturing coast once again. Photo by  riciardus  from  Pexels

black tyres. brown puddle. white kitten.  slate bump. slight crunch. sick churn. brown tyres. red puddle. dead kitten.

We read about it in our history books and see it in the daily news: humans turning arms against one another, whole cities exploding in a plume of smoke and ash, animals being brutalised to serve our greed, species of numerous organisms driven to the verge of extinction and countless other cruelties. For all our glorious achievements of mapping the stars and stripping the atom down to its quarks, we humans are selectively blind to the hurt we have inflicted upon the planet and its people. We put on a veil of indifference that allows us to ignore issues like racism, gun violence, climate change, and terrorism when they do not affect us directly. We allow our prejudices to take root and prevent us from feeling pain for the black man who was murdered by a white police officer. We turn the other way when we see the transgender girl being kicked out of her family for the “outrageous crime” of being born into the wrong body. We forget all about the dog who was crippled by an overspeeding mini

my mother’s drawer is a magpie’s nest. her restless treasures sizzle under the scant sunlight. her watchful, furtive, darting eyes. then her hands slam the drawer shut. she flares at my longing stares. don’t you touch it or i’ll have your guts for garters. mummy and daddy are out until noon. i slip, slither, slide. gleam. swoon. head plunged into a cold green chest filled with gold watches that don’t tick and teardrop-shaped pearls and my pretty china doll that mum claimed was lost. (hiss.) there’s a box the size of a Frooti pack. on the cover’s a handsome man with tousled hair. a woman with parted lips trails a digit down his chiselled chest. the picture of a strawberry. it looks like Dark Fantasy and Fruit-tella had a baby. the offspring of two forbidden fruits, staring right at me. fervent fingertips tear through the tin foil and pull out a pink ringed soft rubber and taste it. bland. sticky. the raised isometric dots like goosebumps on my tongue. what is this thing? grownups have

Your silence is the summons commanding me to the defendant’s table, Where I sit beside your lingering shadow And put my tongue on trial. I beseech your blind, impartial eyes To weigh my words and declare, What is it I said that made you leave? (Was it because I laid my soul bare?) The attorney sifts through our filtered polaroids. He examines the fangs behind your grin, And the claws behind your caresses. Hands are wrung, words are chewed. The strands of time are combed again, The knots harshly yanked. Then the gavel is struck: I hear the verdict from your unmoving lips, Those words of censure from your closed mouth Which echo louder than your declarations of love; It is a dangerous thing when love and justice are both blind. Photo by  Sora Shimazaki  from  Pexels

I’m five and I see A little white pocket with doodles of wings. I ask mum what it is. She tells me too quickly, “It is to keep the bathroom clean.”     It is Grade 3, and mum picks me up early. "Grandmother is sick”, the leave note reads. I ask mum what’s wrong, But she looks away the whole way back home. Hurries me to the bathroom, hands me a Whisper Stuck awkwardly to my bloomers, And whispers that I’m different, a big girl now And I’ll have to wear this every month. I don’t get it. I ask her out loud, “Why, what’s happening?” And she smacks my cheek. “Don’t advertise, stupid! Just do as you’re told!” My perfectly healthy grandma pokes her head in, And mum smiles, “Nah, all good, she’s just feverish.” Someday, I’ll get that the secrecy is so that My period doesn’t become the headline of my hometown.   Different. It haunts me everywhere I go. When my friends are playing volleyball, Mum and I shop for training bras. I bet the oth

i remember sitting at my dim-lit desk and waiting for his text (spoiler: it would never come). i remember the fear of pissing him off, and the self-loathing that would follow suit, and then the guilt, the shame, the acute anxiety... but there was that tiny whisper which told me that we wouldn't talk anymore, so i don't know why i waited for him. i told myself,  no, he will come back, it's what he always does. he'll come back. all those worries you have? all irrational. all in your head. he'll come back. just hang on.  i told myself, he's the most wonderful thing in this entire fucking universe! don't you forget him. you must savour those memories. you must keep him alive in your mind. it must go on. i told myself that there was sweetness in that mourning, that i needed him like i need oxygen. i told myself that it was ok to hurt for someone so brilliant, someone who shakes up your world from its very roots. but. i only realised too late that i was killing al

my father's madness is a strange kind of madness.  you can't smell it in the breath analysers. you can't hear it in his eloquent speech. you can't see it on my mum's unmarred skin. but when his eyes go red and his hands are fisted, you can smell it wafting out of his untouched plate. you can hear it in my mum's sobs when it's late at night. you can see it in the pointed glances from the neighbours. you can feel it in the silence stretching out for months. his words are a shock of cold water in the wildest winter. his anger is the smoke and ash rising from a volcano. his approaching footsteps are the heavy chop of a guillotine. with him, you must: always touch the steam iron before you show up to the room. be trained to be impassive when you're a spectator to his cruelty. practice the art of keeping your tongue between your teeth. don't be incensed when he brings up his islamophobia. don't be enraged when he calls you a dirty slut. don't you c

via GIPHY It is 18:32. The sinking sun diffuses into the sky like orange candy on a tongue. The sun is slow, yet swift—it gracefully descends like a ballerina when you look at it, but plunges down like a dart plane when you look away. It is as if the sun feels your gaze and wants you to marvel at its glory as it puts its nightcap on. But you should know, the sun only takes a stroll around the world to light up some distant skies. When you see the sun swallowed by the horizon, you should know that it is swiftly climbing up the stairs of another sky in a far-off land you have never seen. Another girl will perch at her balcony at 18:32 to watch what you have just watched. And it will go on. via GIPHY I totally did not write purple prose there  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Did the excessive imagery enhance your reading experience, or was it a hindrance? Please tell me so that I can improve!

Raindrops greet sidewalk chalk Breathing in the petrichor Sun's asleep, drowsy stars Tucked in little sweethearts The wind screams down in the grass People whip out their umbrellas A boy and a girl dance in the rain Her friend watches from the window panes Wishing they could dance like this Pull her closer, maybe share a kiss The droplets fall in a rush Promising a future lush A wave washes from the sky Escaping little dreamy sighs A prayer sent to the night Whispering, "It'll be alright." Hello! I had written this poem (from a village, ironically) during the Cyclone Tauktae. And (more ironically), I am posting this on a sunny day! 😂 But it's funny how today is the first day of July and yet there has been no rain for a week and a half where I live! Not that I like rain very much lol, so I'm happy. Do you like rain? Is it raining where you live? Tell me! :D And don't forget to tell me your thoughts on the poem ;)

I have so much hurt inside of me, but nothing comes out  when I open my mouth.  All my tears have formed clouds and keep raining in my mind, a groundless sky. The sun doesn't come out for the longest time. In this flood, I feel parched. Photo by  Ian Turnell  from  Pexels

I had a bucket of paint with a rag And I thought I could squeeze it Little by little Until the colours that remained Were the colours of you. But your dynamic lustre's Like a dazzling magnesium ribbon Or a streak of dancing lightning, And I can't discern— I can't peg any colours on you. You're a moving picture, An inscrutable mystery— My fingers are aching to figure you out. Photo by  David Waschbüsch  from  Pexels

tight melancholy tucked in my heart, tired tongue tucked in my mouth. you wait for a quip that will never come. repressed anger bubbles on my fingertips, a cauldron brewing at the back of my throat, a churning ocean of acid to char your pink flesh. but I shove it down to the depths of my soul, it's ok. endure. some other time. Photo by  Juanjo Menta  from  Pexels

In the dead of the night, I tell you, “Come with me.” You throw on some clothes and go grab your keys. Four headlights flash through the empty night; A trail of roses is the only thing we leave behind.   Now the sun is up, all the mannequins are stripped bare! Their jewels are pinned on us, so are their laser stares. A distant siren sounds just as our wings pull for flight, The thrill of the chase chases us into a place they can’t find.   Our furtive glances trace a road as crooked as our love, As we ooh and ah over the treasures in our trove. Your head’s on my shoulder, your hand is on my thigh, We’re drifting off together just before they arrive.   The sound travels before the light, an electric scream; The beacons surrounding us stop us right in between. Matching grey bracelets, now we’re headed behind bars, Eyes drawing schemes of escaping under the stars.   The sky blushes pink as two tired bodies climb out, Outfly the vultures, always on

She doesn’t quite agree with what he says, but she replies, “Yeah, true”, because the threads holding them together are frayed and fragile. She tells herself to dance along to his strings, to clap at his speeches, to laugh at his jokes, even when her feet are weary, when her jaw is aching, when she would rather cuddle with her pillows. After all, it will be worth it when their strings become tangled and tensile. She does love him, it’s just that, these parts of his lifestyle fill her with immense dread. Crowds make her chest too tight to breathe. Loud music gives her a headache. And meeting too many smiling strangers simply drains her soul. Persevere , she tells herself, and you will obtain what you seek. Just hang on a little longer. As she watches his distant figure, poised and sharp, walking to the lectern with some papers in hand, she wonders what parts of her he has to tolerate. If he really wanted to go to that Chinese restaurant for dinner last week. Whether he likes her new

(TW: Self harm) When my nails rake over my thighs with masterful strokes of familiarity, leaving my lulled, curious mind to wonder, to anticipate, to count seconds until my skin turns pink, until the pink slowly bleeds into a slight red trickle, until the warm water pouring is too scalding for this sort of a thing, the tears finally stop. I will later reflect on how strange it is to stop the poison by administering more of it, but now I just take a deep breath and claw my way out of the bathroom, latching the door with a harsh screech. But my eyes, gleaming with satisfaction in the mirror, tell a different story. My shaking fingers hate myself, but I know I would do it again. Then the purple devious grin in the mirror dissipates, revealing a stark, bruised patch of skin. It’s gonna sting later , I taunt myself. Trim your nails, you fool. Photo by  Lisa  from  Pexels

I ripped apart the veil of happiness, Mirth’s a mirage in this loveless land. Leaked out my favourite songs, my fancy words Leaked out vitality Leaked out what made me me . Then looked for me in mirrors and photographs and lost people and changing seasons. Liquid sorrow creeps in at the worst times.   Please give me a flame, I need to unfreeze myself! There’s a catatonic state in my mind. But no words cut through this catastrophic silence. I try to draw one string but all I can hold is a tangled mass of yarn. Pricking myself with the needle, if only to feel something Wishing for somebody to pull me through this gray haze   Help me , I scream, But it ricochets off your walls. So I stand alone, always alone, Full of false insights. Full of belief that you hate me now Glancing at the door, waiting for you to go— Silently dreading— I’m so full of this silence. But I will translate your quiet to mean something scathing and never look at you ag

  curtains drawn, dark house winter snakes its way around the bridge we once frequented is covered in ice, crumbling down   the flowers that we grew now droop perished greens, grey stoop our friendship is unwound sunshine’s nowhere to be found   no silence roars like this am I not someone you miss? you bathe in lights of a disco but all I catch is a distant glow   frozen hearts pirouette in this white, sparkling cage the sadness is so profound I can’t see through the grey haze   straining strings stretched out will snap without a doubt spoiler: that’s how it went now you’re just a silhouette.   we were each others’ gold but now we’re recycled souls waiting for what the future holds it was sad to watch you go.   Photo by  Furknsaglam  from  Pexels