I could write

A hundred thousand words,

And you still wouldn’t understand

Why I say nothing.


Every word a woman writes

Is tinged in her blood.

She’s used to bleeding,

That is why she’s born.


To be crushed, so that the world makes sense to you.

To be silent. so that you can speak for me as well,

To be dead, so that my life is yours to live.


Enjoy my body

There is no blood left.

I’ve bled out, I’m sand dry

Savour me now

And tell me what you taste.



Your fingers were on me only for a moment

They were two seconds of pleasure for you.

It took a lifetime for me to scrub out

The stains your fingerprints left.


I only remember the door slamming

The woman calling my name from downstairs,

My eyes closing, thinking it was all normal,

Until adulthood convinced me otherwise.


It was something momentary for you

For me, it was my entire life

Feeling so old under warm blankets

Blinking to suppress the screams inside me

Every time you smiled and kissed my cheek.


Years ago, it was over for you

Years later, I am left to fix everything

You broke in seconds.

If that is what power feels like,

I’d rather not have it.

If that is what pleasure is,

I’d rather remain untouched.

A Short Phone Call

She dials the phone tentatively

He picks up. “Hello” in unreadable tones

Her reply is a calculated, controlled “hello” back

(“I love you. Can’t you see why I’m mad? You’re not supposed to be mad at me; you’re supposed to understand. Please”.)

“Why did you call?” he responds,

She wonders when he started asking that.

(“Aren’t you happy to hear my voice? I was dying to hear yours, though when I imagined it, you were softer. more loving. I think I’ve forgotten how to make you happy”)

“Simply”, she replies. She can hear him

Drawing his breath in annoyance

She asks a question before he is angry, yet again,

“Did you eat?” So silly, but she had to know.

“You don’t have to talk for the sake of it” he is

Angry now, his voice is loud and distant

(“I am not! I worry about everything you do, I can’t take care of you, so at least comfort me by saying you ate, you slept, you didn’t get tired”).

“I am not”, her voice quivers just a bit, she

Hides it quickly. He won’t hear me cry.

“Anything else?” he asks, now waiting

For the phone call to send.

“N-nothing. Sorry for calling”

(“Nothing, nothing at all. I didn’t sleep at all yesterday night after you hung up angrily. My tears flowed so freely that I feared I’d forgotten what it’s like not to cry. All you’ve got for me now is hurtful names, a list of the ways in which I mess your life up. I couldn’t breathe yesterday, it hurt too much. Do you know that? Do you know what it’s like to have your self-esteem crushed every day, by someone you love too much for your own good? Remember the time I told you that the worst point of my relationship with a person is when I stop feeling? That means I’ve stopped caring, I’ve become too tired and given up. Well, I’ve reached that point with you. And I can be saved, if only you try, if only you show you still care and value me. But you will never know this, and I will never tell you, because what is the point of my words when I am just a fake to you?”)

She hangs up quickly, breathes painfully slow.


The first time you heard me cry, you gently kissed

The tear that slid down my eyelash.

The last time you did, you swore in annoyance.

I was weak to you, you scoffed at my tears,

Said anybody can cry and be emotional:

You asked me to talk dispassionately,

Like you always do.


So I promise you,

That was the last time you heard my tears.

For you, tears are a sign of weakness

You’re sick of how easily I cry.

For me, crying in front of you was a sign

That I trusted you, believed in your

Ability to care, your will to comfort.


But for a person for whom my tears

Are a mere annoyance, I promise you

I will follow your definition of strength

The walls that I crumbled down so easy for you

Aren’t difficult to build back, this time they’ll be

Much stronger. Good luck breaching them.

I may cry for you, but you will never know

For you, I will be a cold, emotionless person:

Your definition of strong;

And you will never know how much you’re missing,

You’ll never find where I am really hiding.


There are so many things that you would never know about me

Simply cos you would think to ask, or would never care to listen

It wouldn’t be important to you, and I wouldn’t tell you when I speak,

There are some things which I can express better writing, or better yet,

By silence.


I love letters. Few things are as happy as a pages of handwritten words,

Mostly nonsense, mostly trivial, just for me.

Most relationships I measure in terms of the letters I’ve written.

The truth is, if I’ve written you a letter, I have loved you.


I wish you were the type of person who loved words like me

We could read poetry to each other, and write long letters

We could talk about our favourite phrases, the best words.

But you’re not in love with words like I am,

So I fall in love with other things about you:

Your eyes, your smile, the changes in your tone

And I try to ignore your words when you throw them around.


You would never know that my favourite afternoons are spent

Reciting poetry, letting the words drip slowly from my bottom lip.

You’ve never seen how my fingers quiver when they run over

A beautiful line, or an old, greying book. You don’t realize

How much I love walking into book stores, and just smiling

At the tall shelves and shiny volumes, all the different colours.


You don’t know what words mean to me, how they make my every day.

So I forgive you when you’re not careful with them,

Words aren’t the same for me and you,

And I will love you despite this.