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there’s a graveyard that lives within me, meant for the undead. I carry it everywhere I go. I have pink flowers, unfinished poetry and giggles buried there; three forbidden words float in the sultry air. the walls have no windows and the graves are painted shut with grief. there exists a language only grief knows. it is taught in shades of blue. it is made of silly, abstract translations: ‘I’m sorry (I love you). how are you (I love you). I thought of you today (I love you). study well (I love you). it hurts (I love you). you broke me (I love you). I’m cutting you off (I love you).’ isn’t it funny, the brutal infidelity of memories to the heart, the paradox in hurting something that’s already hurt. I still remember watching you look up at that scrambler- smiling like a little kid, and thinking how I’ll love you forever and somehow it still wouldn’t be enough. I still remember sitting beside you, arm in arm, my head leaning onto your shoulder, on our way to kottayam, thinking how bea...

summers have always been cruel; with heartbreaks and fallen flowers and hot orange skies that remind me of dead goldfish. somewhere between the blur of march rains, afternoons spent  tearing up to taylor swift and autumn red bleeding in, I get myself killed. I wake up in the morning with the familiar ache of grief weighing me down. it whispers, ‘it’s not the same anymore.’ I quietly walk past it and goes on pretending to live. at nights, it finds its way back to me, like a stray dog looking for warm corners in cold winter streets. it staggers around me, chokes me, and stabs me over and over. it tells me that I cannot hold your hand again. it tells me that I cannot tell you that I love you again. it tells me that I’ll rot everywhere you once kissed me. it tells me that you’ll forget but I’ll remember it all. at nights I die a thousand little deaths.