Growing up was a mess, so I made a vow to my unborn children: You will have the best of me. The love my parents couldn't give, I promised to pour out in floods. I clawed through the ache of a childhood starved of warmth, clinging to the hope that I could build something better. Academics - checked. Job - secured. Husband - found. But I married a man still bleeding from his own unhealed wounds . Two broken people don’t make a whole. They just bleed on each other. So even before I could hold my pristine child, the furnace of marital strife had already scorched the softness in me. I became the version of my mother I swore I’d never be. And my father? His ghost lives in me too; passive aggression leaking out like stench from an open sewer. I thought I was free. I thought I’d left lies behind. But my own faults stacked up like cargo, and suddenly, I was always on the defensive. Then came the comet's flash ; that bright, burning promise of the mother I’d be. But it died before it ev...
The Love Before The Altar . This is for the kiss that thought it was a covenant, For hands that linked as one, yet were called disparate. For the garden we planted in the ignorant snow, Where our puppy love , bright and shameless, could grow. It grew past the teasing, past the first foolish fight, Past the secret sweet nothings whispered into the night. It thought it was a tree, deep-rooted, vast, and true, Until they brought the lightning no sapling can construe. The Junction . Here, the maps of bloodline and the charts of caste were spread. Here, the cold slide of a lab report sealed all that was unsaid. Here, “maturity” meant letting go, not holding on. Here, pure love was a language the pragmatic world had shunned. We stood there, you and I, with futures in our eyes, Watching our fierce, fragile thing meet its swift demise. Not by our will, but by the stern, unyielding hands Of genotype ’s grim verdict, and social class ’s demands. You left to build a life upon a stabl...
The earth does not apologize for shaking. The rain does not ask permission before it falls. We invented guilt. Painted it on our ribs like a second skeleton, Then wondered why we couldn't stand up straight. Child of stardust and supernovas — You were not born broken. You were not assembled from other people's disappointments. There is no manual. There is no correct way to bloom . When your own mind becomes a courtroom, When the verdict has been rehearsed before you even speak; Ask yourself: Who taught you this script? Whose voice is this, wearing your mother's tone, your lover's disappointment, your own childhood fear? The dung beetle does not despise its work. The flower does not hide its roots. What you call waste, the tree calls wedding feast . What you call falling, the universe calls arrival. So let them keep their rules. Let them keep their sharp-edged words, Their tidy boxes, Their hunger for your shrinking. You are not theirs to diminish. You are the witness an...
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