A Revolution

Hi, I am..(Damn, don’t you ever exercise?)

Wait, what? How does…

(Stop eating like the pig you are.)

But…

(What is it going to take you to realise that nobody wants you here?)

I just…

(And are those scars on your wrists?)

Wait…

(It’s a shame. You can’t even kill yourself right.)

I…

(Ugly.)

You…

(Fat.)

Wait…

(An unfortunate waste of space.)
Hi, my name is “Broken”. Broken by the words said by people who felt they were better than me just because the pointer on my scale tipped to the other side”.

My name is “Tired”. Tired of fixing it, but throwing up after every meal took its toll on me.

(But to be beautiful, you must be able to endure pain.)
Hi, my name is not “Fat” or “Pig”. My name is “Scarred”. Scarred by the rhythmic brush of the nail file against my skin, until I could no longer see nightmares of myself drowning in images of photoshopped girls.

(It was just for attention.)
Hi, my name is “Ashamed”. Ashamed of having believed that self-love was a war that I couldn’t have won.

(No one…)
Until now.

(Just stop..)
Hi my name is “Human”. Just like you.
Loving yourself is a revolution. But so is accepting yourself on the days when disdain replaces the trust, and repulsion replaces the love. Love yourself not because you should, or because it’s a task or a means to prove your feminism. Love yourself because even on days when you don’t, you survived.
~Ritika

Endings Are Our Beginnings

Endings are so finite, so cold and so absolute. Each fleeting moment that brings me closer to the end takes more out of my lungs; it marks a point of no return. Each transition is a shut door, each word a step closer to the Rubicon. I am not ready to cross it, never will be.

And yet, all we are taught is to wrap it up in silk ribbons, to leave our audience with something to ponder on. How do I end a story with more to tell, a narrative with frayed edges. How do I end a friendship with spilling memories, a relationship with loose ends. How do I end a childhood, dripping with nostalgia, and a war with massive casualties. Casualties that ensue in cutting parts of me right to the bandage.

I have turned people into metaphors, calling them everything – from hurricanes to drugs. All of this, only to deceive myself into believing that we weren’t done yet. I have been hurt, and I have hurt, hoping to save myself from another abrupt ending – another cliffhanger, another push down the hill.

But I am done. I am not going to have people rummaging between my broken ribs, searching for hand-me-down hearts. My ribs are made of leftover chalk and my heart is already ashes. It is time that I save whatever is left of me. I am not a work of art. I am too complicated to be confined in some frame or a shoddy piece of paper. I am chaotic and too far gone to be contained. Let me go.

I hope you aren’t waiting here, to hear me say that I will be waiting for you. Because I won’t. I’d rather go somewhere else, smelling of everything safe and happy, telling myself not to get attached to people. I’d rather have a new beginning.

~Ritika

Trembling Roses

Author’s Note : The following post is extremely special. And by far, the most realistic one that I have had the courage to share. To me it may just be fiction, but to another this is painfully real. I caution you before you proceed – rape is a very sensitive issue. All genders are suffering, equally. If at any point it may seem that I have taken too much of liberty as a writer, I apologize. Read.

Brave

They say we bring in the era of the sinners. Perhaps, we do.

Enough

“What do you want to be when you grow up, R?”

” Enough.”

For the first time in those three hours, he put down his pen, shut his notebook and looked at me. This was the first time in three months that he really listened.

Dear Onlookers

Dear People who pretend to notice me (but don’t),

This is from a girl who looked on from the sidelines. A girl who waited. Who watched as her body was shamed. So were her thoughts. All because she dared to look at the world from a different perspective?

To My Future Self

I hope you are alive and beating.

Or even if you are dead, please let me know that you died in a heroic manner, like warding off a hundred zombies while your friends made it to safety.

Half Light

It drove her insane;
The desire to learn the working of her fragile heart,
Buried her sanity beneath wine-filled nights and withered rose petals.

4 A.M Musae

3:58 A.M : “You just forgot about me”
3:59 A.M : “Which sucks”
4:00 A.M : “But I’ve gotten used to it.”

Grunge Princess

Yes, she’d been told that she wrote beautifully. She’d  been told that she had the power to take the world by a storm solely through her words. She’s been told she’s attractive. She’s been told that she is a mystery book; the end of which not even she knows. Her soul is embroidered with a strange enigma – enamoring people with it. She was called a grunge princess. One of her kind. She would be lying if she said that she’s not flattered. But beneath the covers of someone who is easily shrugged off as cryptic, lies an individual who is waiting for someone to cypher the acrostic that she is.