It is hard not to see them in thunderstorms; the lightening that plays tag across the sky, and the clouds that tower overhead – soft, luxurious and ominous.
But listen to your favourite song; not the one that they played on their car stereo on repeat. Oh no, not that. Listen to that song which you played in the shower, staging a mock performance in front of the foggy mirror in your bathroom. Absorb every lyric, every chord, every second. Learn how the drums kick in at the perfect spot, how the vocals are smooth and easy, how the music lights you up from inside.
It is hard not to hear them in the cicadas on still, summer nights, when the air hangs heavy with words that drip with sweat and honey.
But, write. Write, then read, maybe erase. None like the words they meticulously crafted that cut into your skin, like the knives that remain in a block of anticipation. After months of not writing at all, write until words are pouring out of you; until all that you’ve been feeling since the dead of winter is finally rising to the surface.
It is hard not to taste them; salt delivered reprieve and the tangy barbecue smoke; like lips burning from spice and tongue wasted on impatience.
But put on the red lipstick, wear that suede jacket. Even if the reflection in the mirror is a reminder of what they liked you best in, let that reflection be a reiteration of what you feel best in despite their absence.
Then one day while walking along those same lanes, you’ll walk past them and their eyes will shoot up automatically at the whiff of your perfume. Their deep brown eyes will follow your every move, forehead crinkling up with confusion when you don’t look their way. You’ll barely notice them but, my god, will they notice you.
For the first time in months it will be their heart that feels hollow instead of yours.
~Ritika
Tag Archives: writer
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
Unspoken
“What are you afraid of?”
A question that is a half-hearted attempt to keep the almost dying conversation going, but elicits emotions so raw, and undoes essential parts of your self. It reminds you of the broken promises, sick twists of fate, gargled words that you wish you had said then.
I’m afraid of moving on, mostly because I haven’t had to before. How do I pack eighteen years of my life and tote them away? I already have three suitcases packed with clothes, picture frames and basically anything and everything that will remind me of home. How does it make sense to leave behind friends who have made it easier for me to come into my own? Friends with whom I’ve fought only to realise later that our bond was not something tangible which would snap to never be sealed with the duct tape of a corny joke.
I’m afraid of the collars that chafe my neck when I clear my throat to say something in protest. Every time I undo a button I only come to terms with how little plastic circles can be symbolic of a rebellion. Societal expectations are becoming modern corsets and I’m afraid of how they’re shrinking waists and squeezing minds with the power of suggestion and unattainable perfection.
I’m afraid that I shall leave the world, only having scratched the very surface of my potential. I might fall to the floor, stop breathing and be buried in a secluded corner of a Midwestern graveyard before getting every thought in my chaotic mind on paper. I may not be able to put each one who has impacted me on paper; I’ll go away with half-formed, missing persons in my chest. People who I didn’t get a chance to know better, who are etched in my faint memory as fingerprints on bathroom faucets, strands of hair on the carpet and stains on the table where they forgot to use coasters.
But those subjects are far too heavy for meaningless small talk.
So I’ll be polite and just stick to “Heights”.
~Ritika
A Faded Year
It has been a year now. I have something to tell you, for it has been eating me; something that the irrelevant last pages of the unsent letters have been screaming I’m words of black and white.
Since you’ve been gone, I have tried to find you in the lights of the city skyline and the howling of the tornado sirens. I have tried to live carefully, cautiously, thoughtfully. I tiptoe across the floor because the creaks of the floorboard spell catastrophe more profoundly than the radio silence you left me in. I have guilt tripped my way into putting away my pen and my better sense of judgement. Driven by my passion for memories, I flipped through every page of the album from that night – the night of dancing, storytelling and long walks; the night that ended prematurely with a drastic fall. Longing for evidence to disprove my insanity, I have only come up short.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. And here I am, scribbling the time with you in the margins of my life. I am sorry, the ticking hands escaped me. Now I see you, shoulders tensing at your sight, realising that flowers are the heaviest when placed on a grave.
~Ritika
History
There is a lot of history on these
streets. We are the debris of the same
disaster – I am the creation, and you
are the process of reconstruction.
Darling, you paint yourself a better
picture – watercolour skies instead
of brooding storms. And yet
they say you look like me – the same
dark eyes, nose bridge and the
gentle smile. We make a
really good team, we do. We are
the same gunshot in the dead
of the night – you are the trigger, I
am the safety lock. I wish I could do more
to make you feel better,
today. I wish I could show
you how the sun breaking through
the curtains will chase your
demons away. It is hard to not see
your parents in yourself. But smash
every mirror you come
across. You were given 50% of
me to make it on your own. Do it.
~Ritika
P.S : For those who were unable to figure it out, this is a poor recreation of the advice my father gave me 🙂
I Create Apocalypse
•An ode to all those who write•
It confused me from the beginning. I did not choose to be born with a fucking storm in my mind. I did not choose to feel helpless. I did not choose to feel.
Illicit Chrysalism 