Heart on Sleeve Writings

"Why do you like me?" She has heard herself asking this to a lot of people over the course of time. It wasn't reserved just for her suitors. All her loved ones heard this question a few times over. It was an urge to know why she was deemed worthy to be in that person's life. It was a desperation to understand why they didn't discard her when she proved herself useless. It confused her greatly why some people chose to remain loving to her while some others didn't. She asked herself if this confusion implied that that's the way she viewed others. Did she disregard them when they stopped benefiting her? Not really... She stopped trying to hold on when holding on was difficult though. She stopped being the one who loved fiercely because she had no fierceness left inside her. She loved the ones who loved her but those who were indifferent found themselves losing her slowly yet surely. Now they knew about each other because of what they chose to share with the w...

I’ve done this before, you know? A second chance for the hundredth time And each time I begin I hope I finally get a win Tidy up and put a smile Beat the race by a mile Because this new beginning Is the closest thing to another life Do I reinvent myself To be someone entirely new? Or do I stay true to my own And take the risk of being alone? Is it deceiving to choose one over the other Or normal to make yourself a clone? But as daunting it can all seem I sought this clean slate to redeem So even if I end up not being the best Or being different from the rest As long as I don't end up in the past I’ll keep trudging on until the next cast And of course, it matters that you surround With the best you can be around A new fish in this giant school Hoping I won’t be a fool But I tell myself to calm down And let matters go to town Because after all, the future Is all we do now to nurture.

Put away the remedies, Mother You know they don't do a thing You know the scrubbing hurts You know I hate the sun I'm not lying, Mother You know I clean myself well When I say I shower daily And conceal inside a shell The worst part, Mother Is that it's inside me It's that my heroes and fancies Rarely look like me I've never the guts To picture myself with them But I know, Mother That they'd not hold that place If they were my shade, had my skin Or looked something like me I speak of love, Mother But loathe my skin My ashy joints; unmatched tint Stripes of brown noose my neck On my waist dark patches rest How sad it is, Mother The melanin hates the bleach Kill this voice inside me I want to be what I preach

TW: Mentions of rape. Note: This is a fictional body of work. She wasn't supposed to sleep . Her body was tired but she had to keep going.  And so she sat in bed, hugging her knees and staring at the mirror in front of her. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes had bags underneath them. "Good ",  she thought. "It helps the process". She rocked her body because she had nothing better to do, picking at her fingers and digging her bitten nails into her shins. "I should cry so that it's easier. Why can't I cry? I have to feel sadness. But all I feel is empty. No one will believe me". She didn't know how to prove her side of the story. She was scared of being laughed at. Of being called a liar or an attention seeker. 'She shouldn't have gone to that party. She shouldn't have worn that dress. She shouldn't have had that drink. She shouldn't have stayed so late.' She could already hear the people nitpicking her every move....

TW: Mentions mild Self-hate. I used to believe that it was unfair to drag anyone into the mess of a person that I am. I needed to warn people before they got hurt. If I stopped myself from doing that, then I would be committing a grave crime. But even if I did say it, people didn't understand. It's like coming out of a dirty public bathroom. And seeing someone standing outside. You're an asshole if you don't mention the fact that the bathroom flush isn't working. You're an asshole if you don't tell the other person that they should hold their breath. That there's residual shit from countless people before you. And it'll be extremely impolite if you don't think of mentioning that they should go to another bathroom altogether instead. It makes you shitty person if you just walk out. That person judges you. Assumes you were the one who made it this way in the first place. When the only thing you did was go inside, see the mess and leave wit...

Brown skin isn’t what is conventionally considered beautiful. People think that the melanin in the skin can be scrubbed off and bleached away and that skin tone is somehow a direct effect of the actions of a person rather than genetics. I myself was subjected to these prejudices when I was younger. Dark skin made my grandma scrub my ashy knees and elbows and subsequently feel disappointed when it didn’t magically become fair like hers. My neck was the next place of scrutiny as it had stretch marks that my family thought was because of accumulated dust and tan. I remember never feeling happy in my skin because I looked dark in my favourite clothes and photos with my toothiest grin made the contrast more obvious. I remember being warned about playing sports and drinking coffee. Going out in the sun was not a preferred activity and I heard my family constantly make excuses for my appearance to others. I was told that I was not as pretty as my cousins due to my skin colour and that I w...