Your Words

You used to say I was beautiful, I just found out you were blind. You said you loved the way I spun my words to poetry, But you don’t know my language. You said we’ll be forever, But forever ended yesterday.

IMG_4804.JPG (Also, big thanks and lot of love to my best friend, Latika Sharma, for letting me use her picture. I love you ❤️)


I admit I’m not the nicest person you’ll meet.
I am not generous, or kind, or caring.
I say hurtful things on purpose.
I lie, steal and kill.
I’m selfish and I’m scarred.
I don’t know how to help.
I don’t know how to love.

But if I want to,
I’ll gaurd as loyaly as a devoted canine.
I’ll stay with you for as long as forever lets me.
I’ll take a bullet in the heart for the ones I care enough for.
I will heal you, after I hurt you.
I will believe in you, after I break your trust.
And even though I don’t know how,
I will love as passionately as only I can.

White Prison – Short Story #3

She had never woken up at this hour before. Maybe she did, but that time of her life has long passed and she can’t remember it. They gave her pills every night so she wouldn’t wake up at this hour, so she wouldn’t ever be alone with no one to watch over her every move. This time she didn’t swallow the pills like she used to every night. She put the glass of water to her lips, but didn’t gulp the tasteless, bland liquid down. She had been here for so long she doubted they even thought that she could try something like that. They don’t know a thing about her. How can they say they’re healing her when they don’t know what’s wrong with her in the first place? The room is so white. She always hated this color. White is peaceful. White is quiet. White is everything she isn’t. The world outside is black. That’s where she should be. That’s where she blends in. There are locks and cameras everywhere. She can never get out, unless she heals. Maybe she is and she doesn’t know what it feels like. Surely she is better now that they keep her alive on wires and little pills in orange bottles. There is a fruit bowl on the bedside table. It’s doing a painfully bad job to hide the huge stack of reports and wires. Ironically, the fruits here taste disgusting. This feels like old times, when she was reckless and crazy. She rebelled without a cause, without a reason. Well, that’s what they all thought. There were reasons; she would tell if they asked. If they asked. She stayed out late just so that they would worry about her. She shut her door all the time because she wanted them to open it and ask her what’s wrong. She cried all day so that they would wipe her tears. “We’re doing this because we love you,” they had said when they left her here. Love can’t be that oblivious. Sitting up, she picked up the glass of water next to her, emptied it on her bed and smashed it on the floor. A lady came in, and shook her head on seeing the mess. “Bad dreams, sorry.” The lady scooped her up and dumped her on the sofa as she stripped off the sheets from the bed and ran out to get new ones. She returned with a dustpan. She fixed the bed and cleaned up the glass from the floor. Soon, the room was like it was before, and she left. She should’ve noticed. She should’ve done her job. She should’ve turned around and seen how the little girl’s hands were still clutched around a particularly sharp piece of glass.

Closed Door

She saw it again,
her fear haunting her.
How the art of deceit,
its immortal form,
was merging in her life.
Her thoughts, rather a web,
a web of vulnerability.
A web of the past,
clinging to what seemed lost.
Was it only her thoughts?
Or was history repeating itself?
She finally gave in,
gave in to find the truth.
Hope being her drug.

- by Vibhuti Kathpalia
( The best friend I could have ever asked for. )