Is it easy?

Is it easy
To always be
Nice, and warm, and understanding,
Generous, and uncomplaining, and accommodating,
Funny, and forgiving?

Is it easy
To let go of your ego,
To masquerade,
To swallow every last sliver of sarcasm,
To bite back a million edgy retorts,
To be everyone’s favorite?

Is it easy
To not be you?


Being in love.

I sometimes wonder what being in love would be like –
Maybe, I’d be a bunch of nerves flurrying down the streets,
Maybe, I’d feel my pulse quicken a zillion times every minute,
Maybe, I’d find it comforting to have someone look out for me,
Maybe, I’d let tiny little rays of sunshine seep through the blinds of my windows each morning, to tickle my effervescence,
Maybe, I’d see new hope, new reasons to smile everyday,
Maybe, I’d learn to sigh a little less,
Or maybe, I’d begin to like myself, a little more.

Who do I want to be?

I want to stop wanting
to be who she is.
I want to stop wanting
The lilt in her laughter,
The spring in her step,
The zeal in her voice,
The warmth in her smile.

I want to stop wanting
Her success,
Her glory,
Her guts,
Her freedom,
Her choices,
Her light,
Her lustre.

I want to start wanting to be,

She’s so much more than her last name.

I sometimes wonder why a woman’s status quo changes so much when she gets divorced or widowed.

I mean, so what if she’s separated? So what if she’s lost her husband? We can’t school her on how she should grieve. Or what she should wear. Or where she should live.

Also, how on earth does becoming a widow make a woman inauspicious? Why is she suddenly expected to behave and dress differently? Why is talking to her considered a taboo? Why is she asked to live without sunshine, colours, light and laughter, when a man can live however he wants to, whether he i married, separated or widowed?

We can’t go around screaming slogans on gender equality and women empowerment if we think women are puppets that can only swing to the strings pulled by men.

Screw the society and its norms, if it forces you to presume a man’s entry or exit from a woman’s life has the capacity to define who she is, or how she must live.

Because, her identity, if you haven’t realised yet, is so much more than her last name.


The emptiness, the long silences

I sometimes like the emptiness,
The long silences,
When, I don’t have to string my broken words into sentences,
I let the vacuum consume me
into nothingness,
I see reason, to swim back
Into sunshine.


How can I?

You can’t expect me to count until 20,
When I want to
Send slivers of my head throbbing with fury,
Into every corner of the universe,
Or scream myself hoarse,
until the trepidation in my veins,
dissipates, into nothingness.