I’m made up of broken pieces.
I’m emotionally fragile, intricately made. Most of the time I wipe my tears off using the back of my hand, and I lock my true self away in the back of my mind. My vessels have question marks streaming inside them to feed my self-curiosity. I tend to get hurt a lot. I tell them that I don’t take things personally. That I’m not the kind of person who jumps to conclusions. Because who would want that, right? I know. No one. But deep down in my restless nights and my shattered thoughts, I really am that kind of person. A really horrible, emotionally unstable person.
I am very tortuous.
I’m a girl obsessed with words that form despicable feelings. That’s why I read and write a lot. It takes me to worlds which are not mine. I long for the exploration of the ideas that other people have.
I’m an ocean full of secrets.
My definition of happiness varies in the depth of the situation I’m in. I drown people with all the love I give. I get jealous easily and I lose my self-esteem whenever I see my ocean treasures floating away from me. The burden I feel is like when I remove stickers and/or price tags from my prime possessions, and it leaves a mark. That also reminds me that everything I have now wasn’t always mine.
I feel things I shouldn’t be feeling. I think of thoughts they told me not to think about. I fall in love with words instead of people. I’m both very stubborn and really obedient. But I’ve already told you, it depends on the situation.
Sometimes my way of thinking is all about self-hate.
However, I wouldn’t go to the deeper part of this article to rant about how I loathe myself. Well, I was about to. But I changed my mind. I admit that I’m not physically and mentally perfect. I have flaws encased in my personality that travels with me like a luggage I carry. I’m the connotation of complicated, but that’s just who I am. I’m walking down a familiar path full of autumn leaves. I’m still trying to find my old self again. This new one requires taking multiple leaps of faith. I’m going to abolish my darker thoughts that will soon cease to exist. I will bloom, I will rise, I will soar.

. . .and I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m going to be enough.

(image found on


We were the seasons together. Like roses, we bloomed with sophistication.
I trace my palm and remember our shared memories together.
I know this because I’ve felt it before.
It’s you all over again.

But there is the now.

Now is different.

Back then, I used to inhale the icy fog that surrounds us and exhale the things my emotions dictate me. How did I manage to treat you below zero degrees while having fragments of falling feelings for you? Crazy. One of them tells me that we were lucky to have each other, although “have” isn’t really the word for us. The truth is, there was never an ‘us’. But we had something for each other, something that was ours and something to fight for.

I can still clearly recall the weeks I kept avoiding you. My dilemma was swirling in an unending haze and I was caught up in it. I want you, but it seems complicated. When we pass each other at the halls, your eyes won’t set mine free. That’s when you do it. Your ‘look of home’. I felt guilty at my silent treatment, but hell, I wanted to snuggle up in your arms. Your sincerity, your protectiveness, and the look you used to give me when you were hiding your jealousy. Those are the things that I keep glued to my mind after all this time up to now when I stop and stare at you without you noticing.

But now, you have her.
I know you guys love each other, so I’ll pass.
However, I’m still thankful for the summer embers you ignited me with. Now I know that I can soar and touch the clouds. I know that someday I’ll miss your presence but when that time comes, you won’t be here with me. You’ll be with her. You’re the curtains that brush against my skin on a windy day. Once you touched my heart and felt my soul, you’re ready to leave.

But thank you. You became my hardest goodbye unexpectedly. Someday I’ll grow a garden out of all the seeds you planted upon me, and the seeds we planted together. And by the time everything is less complicated, I am never going to let you go again.


(painting by Clare Elsaesser)

It’s them.

“Write,” they tell me.

“But I don’t know how,” I reply. I have been confused lately, always over thinking about my crappy writing style.

“Just… write. Don’t be afraid to mess up,” they look at me with curious eyes, unable to determine the frequencies my mouth projects. They don’t seem to get me. “Frustrated? Write. Happy? Write. Not feeling like writing at the moment? Just write. In writing, there’s no good or bad. There’s no right or wrong. They can’t judge you because of what you like to write on that paper. We all have our own sides of mediocrity. Whether they give a damn about you or not, don’t stop expressing yourself by writing. The world doesn’t stop for them.”

I felt a hand hold mine. It pulls me up and out into this labyrinth. Now I can see where I used to be. Dark and lumpy, the stars around the maze get dimmer every second. I watch the sky fold into prickles of dust until it gets out of my sight. The hand continuously holds me. And then I look up.

It’s them. I look deep into their soul and I find my heart there. Their bodies are formed intricately, and with a delicate touch they can give you wings and make you fly. That’s what they did to me.

“What are your names?” I ask.

They look at me with complete genuineness. “We only have one,”

“Then what is it?” My eyes fill with solace. I think I’m going to burst. Peace, warmth, tranquility. That’s what I feel. I will finally find out the name of my saviors.

“Words.” they reply.


(artwork by Izza Thapa)