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This deeply moving poem explores how love and passion can veer into the realm of toxicity. What happens when we let love destroy us?
1. I looked at you with all the cacophony of the wild in my eyes. 2. You did not flinch. 3. My demons played hopscotch in your backyard. 4. You threw them scraps from under your table. 5. My soul hollowed at the sound of your name to accommodate space, they shrunk from within, my lungs filled with your breath, you were me, all of me. 6. Your eyes swallowed me whole. Slowly, slowly, till there was nothing left of me. Funnelled into the iris, no easy way out, right into the centre of your existence. 7. My skin was a map and your kisses were home. You inked me till it hurt, and then I believed all the places that didn’t hurt weren’t home. 8. The music of your voice was my only compass. Your best song was the way you said my name. 9. You filled yourself with vestiges of everything I was till I was nothing, just a floating apparition. I was sinking, I was scared, I was stupid, I was sad. 10. My demons are all dead, your plates all clean, and my compass shows me broken North and battered Souths. 11. You’re breaking, you’re fading. You’re calling out my name but it doesn’t sound like music anymore. 12. I’m gasping for air. 13. You’re drowning, I’m dying. You’re calling this love, you’re kissing me under water, I kiss you back to only realise this isn’t a kiss, this is stealing. This is stealing all my air. This isn’t fair, you’re flinching when you look at my half empty eyes. 14. I’m sorry, I’m lost. I’m sorry, I’m dying. 15. You’re not sorry, you won’t let go, for the love of life, you’re strangling my neck, you’re taking your first whiff of air, you’re breathing, your lungs full of life and your fingers cutting through my neck, I’m dying, I’m sorry I’m dying.
Now I’m half alive, looking for broken walls and shattered glass vases, blood and nail marks, and pain tattooed onto the skin like ink with a broken compass for company.
Because you taught me that any place that doesn’t hurt, isn’t home.
Image credit: Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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