Swan's Labyrinth

When you know it is Love

When love is skin-deep, you know it is love.
When you find each other even in day-dreams, you know it is love.
When you trace each other in song lyrics, you know it is love.
When you sway along in perfect rhythm, you know it is love.
When you learn their favourite recipes and read their favourite books, you know it is love.
When you fix their hair, you know it is love.
When you kiss their hurt away, you know it is love.

When love cuts deep to the bone, you know it is not love.
When you resist comforting hugs, you know it is not love.
When your hands shiver at the sight of them, you know it is not love.
When you fake smiles at superficial confessions, you know it is not love.
When you doubt their truth, you know it is not love.
When you are too intimidated to be theirs, you know it is not love.
When you go to bed crying because of them, you know it is not love.

When love is on the surface, you know it is hate.
When you scream at midnight, you know it is hate.
When you turn a blind eye to them in corridors, you know it is hate.
When you scribble away their name in your diary, you know it is hate.
When you are frantically deleting their pictures, you know it is hate.
When you are tearing yourself apart for them, you know it is hate.
When you are blaming your naivety at the end of it all, you know it is hate.

When hate is nearing the conscience, you know it is not hate.
When you are spelling out their prettiest promises in poems, you know it is not hate.
When a smile creeps on your face when you hear their name, you know it is not hate.
When you pass by the same places where you made the best out of your time together, you know it is not hate.
When you blush when their face shows up on your phone, you know it is not hate.
When you replay the happiest moments in your head over and over again, you know it is not hate.
When you almost hit send on the ‘I miss you’ text, you know it is not hate.

When hate is just an excuse, you know it is love.
When the hate finds the two of you even in day-dreams, you know it is love.
When the hate traces the two of you in song lyrics, you know it is love.
When the hate sways the two of you along in perfect rhythm, you know it is love.
When the hate reminds you of their favourite recipes and their favourite books, you know it is love
When the hate reminds you to fix their hair, you know it is love
When the hate reminds you to kiss their hate away, you know it is love.
It is love.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: Happy Valentine’s Day 💕

Why Do I Write, Afterall?

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

Why do you write? A question that I anticipated to knock on my doors any fine spectacular day, because my story- even though will side-track hither and thither occasionally- is one that I have stored in me long enough and today I might just take the risk of writing it here. Yes, light controversies and brutal honesty coming your way.

It started out when I was 12, during the pandemic. Poetry, literature and language had not quite particularly been my fancies for the longest time back then. The lockdown had a major shift in my perception and my personality. Even though I had not set about with substantial knowledge in writing poetry, it gave me an immense amount of joy and contentment to have written something impressive that was liked by the people around me who mattered. But, what I had confused myself with was my passion and my frantic quest for productivity during leisure times. Albeit, dance and music had been two crucial hobbies of mine that I pursued with great interest, I hadn’t quite fathomed yet what I was truly passionate about. Poetry came as a bolt from the blue. On perusing a certain yearly newsletter that used to be published in my middle school, it was a pang in the heart to have not seen my poem published that year round. Why did that hurt me so much? I didn’t know, when writing was only a side hobby, in fact, much less a hobby rather than a piece of something productive to keep me busy. Did it hurt my ego? Perhaps, yes. I think as and when I started out with poetry, I did it much for validation- to be labelled as eloquent, articulate, well-versed, and all the ego-boosters that my conscience knew all too well I didn’t need but, amateurly, wanted. However, having seen my poem published in the next newsletter that had been issued, the proud feeling of accomplishment was… new. To witness a poem that encompassed snippets of my experience during lockdown, written with my creativity and imagination- much of a vent poem- given credit filled me with ample gratitude- once again, a feeling that was very new to me.

But the search for validation persisted. By and by, on being encouraged by my teachers and peers to write more and enhance my skills, I decided to establish an Instagram account to showcase all of my writeups… this being one of the biggest mistakes I ever made. What might follow from here might come off as controversial but my opinion is not an endorsement for anybody reading this.

I started out young; a bit too young on Instagram. Nevertheless, I wanted a platform, if at the very least, to showcase my talent. However, what followed in due course was addiction: Addiction to validation, addiction to flattery, addiction to the app, and with time, resentment towards criticism. What I thought was my passion was not. Yet, did I enjoy writing? Absolutely! I had the capability and I had broadened my horizons enough to keep honing my skills. In fact, I started basing my entire personality on my poetry. Eventually, I realized that my sole purpose wasn’t one that ideally should be. My thought process was unhealthy and could have been detrimental for me in the long haul. Now as I realize, every single time my mother reminded me of the amount of time I spent on my phone reading heart-warming comments and her reiteration of the smugness of an attitude that I might develop by and by which ultimately will turn my so-called passion and talent to one that used-to-be, I will remember for the rest of my life. I don’t feel the contempt anymore that I had felt when my Instagram account was hacked and therefore, for which, I lost my access to it. I think if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have been writing this veracious blog post here. This taught me one of my biggest lessons in life, “If you love something dearly, ask yourself, ‘Why?’” On a better note, Instagram taught me a lot about writing. I discovered the most inhumanely talented writing community on the social website to which I dedicate most of the knowledge that I possess about modern writing- so much about the current world, so much about life, so much about literature- it was a vast ocean of the deepest and integral thoughts.

As I continued with my writing, I realized that I had gradually opened up bit by bit. I had invariably undertaken fictitious scenarios to work upon, again to expand my reach and validation, but by and by I started to pen down an essence of my emotions in my poetry as well. I haven’t been quite articulate in expressing myself in a conversation until I have had the opportunity to pen it down; and I do it best with poetic devices. There is so much on my mind all the time- so much to convey, so much to work upon, so much to dream. But, it’s true altogether, that one cannot make everybody think and feel as deeply as they do. It does hurt to know that you might understand people but they might not. As I have almost always tried to blend in an environment wherein, I have had to spur my practicalities and logics into action, somewhere down the line I have the tendency to lose a bit of my literary headspace. I don’t blame the subject neither the people but rather the irksome switch that I experience at times when I sit down to do something creative. Oftentimes, it’s writer’s block but most of the time it’s the hint of embarrassment that comes along as and when I extensively ponder over frivolous or ignorant comments about expression through literature, on a day-to-day basis. Time and again, I have sought to be understood for- as much as I might sensitize myself while I say this- I am not an open book. I am in fact, a W.B. Yeats poem varnished and engulfed in undertones. I want to be understood not because I want to have someone with whom I can enjoy talking to but because I want to learn to be open. I want to learn that there could be another human who might delve into the depths of the bare minimum and bring out the beauty from within.

We live in a world of superficiality. That is a tragedy per se. I could form a part of the smallest ratio of the youth in the world that looks beyond the technical facets of society but, I might as well do my part. So yes, I write. I write because I want to be understood and because I want to make everyone understand the importance of understanding.

I think somewhere, deep inside of all of us, we want to be understood, so why not try to understand the intricacies of understanding first?

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

A letter of self-appreciation

Dear Me,

I know you weren’t given enough credit for all of the pain you managed to bottle up in the hopes of not losing the people you thought you needed. So, here is a little appreciation letter for surviving the most pathetic year gone by.

You spent last new year’s writing an ode to the year that had then gone by. Somehow, you overlooked the parts wherein you pined for people to surround you and assure you that if not anything or anybody else, there will always be them you could look forward to every new year’s. You spent this new year’s watching the fireworks through your window, too intimidated to be amongst reckless but what seemed like the happiest people alive screaming the countdown at the top of their lungs. You had every scope in the world to have the most fun out there but you loathe the idea of looking forward to a new year with unwavering optimism because you have grown to be averse to hoping; hope has brought nothing but aching ruin to you. Maybe, if you stopped hoping, you would be, if not completely, just a little bit happier. But, here are some things you should know before you step into another chapter of this already failing story.

You were brave this year. It was one quality that you wielded throughout those 365 days that faded steadily like every animation input you added to enhance your frustrating school presentations but nobody troubled themselves to notice or acknowledge them. You were disintegrated into pieces because some fists didn’t care to loosen their grips on parts of you that were delicate. However, somehow you fit all the pieces just right into place and masked the wreckage all over you with pristine perfection. You are brave. No matter if nobody says it to you or if nobody truly means it, you must know that you are brave.

You were diligent this year. Your hard-work and talent after all did pay off. You wrote poems and stories that made someone cry, laugh, strong, inspire, dream, but most importantly, fall in love with art. You made the pretentious and frivolous fall in love with the idea of dreaming and embracing their emotions. Though few viewed you with blinding superficiality and invalidation and broke your deeply-in-love heart in the interim, you were diligent. You are talented. You are hard-working. No matter if nobody says it to you or if nobody truly means it, you must know that you are talented.

You fell in love this year. And you lost it too. You got your heart broken by someone you wished had been by your side this new year’s kissing your hand, telling you he’ll love you forever. You made mistakes but you learned from them too. Not once had you pondered on losing only love, because friendship barely subsisted. You lost an enormous chunk of your happiness but you mended other fragile bonds. You found people who won’t pack their bags and leave you behind after giving you two months of remarkable bittersweet memories to archive in your heart, but a lifetime of calling- you-up-on-unusual-hours-of-the-day-just-to-ask-you-if-you’re-doing-well. You gained lessons- hard-hitting but most integral. You deserve happiness and you deserve love in all forms. No matter if nobody says it to you or if nobody truly means it, you must know that you are loved.

You struggled this year. Your graph declined bit by bit, crushing every ounce of effort you had put in. Nothing you did was valued. You laughed at all the soul-wrenching jokes on you. You gulped at every snide comment targeted towards you that fell in your earshot. You nodded frantically at every reproval because you believed it’s for the best. You sauntered around places with shiny people and took pictures just to have someone like you, and went to bed with an empty face and hollow eyes that cried tears so deafeningly silent. But, you were resilient. You picked up right where everybody left you to decay and started again. You wiped the tears off your face and worked with a spirit barely diminished. No matter if nobody says it to you or if nobody truly means it, you are resilient.

Perhaps, you’re still wallowing in dejection. Perhaps, you’re still locked up in your room writing some weird letter to yourself for “reinforcement”. Perhaps, you’re still scrolling on Instagram hoping your story echoed some glitter and sparkles and fun too. Perhaps, you’re still emphatically acting out hypothetical scenarios in front of the mirror to keep you happy just in delusion. Perhaps, you’re still trying to get over him but failing every single time his face shows up on your phone. Perhaps, you still wish you were one amongst the reckless but what seemed like the happiest people alive screaming the countdown at the top of their lungs. Perhaps, you still wish you weren’t letting all these horrible emotions flood through your constitution. Perhaps, you’re still hoping, as much as you might hate it, that the coming year treats you a bit better. And perhaps, you’re promising yourself that you are going to make it better.
Perhaps, the most pathetic year gone by just made you stronger.
Keep going.

Love,
You.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: yes i actually wrote this while i was weeping in my room on new year’s while the dj won’t stop blasting the most horrifying song remixes. happy new year i guess.

To Carry Your Bruises

TW // domestic violence

The nightmare digs into me and I wake up with claw marks on my skin.

Fever dreams slither and lacerate like the bite of a December evening:

Snow globes that shatter and his brittle heart that I disintegrate, akin;

My shoulder blades toughen in the bitter warmth of his jacket.

But, the love is still breathing.

The anger that is calm, calculating glides across the snow-laden pavement;

Anticipation- agonizing and excruciating like the lyrics of your new favourite song.

Your lies, an ardent merlot on my cheeks percolating in your charred palms with a hate proudly latent.

Mortifying and pleasing secrets are presents you keep from me in your pocket.

So, with you I will always belong.

Soft solitude in shades of grey I desire still with bruises that he painted on my dainty eyelids;

Glass shards that pierce my feet feel still akin to daffodil petals he promised in so many days early;

Weightless a faith so brutally devised- I fall still into it- with every prudent night into him that I confided;

Soaring glory that he kisses on podiums where I lay stranded;

Eternally, I watch him shine with eyes blurry.

I wake up… verily and breathe away from the fallacy; haunting and daunting from a past I dread still.

Faded bruises that serve as reminders of a grit I held onto in moments of hurt on end,

And I live on in the tender wisps of cold that brush against my cheeks- a carnation pink crying a content so shrill.

A girl you painted a dreary grey, lies now curled in a blanket;

Eventually, no great love she needs anymore to mend.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: I have invariably tried merging sensitive topics- in this case, domestic violence- with a poetic rhythm of sorts to convey the pain and depths of the topic in a rather ambiguous or though-provoking approach. in this poem, i also added elements of the winter aura and used it as a major symbol throughout.

A Breath Away From Forever

TW // suicide implied + too many illicit scenarios

My cherry-red lips bled into your wine-stained shirt;

I drank your blue eyes and plucked petals off your flower bed for the sake of it;

Don’t worry darling, we’ll swerve our chastity like two masterminds with one soul and keep our rendezvous covert;

Nights that scathe my bones and wrench your flesh, I closet in my heart for a perfect fit.

Candlelit stairwells that lead to portals of our dark minds’ abyss;

One creek in the stair equals two kills for the soul;

Broken ribs and desiccated flesh, thrusting blood-stained knives hurt like a first kiss;

Old haunts in dilapidated libraries and favouritism in medieval castles are desires I stole.

You said, “Paint me a starry hued daydream strewn across your bed sheets that I writhed on.”

I said, “I drape myself in ambrosia to seize the amber streaks in the day, must I love you

ferociously until I die?”

You kissed away the dilemma, you bit away the uncanniness, you touched away the separation… all gone.

My lipstick stains your chest as she tears your shirt apart; for me you would only let your blood congeal, dry.

Clandestine routes back home, roses placed against my ear;

One loud whisper equals two kills for the heart,

Vigilant eyes and prudent steps, slow-dancing in the foyer till you let my lipstick smear;

We run, we stare, we laugh, we kiss, we fall from grace and then we part.

Love me till my sweet nothings turn rancid in the darkest hours;

Tame my pulsing heart in the dead of the night and kiss the sweat beads away;

Squeeze my hand, my darling, when no one’s watching- a secret language of ours;

I’ll reach out to the clouds in your head and trace your footprints till they lead me astray.

Caged flames that ignite your nerves, docile wounds that chisel away my skin;

One loud cry equals two kills for the body;

Two bruises that entwine, two broken hearts that coincide, two fatal desires that grin,

Two palms that kiss, two eyes that pine and pierce, two bodies that free-fall akin to feathers so shoddy.

Her pale-blue lips now bleed into the scarlet of his forehead;

Whispers melt into the night breeze and to the two souls that fled;

No more rueful tears to shed.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: Did I or did I not just write something awfully dark about the forbidden love trope?

I dreamed of getting over you…

Often waiting for you in stillness is far better than searching for you in empty crowds.

When I’m in my own head in the midst of a horrendous road-traffic and you’re trying to retrace your steps to where you left me,

The garden statues watch over us with ghost-filled eyes and too many sins to shroud.

What once flourished with patches of blush peonies and gardenias now reeks of mildew, as rotten and defiled as it could be.

Your versions were one too many for me and I guess that was your last call.

You left irrevocably and completely and with as much faith I can pull off, I can say I have never been better since then.

Your presence switched from soulful to stifling without notice and even laying eyes on you seemed too far-fetched a hope to haul.

The repeat of a full circle of one step forward and three steps back and crying myself to sleep while your indifference gets the best of you- I’m jaded by resisting again and again.

I’m piqued by urging myself to write the love poems that I so very well couldn’t divulge my heart into;

I’m piqued by perpetually mulling over the words you spoke so heedlessly and ignorantly.

So, if earphones plugged in my phone can help me turn a deaf ear to reminders of your presence, then so be it; I’ll be as good as I can be with no conversations with you to pursue,

And if that makes me a burden or a bother then I’m fine with that too; If that means I can’t move on simply then I’d gratefully resort to doing so belligerently.

It’s like I spilled coffee over my favourite shirt and for a moment that seemed like the end of the world.

No matter how much I rinse it, the stain won’t come off. But, soon enough accepting the irrevocable can spark moments of a different kind of joy.

Though the stain of your damage on me still remains, I get oblivious day by day with my contentment well furled.

As I sink into my own headspace I can finally, truly breathe; breathe away from all that time you took me for a decoy.

It’s not the blush peonies or gardenias anymore but, fresh acacias and marigolds for I’m now a work in progress and an endeavour for renewal.

It’s bliss but in a better form that does not vividly promise pain in kaleidoscopic flashes.

It’s not an ecstatic taste of love in a moment and prosaic gazes out the window in the next with no hope to fuel.

The further crumpled part of me still lives on but I’m not anymore the girl who would heed to your half-heartedness, bashfully batting her eyelashes.

I hate cliches now but I am in fact waking up and rising wholly and potently from the ashes.

(Your memories still perceptibly inflict vile gashes.)

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: This poem actually stabs me to death; I can clearly remember being in absolute pieces while writing this; it’s personal to a great extent.

Why Beware the Nail-Biter?

“Keep an eye out for the nail-biter,” they whisper, lurking in corridors with sneering eyes.

Nail-biter wakes up in her topsy-turvy bedroom with unruly hair and foul breath;

Weary-eyed, she stares listlessly at her text messages left unsent and mulls over thoughts of her death.

Nail-biter sits on her desk gaping out the window, dreaming of autumn renewal and blossoming spring;

Her hand trembles when she writes, her eyes tear-up when she visualizes; she’s only soldiering on, clinging to a limp string.

Nail-biter escapes the world momentarily in the smell of gardenias and chrysanthemums from the park she visits occasionally;

Until her only solace too was withdrawn boorishly and her days droned on in daydreams unearthly.

Nail-biter forgets her birthday until her phone chimes with a reminder, “It’s cupcake day!”

She sits on the terrace, legs swinging in the cool night air; a birthday party with the moon and a cupcake, “Here’s to another year to rot and decay!”

Nail-biter laughs and chats away, acts normally around people she’s afraid to lose if she isolates herself again;

But, goes unnoticed and weeps alone in bed all night, empty-hearted with the burden of the heavy little joys of life and, the ghost of her, eventually, only remains.

Nail-biter smiles and applauds cheerily listening to speeches on podiums when her efforts mingle with trash;

She knows too well she is degrading but numbs the pain every single time with false nonchalant mirth, as quickly as a flash.

Nail-biter is unhinged most of the time and steps back in arguments to act quiet and tender;

Can’t stay for long enough or leave as soon as she should, she fails to deny anything at all, her first instinct is to surrender.

Nail-biter hyperventilates in tense and fraught situations and back-pedals before she can fight them away;

Rips her bucket-list to shreds, crushes her hopes and dreams to death as her flame of strength dwindles slowly but surely, to her dismay

Nail-biter regrets speaking too soon, not collecting her thoughts, not being sorry, not building strong relationships, not striving for revival, not trying to be better;

But it’s all okay now- she hardly feels, feels anything at all after she buried all of her humanness way too long ago; she’d prefer being a corpse forever.

So, listen intently to pretentious voices when they echo, “Keep an eye out for the nail-biter.”

Don’t try meddling in ceremonies of pity for the nervous foot-tapper, hair-chewer, lip-purser, the filthy nail- biter.

You won’t see her around anymore in classrooms or parks; she closets herself from plastic hearts she loved selflessly,

But she nonetheless hopes that you find glimpses of her in this poem that she wrote furtively in the dead of the night and the death of her soul, hopelessly.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: This is essentially a vent poem because of all of this pent up angst that I just had to let out.

Receding July

In July,

I dreaded the months agone in painful shine- sparkling their way into the abyss of jeopardized memories painted sanguinary carmine;

Prosaically passing the nights with raindrops plummeting on roof-shingles and the thrumming of window panes; it’s a puzzling rhythm to determine.

In July,

I traced the brass nameplates of archaic households at the back of my mind to fathom out a familiarity I forethought in a dream;

Pensive puddles on muddy lanes splashing their way onto my arms, as passers-by step on them, setting them ever so agleam.

In July,

I swerved the rancour of last November that kaleidoscopically lunged forward in blinding flashes;

I blanketed myself from the past, dissolving the ruthless daylong crisis in scathing ashes.

In July,

I laid in bed for as long as I could, inspecting the veins of birch leaves with filmy eyes and flimsy fingertips;

I blew it away from the window, listened intently to the whoosh of the air giving it a most delightful flight then, shut my eyes to watch the same scene through the veiny shutter of my eyelids in clips.

In July,

Teardrops bled into the sky as it collapsed into smokes of flint whilst the fiery wings of butterflies fluttered into the night;

I compressed the crinkled pages of books that I left unread on purpose for they reminded me of you- blatant and bright.

In July,

I longed for your longing pleasantly, half a minute into the song I associate with you and I;

Past the blindness and the muted voices, I only hear echoes of that wistful last goodbye.

In July,

I left you voice messages that you turned a deaf ear to for my voice stirred those long buried tear-jerking memories in you;

“I know we made promises and left so many stories unfinished but on the spur of the moment it just felt like time was not in favour of you and I and I guess that’s where it ends. Perhaps, maybe, colour the last line blue?”

In July,

My heartbeat stopped untimely in steadfast motion, pulsing emotion and swooping erosion;

I hummed along in virtuous singsong fashion, wrote in pirouetting poetic rhythm, and swayed along to the sounds of the ocean.

In July,

I grew out of summer storms and faced rain storms at simultaneous moments;

Lived the seamless craters of joys and boundless vents of torments.

Goodbye July,

You were kind and painful.;

See around next time with cracks in the heart, soulful.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: 30 minute writeup- an ode to July.

Paper Love

I loved you in forms of paper flowers that you cram in between pages of your diary to always cherish the day that was so far, the best one of your life:

The only day we spent with each other in sun-kissed summer after the previous year cut open your wounds like a knife.

I loved you in forms of paper confetti that rained over us when we were dancing in snow globes and losing ourselves in each step; ceasing to ponder over past conflicts in the blink of an eye;

Those confetti that we collected in bits to take home and pulled an all-nighter to create a mosaic of your face and mine and search for an authentic colour-dye.

I loved you in forms of paper aeroplanes soaring in the wind with inconspicuous notes written inside for your eyes to peruse and for your heart to embrace-

They exude a little love and a little freedom; you and me laced with the taste of ecstasy and light garnishing of surprises for you to trace.

I loved you in forms of paper boats that stray on puddles aimlessly enwreathed by pulsing ripples, reflections of palm trees, and adornments of fallen frangipani on the corners;

Those paper boats that you’d spent hours observing the pathways that they forge and still just when they reach a dead-end or rather wait for them to somehow start from scratch and reverse.

I loved you in forms of paper clouds that you’d colour miscellaneously, assorting them in a way that they resemble cotton candies and store them in little wood cases;

Those same paper clouds off which you’d pick out one randomly each day to infer the aura you’d fill in empty human spaces.

I loved you in forms of paper hearts that you’d find in your stationery case every day with our names written on them and you would tape them to your journal;

Those paper hearts that would recite all the poems that we’d written in our minds which speak of the same essence once and for all:

“I love you with fragility and delicacy with piano keys pressed to sing songs of revival.”

“You and me bearing little paper notes to fill the gaps of our love unconditional.”

“I love you on each passing day: unconditional and eternal…”

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: Thought of writing something light and lovey-dovey; a pure love that everybody would want to experience someday in their lives…

When a Broken Soul breaks Hearts

So you’re cursing my name; scrawling on it over and over till the paper tears,

Funny how I can’t even disparage you when I knew too well how silly you were.

So I turned a blind eye to you; steered clear of your lingering shadow through the window sheers,

Funny how you still hanker around daydreams of me when they must only deter.

You loitered around places where I was bound to be at- the places I thereafter stopped going to.

You scrolled through our texts late at night; soon after I stopped answering yours.

You listened to the songs, read the books, watched the movies that I recommended but didn’t care about; you had no clue.

You proved me wrong when I said I wasn’t good enough, oblivious to the irrevocable tribulation that for so long my mind still endures.

And of course, I had to walk away.

On days when you would wake up with flushed cheeks, emphatically acting out scenarios in front your mirror and exuberantly hopping to where you’d see me,

I woke up teary and baggy eyed with limping legs and dishevelled hair; soul so dreadful I could barely speak; I’d look in the mirror and grimace at the sight of me.

And I knew you thought I was beautiful- every inch of me- at every moment in a day,

But the truth is you haven’t dissected the realities of me that I shroud willingly and choose not to show to you for you are too perfect for me.

So please know that you don’t have to keep looking for creeks and crevices to find a way into my heart;

You don’t have to stare at the rotating fan at the ceiling, foreseeing visions of us and lie awake in the dark.

The girl you think you know doesn’t exist:

You see the cold corpse of the girl who dies a thousand deaths every day with no legacy to leave behind.

She lives life like it’s a simulation and she is just a second fiddle, lying at the back; face and body confined.

“Hearts break every day, tears stain every cheek, sobs mingle with every breath, a piece of everybody dies someday.”

“It’s not you, it’s them. They haven’t gotten their life together. They’re a mess. They’re figuring themselves out. Give them time, they’ll come back to you.”

“Give yourself a break. Have an ice-cream, go hang out with your friends, do karaoke nights, unwind in a scenic beauty on a sunny Sunday”

“Make them regret it. Become twice the better version of yourself. Glow yourself up, wear the best clothes, intrigue them with your wit and genius, read books, dye your hair too.”

To the hearts I broke,

I’m sorry you had to listen to all these adages and reinforcements time and again.

They’re irksome and irritable, I know.

And I’m sorry I cannot be the one to lend you a shoulder when you need it the most.

I’m sorry you had to read this desolate and bothersome poem but, if you did make it till here, please do finish it.

Pick that paper up that you scrawled so hastily and desperately on and get rid of it once and for all.

Watch those, what you deem as, preposterous YouTube videos on how to get over someone.

Listen to your friends and family or maybe therapist even if they repeat the same words over and over.

Back-bite me all you want and say somethings awful about me that you don’t even mean to your friends.

Just please don’t ever stare at the photograph in your phone discreetly at night or read this poem for the umpteenth time.

Please don’t stop where you are or beck-pedal to a place inkier than this.

Please don’t ever, ever think of accepting me the way I am and resort to as many sacrilegious life- situations there are if it guarantees being with me.

Please don’t ever lay your head on the windowsill, shedding tears, killing a piece of you inside willingly for me.

Please don’t ever destroy yourself for me.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: Time to turn heartbreak into something dreamy…

Furthermore, I would also like to address the study hiatus that I had been on for a while because of my exams. During my time off writing I had decided to represent ‘Polarities’ as a stand-alone in lieu of a mini-series. This is because I thought that the elemental message that I was trying to put out through my writeup was diverting as and when I stretched it into a series. I know some of you all were keen to read its subsequent chapters and honestly so was I while I was chalking it out. But, frankly the impact that ‘Polarities’ as a stand-alone created and will create if its subtext is dissected will conform to my person thoughts that I- as the writer- am centrally trying to convey through the poem. Once again, I’m genuinely sorry to everybody who was looking forward to its sequels. And a big, huge, giant THANK YOU to each one of you who showed me so much support throughout. ❤

Hope you all liked this poem!