|| The Feisty Copperhead ||

Made of You

It’s as though my every pore is made of you.
And I lie awake every night; stand for hours in the shower
Clawing time and again at my body, just to get your presence out of me
That clings on like the smell of your breath clung to my hair as we lay together
Entwined in the sun whose rays lazily lapped at your hair
Just like the words you throw at me lazily lap at my feet
Scorching, the very being that once wrote sonnets on your eyes
Hailing praise at the very things that today make the nerves in my back sizzle, bringing alive the feeling of surrender
Injecting my veins with ice cold water, almost as cold as the glance you drop me,
Like hail dropping through a rainbow, ruining a Sunday afternoon,
When teenagers hold hands, hiding, just like the way
You hide every ounce of kindness you once spent, and instead choose to press the blades of my disparities,
To the nape of my neck, similar to how your fingers would trace, as your poison stained lips broke
The very resolve that held my pieces together
Pieces you broke
As we lay down on a bed of my insecurities
Peppering kisses, making hate.
Still can feel your breath, tracing down from the corner, I liked when you’d kiss,
Tickling my ear, whispering little words of disgust, that burned themselves in my memory,
And play over and over again
A stuck record, making me cover my ears
Like a child in a nightmare,
Where I’m losing my self
As I fight to hang on to you.

self medi(a)cation

Beautiful and soo relatable


help |hɛlp|
verb [ with obj. ]
make it easier or possible for (someone) to do something by offering them one’s services or resources

To whomsoever it may concern,

Growing up, I drew out my silver linings from off-white pages and the silver screen’s safe cocoon.

And I’m sure a part of you did too, regardless of whether or not you spent your time as a kid running around playing with friends all the time, or being holed up in their zone with a book or a movie. The degree of influence must’ve varied, obviously, if you’ve made it this far I’m sure none of the Superman movies drove you into checking for flight powers by flinging yourself off the balcony.

I, myself, have made it this far owing to the films about people wanting to fling themselves off the balcony.

There was the Breakfast Club in senior year, Silver Lining’s Playbook in…

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The Queen Bee Equivalency

Look how she struts along the path,

Her posse of fans in tow,

Fawning over her every move,

Her every wish their command.


Look how they gather around her,

The queen bee equivalent,

As I look upon, from my invisible spot,

Left out, berated, ignored.


Look how they follow her every step

Attack to hurt, at her word,

With bated breaths, they wait for her approval,

The queen bee chooses her mate.


Look how she stands there, tall and proud,

Like the world revolves around her,

Her posse of workers move ,

programmed to adore her,

walk to surround

her,  And sadly

so do I.



How do you know you’re broken?

Is it the suffocation you feel, alone in a room?

Or the feeling of nausea, of impending doom.

Is it the pain that strikes your heart?

The giving up on love, music and art.

The long nights awake, pillows drenched with tears,

Being with your thoughts- your biggest fear.

That piece of glass at the back of your drawer.

Those marks on your arm, finding solace in that scar.

A joint your best pal, a smile, your worst,

Over thinking, saying you must be cursed.

Blank wordless pages, your struggle to feel alive,

It’s a chore, every day to survive.

The 2am cries,

The “I’m okay” lies

The battle raging inside

The loss of your pride.


How do you know you’re broken?

Is it the helplessness you feel?

The heartache and despair,

An inability to heal.


How do you know you’re broken?

That you let someone get too close,

Gave them the power to hurt

To leave you morose?


How do you know you’re broken?

Can you feel the silence in the air?

Can you feel your sanity calling?

Reaching out to find you

Only, you’re not there.

Always Is Never Enough.

Dear You,



at all times; on all occasions.

You know that moment when you realize that someone’s ‘always’ has an expiry date? When ‘forever’ just isn’t long enough.

With the “I’ll always keep in touch”, the “I’ll always love you” and the “We’ll be friends forever”, do we actually fall prey to our imagination and believe that we can actually be a permanent part of someones life?

We all the know the reality of such promises, high school classmates all promising to stay in touch after graduation, the “I’ll always love yous” collected from all our exes. Why then do we allow ourselves to believe these empty promises and get hurt every time? Why do we agree to put ourselves through the same believe-deny-hurt-cry cycle that always ensues the breaking of such promises?

I have over 50 pals who had promised to call me regularly. We had planned to show up for all of each others important days and happy times, but today, a facebook comment is all I get from them. To be honest, I’m no better.

When it comes to love though, I pride myself for always upholding my promise of ‘always’. Yes, I’m sad to say that I have still kept my promise of forever being in love with the first person I dated. Well,I did say that I would. Unfortunately, I will always have a sweet spot for her for the rest of my life. Love screws you up, amirite?

Moving on, all her then love filled ‘sincere’ promises now seem unbelievable coming from someone who finds me as disgusting as she does. Yet, I foolishly still believe that she will come around or perhaps just once, remember her words to me?

Why do we depend on others to give us their love forever? Why is it that a short period of love, of friendship just isn’t enough for us? Why do we keep waiting for others to make those promises to us, when we can promise to love our self forever?

What forces us to measure our worth in terms of how much someone else loves us?

The only ‘always’ we need is ours, because when it comes to others, ‘always and foreveris just never enough. 




No Smoking.

Dear You,

*Cigarette smoking is injurious to health*

Duh, I’m 19. Of course I know this. Doesn’t stop me from lighting one every now and then.

I didn’t always smoke. In fact, being someone with asthma, there was a time when I couldn’t stand in the vicinity of someone with an ignited ciggy at their lips. All this changed when she left though. I took my first drag, as I dreaded going home, as I would have to face her.

Her. The girl who gave me everything, and yet, took away the very essence of my existence- my ability to trust, to love and most importantly- to write.

Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.

People are too.

Its funny how sometimes, we give a few people so much of importance, that their departure can alter our very being. We were meant to come in this wold alone, else we’d be born in groups, thus proving that we can survive on your own (except for procreation of course.) Relationships, love, friendship, they’re all our creations. So is dependency. I needed her to get over the ups and downs of life, and now I need something else to get over her.

I tried everything, alcohol, cigarettes, weed, anything to give me the high that she gave me, yet nothing matches the increase of my heart rate, as it does when she is around.

Which makes me pretty lame.

I can talk big, about not needing her, or anyone for that matter. But truth is, as I stand at my window all alone, lips kissing a cigarette butt instead of hers, reading her old letters to me as a playlist of ‘our songs’ plays in the background, I can’t help realize that we do need people in the end. Some will be more important than the others, and it’s okay to miss them when they leave. 

They might be poison for your heart, they might break you beyond repair, or maybe, their time in your life just got over. However stupid it seems, you might want them.

It doesn’t make you weak, it doesn’t make you needy. It only makes you more human. 

And in a world full of machines all trying to show who’s tougher, a bit of humanity blowing off some steam can’t seem to hurt, can it?




Studying history is like reading badly written fan fiction that puts you to sleep. 

Finite Infinities




Dear You,

Life comes with memories, with feelings.

With dreams, emotions and thoughts. With hopes and hurt and love and loss.

With dissatisfaction.

But most importantly, life comes with people. People, who shape not only the person you will one day become, but also, the way you shape others.                          One night after getting pretty stoned, a friend and I decided to go up to the 5th floor terrace of our hostel building, and stargaze. And of course, as anyone moderately high, we talked about our futures and the people we cared about. Life in general, you get the idea. When she said something that really caught my interest.

‘Everyone comes into our lives for only a finite time, but each finite relationship can last an infinity.’

Multiple infinities in a finite timeline. It all depends on what you do with your time. And this got me thinking. Maybe the love that I lost was such an infinity. Maybe we should have stayed together, maybe we couldn’t have. But every moment that I spent with her was nothing less than a life time. Every hug, every kiss, one step closer to the end, but each a piece added to the infinity that we were creating together. Our time was limited, as is the sun’s every day, but that shouldn’t have stopped us from creating enough to last us a life time. ‘Cause after all, that’s what memories are right? A picture of what used to be. So, instead of dreading the end we all know is inescapable, let’s embrace it, let’s make our own little infinities.

We spend a lot of time worrying about what will happen tomorrow. Instead, we should worry about whether we sang in the rain enough; danced with our loved ones enough, kissed enough (I know I haven’t). How about, we stop worrying and just live. Hold each other’s hand, see the world together. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, whether you will be with your significant other or not. How about we make what we have right now, last forever.

You don’t yet know how your timeline will work. You might love them, their time as a part of your existence might be over, or just maybe, after 10 years, you are to meet again, only this time, both, a little more wrinkled, a little more mature, a little more prepared for what is to happen. Your finite time together slightly extended?

The rule is to lament the exit of a dear character from the play that is our life, but how about we all be an exception and really live every moment with them, so that the end doesn’t seem as bad, and we have something to forever hold on to, as we enter the next infinity with the next in line.



How ‘NOT’ to write a book- A review of ‘Half Girlfriend’ by Chetan Bhagat

(This is a really old one that I had written for an assignment, thought everyone should know how lame the book really is.)

As with most of his books, Half Girlfriend begins with Bhagat being stalked by a man with a story, and he then decides to (surprise surprise!) turn it into his next ‘Best Seller’, and thus is told to us, the story of Madhav and Riya, a small town boy and a girl from the big city of Delhi. Blossoming in St. ‘Stevens’ (as the ‘English types’ call it), this is the story of how they fell in love.

Madhav approaches Mr. Bhagat with a set of journals, written by his lost ‘Half –Girlfriend’, hoping they would be of some use to him, as the girlfriend in question (half, I mean) was a big fan of his, and he’d spent many a time  reading his works by her side.

Curiosity finally gets the better of the author, and we then embark on a journey that is the (not so) colourful love story of Riya Somani and Madhav Jha.

Their college life was basically Madhav trying to kiss Riya, while she politely rejected his advances, referring to him as ‘Baby’  and failed attempts at conversing in English. Add terribly described basketball matches to the mix and you have yourself the first act of the book. And of course, how can I forget Madhav’s desperation, leading him to use the worst pick up line of all time, a crude “Deti hai toh deh, warna kat le”, in order to get where he wanted to with his lady love. Continue reading “How ‘NOT’ to write a book- A review of ‘Half Girlfriend’ by Chetan Bhagat”

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