Curse

Do not enter the room
you believe has been
filled with fragrance
of happiness
of chasing each other’s
dreams and ambitions;
when all it has is
biting melancholy
lining the brittle walls,
countless nightmares
seeking my lunacy,
a failed purpose
to come out alive.

Do not twine your arms
around my neck
and stare into my eyes
to unfold the reasons
of the gloominess
veiling their soul;
for my burning tears
will flood you in
perpetual darkness,
my failures
will haunt you
in your lively dreams,
my disappointments
will rupture your faith
in yourself
in love
maybe, everything.

Do not lie down with me
on heavy and blue nights
to plant a kiss
of solace and wanting
unaware of
the venomous words
inked on my hands
designed in my mind
destroying the peace,
your night arrives with
and howling in your
silent heart.

I am a secret
unhealed
untouched.
Do not forget me
as someone
who is her own curse.

– Kritika Vashist

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Who says love is beautiful? (3)

He would jump, he would fly, he would roll on the floor, he would laugh hard, and he would dance like a madman, yet so passionately. His cheeks would go pink, his smile would widen, and his nose would look like a cherry. People who came to see him thought that, that is how he looked every day, and that is how he would look, forever. The girl who would take the seat closest to the stage thought the same. The girl wasn’t wrong. He would fly, jump, dance, laugh, smile and sing even when he wasn’t performing. He would fly in love, he would sing in love and he would dance in love. He would wait to see her on weekends, in love.

The girl loved to see him, for whatever he did filled her heart with joy. He loved her. His heart felt the joy of being in love.

He held her hand one day to confess the seeding love for her. She shook it off, glanced away and said, “Your hands are just meant to hold juggling balls”.

Who says love is beautiful?
– Kritika Vashist

Sleepless Nights

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The stars spread themselves
over the velvet night sky.
The moonlight penetrates
the darkest voids.
As the silence embarks
another sleepless night.

Through out the day
the clock ticks recklessly,
and the night appears
in a blink of an eye.
Perhaps, time loves night,
as the clock ticks like a ponderous animal.
Perhaps, nights are always heavy,
for they carry our thoughts
all our grief, all our sorrows
all broken dreams, all tomorrows.
Perhaps, nights listen patiently,
about the stories of our loneliness
of our lost love, and all secrets
of disappointment, and regrets.
Perhaps, nights are longer,
for they fight with the demon
that lives within us,
and the one only known to us.

And I wonder,
How the nights are silent,
and yet, speak the loudest.
How the nights are meant to sleep,
and yet, I am here at 1:20 am,
struggling with another sleepless night.

-Kritika Vashist