Oh, To Be Pure Again

Begging God to fix you!

(And other tales about religious trauma)

the least you can do is be kind!!! we're all horrible human beings love is the only hope out there

Soooo I wrote a poem on Bulbbul

I'm the woman who burnt herself in her own rage's flames,

The one burning down love letters, only to burn her hand seeking them out from the fire back,

The one starved for touch yet

The one who stings if you're near.

I'm that woman whose love you snapped away,

The one whose blood is on your dagger,

The one whose skin's bruised because she fell down the stairs,

the one whom you drove mad.

I'm that woman with kohl eyes, and

Ruby red lips,

The tragedy they pity,

The one no one suspects,

The one, who killed.

liking people who live in the same city as you is so weird like i passed the flyover that connects our homes you made fun of me for not knowing it and now i do and you probably live here somewhere and i want to click a picture and send it to you and be like look!!! it's the colorful cable bridge near your house!!!! but i can't. because we don't fucking talk anymore 😭

ur in her dms i’m in her boop notifications

i made an alt where i ramble even more thank you very much

unfortunately, to my parents’ disapproval, the one thing i truly dream of is having a home. i know i am supposed to dream big and “shatter the glass ceiling," and i do, but really, this is as close to my heart. i don't imagine the number of rooms and how big or small the house is, but i do dream about the sunlight coming through the windows, the quiet summer afternoons in the courtyard, the plants and flowers that are to be grown, along with the groceries to be bought. i dream of a gentle life with my beloved, where there will be no slamming of doors and neither of us will go to sleep with quiet resentment in our hearts that grows every day. i'll be able to hear the laughter of the children playing down the street, reverberating off the walls, and tell them stories—from the undying devotion between two lovers to the ventures of the fellow knight—while drinking tea on which too much money was spent for sugar, which leaves ring marks on the kitchen table. i dream of the books that are to be read, which will adorn every shelf and corner, and the paintings that are to be hung.

My loved ones are always welcome, irrespective of whether they want company, help, or words of kindness during trying times. i dream of the mehfils that are to be held, the ghazals that will be sung, and the shayeris that are to be recited. there will be winter nights spent huddled around the fire with my friends, where the courtyard will witness us dreaming aloud and revisiting old jokes. there'll be new recipes i'll learn, cupcakes i will bake, a favorite song i'll hum, and movies i'll watch. after all, some dreams are not about leaving legacies or achieving success in boardrooms; they do not call for applause, shine under spotlights, or get remembered in the pages of history. some of mine are more fragile, steadier—ones that have the comfort of a voice that calls for dinner, the creak of familiar wooden floors, the smell of fresh bread and candles of jasmine, with the last note of the serenade lingering in the air.

it’s so true that the greatest weapon against nihilism and existential despair is to find joy in the mundane and never stop chasing after love

ON THAT ONE PARTICULAR BRAND OF URBAN LONELINESS

Nigel Van Wieck, Aron Wiesenfeld, Mitski, Holly Warburton, Maïté Grandjouan