A broken soldier’s love letter


I stopped breathing for a little while last night.

All that I could taste was the warmth
of my own blood
lingering in my mouth. I
couldn’t see after some time either.
Didn’t see anything that moved
like that
and prayed,
lest I die
in the common verity of dying.

For my blacked vision brandished
the memories
of last summer.
As your dress twirled among
the summer fields,
the wind
embracing your hair
like its own.

Blood rushed out
of me.
And my heart pumped
against my chest,
like it does
against yours;
on the warm summer nights.
when your body
would write poetry
to mine.

I craved nothing
more than your
lingering touch against
my skin. Craved the
delicacy of your smile,
as it painted your face, a
different kind
of pristine.
My fingers thirst for
the lush of your mane,
the scent of your nape.
The affection of
your lips,
as they’d trace
starlit kisses against mine.

Since then,
I have been trying
to breathe a little more.
to muster the strength
in my sinews to
run away.
to run back to you.

Wars have to be some of the saddest,
damned things ever.
Ti amo, my love.
I’ll come back to you.



How heartbreaks can lead to self discovery

He cheated on me twice. The first time he did, I decided to walk the higher path to forgiveness, be the greater being. I was barely sixteen, and perpetually in love with the idea of being in love. So I did. I forgave him, gave him room for redemption.


Until one day I chanced upon his promiscuity again.


What befell me was not hurt, nor anger. It was self-loathe. Self-loathe that hit me in recurring cycles. Loathed myself for not having been able to keep him intrigued in me. Played every redundant memory in my head over and over again. Desperate attempts made to see where I went wrong. A young girl of sixteen too busy finding faults in herself to realize the fault wasn’t hers.


I never cried. My days were composed of drowning myself in work. And sleep. Of leaving myself no opportunity to think about him or what was left of us. I shut myself in my own dark prison lest I chance upon him somehow. Poignant reminders remained cloistered in the obscure corners of my mind. Survival became the bare minimum and my will to live my life took a backseat,  lest I be ravaged by my past somehow.


One day, as if like an impetuous ray of sunshine after the rain, my will to live dawned on me. I realized I didn’t want to be unhappy anymore. Didn’t want to look myself in the mirror to see my shirt stained with wine, ashtray brimming with the ashes that my joy had turned into. I didn’t want to inflict myself with pain anymore, building impenetrable walls and seeking solace in my bruises.
I wanted to live.

And as if in sudden divine intervention, I found myself bestowed with all the strength I could muster within me, all in the span of a single moment. I realized I was ready to spring back in full force.


And so I did. What followed was a chain reaction of epiphanies. A transformation. A sea change of beliefs and principles, an unforeseen advent of wisdom and courage.
That you do not need a ‘better half’ to validate your worth. That there is more to life than chasing love. That it’s important to love oneself with fervency and unwavering faith. That walls can be nice too, that filtering people through them is a necessity. Not everyone deserves to explore the nook and crannies of your soul, not everyone deserves access to the secret road map through the trail of your scars. Not everyone deserves to trace their fingers through your body and derive their selfish pleasure from the electricity of your touch, with no returns.


I don’t know who you are.

But if you love someone,

and he says you are a mess,

he doesn’t want to clean up,

pick yourself up

piece by piece,

day by day,

and keep yourself together,

because you are worth your love

and he is not.