Writing Suicide Notes In Black Ink

Is there something wrong inside my head?
I keep on wishing I were dead
Will writing about it help?
I think I am broken…
Threatening existence – testing faith –
Despair and depression comes
knocking on my door, Often…

I don’t ask for help
For I don’t know what I would say.
I just know deep inside
Something is killing me –
My mind is willing me –
To death, yes that’s the way.

Sometimes I question,
Was a Bertha always in me?
And I unleashed her now – Right?
Because this madness inside – I can’t fight.

And the thoughts – oh the beautiful thoughts
Of red wrists – hanging heads –
Of cutting myself up with a dull multi-tool ,
Seeing the blood ooze out, a pool !

Those feelings – oh how I want to feel
The numbness as a blunt blade skates through my skin
The struggle in breathing as I hang myself and a rough rope slits my throat out and in.

Why can’t I stop thinking of Self-harm ?
They say, It’s a sin.
Doxepin – Zoloft – Prozac – Will you keep me firm ?
Because they say, Pharmaceuticals will one day help me win.

Now it’s been more than a year.
Drowning still seems near,
No sky looks pink,
And I am still writing suicide notes in Black ink.

I hope I am not Forgotten…

I have been writing out my thoughts here since long. But since 2018 I have been undergoing Depression and while battling it I couldn’t be available here much. I missed writing . I wanted to let out my thoughts but never could have the strength to get up from my bed , sit , think , and write something.

Being in Depression isn’t nice. It sent me down a black hole. I went through a whole self-harming phase… And the gist of it was, I felt like I deserved to be in pain. And people and their questions , Oh God. Firstly I would like to state that Depression is a disease. It’s not a phase , it’s a disease that needs to be cured and you need a doctor not some people who advise you to Stay happy or Watch TV or Travel. Those are complete misconceptions.

No matter how good someone’s life seems like it should be from the outside, mental health factors can still surface. That’s why people who experience anxiety and depression get frustrated when people say things like “what do you have to be sad about?” or “but you’re doing so well in this part of your life, why not just focus on that?” Those questions aren’t helpful because mental health doesn’t always depend on career success or an exciting advancement in your personal life. Someone can still experience a dark time while it seems good things are happening to them….

So things kept pilling up, my anxiety , my panic attacks , the Doctor yes , did supply me with medicines but still my emptiness still existed . It took me one whole year or may be more to come out of it , if not fully but now I am strong enough to not harm myself and atleast may be smile at life , Sometimes

I have been wanting to.share my experience here on WordPress and today I thought I should write something. I wrote some poetry , will Publish soon. I hope people read.

Thank You.

“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT” (A poem against Female Genital Mutilation.)

Note: This poem is based on the practice of FGM, a practice that most societies consider holy. But FGM is a sin, a sin against humanity. We must know that not only does it break the strength of women, it also breaks their souls. Please, if you are in a society where FGM is practiced then please do not sit and watch or read about it on newspapers and mourn the loss of women who go through it. Instead, educate the people on the need to leave souls untouched, in order for them to help the bodies grow.

I want to give a voice to all the unheard cries of women  who had to go through FGM so that people understand their plight. And so I dedicate this poem to all the women who had to suffer because of this insanity carried out in the name of religion and tradition.

 

Illegal Female Genital Mutilation Cutters Show Off Their Tools

 

“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT”

Alone but far from alone
she bloomed like a delicate flower.
A beautiful child
she grew in sun and shower.
Then soon came that night – that long painful night.
The night when she saw her mother weep bitter tears.
‘What is it mother? Should I weep too?’ she asked.
Just a child, she knew not of the predestined fears.
Putting her hand upon the little girl’s head, the mother caressed her.
Showed her the bed.
Said, ‘it is your traditional night love, lay down here.’

Her traditional night.
The night when several women held her hands and feet – holy act or a sin?
She could see the blade like shape approaching.
Wondered what was in between her legs – such a wrong thing?
And then began the slaughtering.. Passing a blunt and cruised blade, they   rubbed through her clit.
Stuffing a cloth into her mouth,
muffled her screams and continued with the slit.
The cutting – not done yet.
The blade –  not sharp, shit..
And the blood ?                               Flowing like piss – warm and fresh.
The little girl kept groaning in vain.
Oh ! Felt as if in front of a butcher..
And she, a pig of only ten brought in for the slaughter.

Million painful moments passed.
One woman then whispered into her ears..
‘You are now pure. You are now circumcised.’
Slowly, her screams subdued.
Her womanhood, mutilated.
And no one cared.
After all, it was all a holy sight.
After all, it was her traditional night.

“When She Fell in Love with His Lavani Dance.. “

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Note: This piece is inspired from Lavani. Lavani means “beauty” and is a folk dance of India performed by Women, on the beats of “Dholki”. It is mostly performed in the states of Maharashtra, North Karnataka, and southern Madhya Pradesh. In our society it is believed that Men should not perform Lavani and those who do, are judged and insulted by the society or are considered effeminate. But here I want to question that what if someone is effeminate..? Who are you to judge..? Also, I feel art is beyond all these binaries created by our society. Therefore I wrote this piece as a form of awareness for humanity and also to portray the sad picture of our society..

————————————-

She often saw him dance.
Away from the world,
Under the gulmohars..
Felt as if he was in a beautiful trance..
And in that divine moment
She fell in love with his Lavani dance..

She was scared..
But that day she dared,
“You stole my heart and never gave it back.
Now can you give me a forever..?
We will be together,
And I will watch you dance..”

He kissed her hard.
And like the blooms of a scorching Indian summer
Their hearts bloomed with love.
That scorching Indian summer – a tale of their desires so pure and naive.

The aftermath was a fairytale.
They walked hand in hand
But their love was not “normal”
People would tell.

She told him to shed his insecurities and reveal himself more…
But people had their own judgements and they were sore.
“Stop your effeminate dancing, its queer.
Wash that red off your feet before you come near..”

He payed no heed,
Danced to the rythm of her heartbeat.
But then the line got crossed
And she was the one who was cursed the most..
“He will never be a husband, will offer nothing much,
Better leave this society with your shameless trans..”

Her insult finally ceased his alta clad feet.
His smile grew dimmer,
Her sorrow sang its own woeful bit.

But soon he extinguished the final flame.
And she could only scream holding his dead frame,
“You took your life like sometimes lovers do
But I want to tell you my love,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you…”

Now this is the story, Dear Straight people.
She dared to love unconditionally
And she was one of you.
And there was a time….
A time when they walked hand in hand,
When she fell in love with his Lavani dance.

“Let Loose..”

 

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Oh Victoria, your secret hurts.

But she has to keep.
‘Keep what…? The secret…?’
Yes… And the pain.

She wants to let loose.
Let loose her hair…
Go braless.
But they call it shame.

‘Push up now..’ they say.
There are worms inside your skin.
Let the wire of the cups dig inside your flesh.
But she is scared.
‘What if the catterpillars turn into butterflies…
and die in a day..?’

They are least bothered.

Bras offend.
So do your curves.
And you know what? So does a flat chest.
So layer them up.

‘What? You can’t breath easy..?’
Because you are not supposed to.
Has history taught you nothing…?

 

“A Pious Disgrace”

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“It is that time of the month” they say and shrink back…
Is it the time to smell the iron and the shame between my legs..?
Or
Is this a gift of Innana that courses through me?

I hear them whispering, gossiping.
And those warnings,
they never stop coming;
“Watch out for your daughter, it is that time of the month… ”
The flow might wake up my hoe soul.
They worry.
And what if I spread my legs?
Sin? Yes… unforgivable, Sin.

I too worry.. But our worries differ.
As I continue to shed my insides, I worry…
“How they never noticed the cry of my body ?
How they never acknowledged
that life comes from between our legs,
that life costs blood…… ”

Such hypocrisy… astounding.
When humane they despise.
When idols they worship.
A pious disgrace, my existence.

“THE PROSTITUTE”

Trapped amidst those famous red light streets,                                             Cigarettes and cocaine became her only sweets.

Dirty looks ,dirty talks, a daily affair. Different sizes, part of her business not so rare.

She satisfies each one of them,
adorning a body bargained since eighteen.
Goes down on her knees now and then,
a part of her high paid routine.

Humanity resents her- a dirty whore.
Only money, she expects nothing more.
Between the self-inflicted wounds her days pass.
Fifty and still a woman without class.

Aged and now grown weak,
They say she is no more a tight grip.
Still some thrust her hard and deep,
Free condoms her only tip.

Many loathe her,even her name,
For she is not a part of their fame..
Happy she is, in her solitude,
Yes, she is the prostitute.