Bleed me dry

Pierce my heart

With shards of your broken love

Bury me whole

A nameless corpse

Watch me thrash

In a casket of my own design

Suffocate my will

Bottle my scream

As it wails in agony

Tearing through your body and mine

Watch me undress

Bare my soul

My skin peeling off bone

Your mark tattooed beneath my ribs

Consume me entirely

Tear into my flesh

As I perish into damnation

A mangled wreck of blood and bone

You bang against the unyielding threshold till your blood paints a mural of your despair,
till your bones push through skin.
You cry, you scream, you beg, you bleed.

You can never leave.

You claw a scream from your chest, a sound so primal it sets your throat on fire, its embers charring your insides, burning holes in your flesh.
There’s blood, there’s fire, there’s skin, there’s stone.

You can never leave.

There’s a hollowness in your chest, a crimson patch wet and warm.
The air smells like copper, bitter and cold.
Your heart beats in your hand, frantic and feral.
Blood curdles into a viscous ruin, thick with your grief.
You kick, you thrash, you claw, you plead.

You can never leave.

The walls reflect your wreckage; you watch yourself burn,
as the flames engulf what’s left of your ravaged soul.
You see the madness in your eyes as your teeth sink into the beating flesh.
Your body, far from your own, a discarded shell of ruined flesh.
You cry, you laugh, you bleed yourself empty.

You can never leave.

The walls close in, your flesh splintering against glass and stone,
the ceiling lunges towards your limp form.
Your ribs puncturing lungs, your bones shattering, pieces of a ruined covenant.
You watch, you wait, you tremble, you break.

You will never leave.

Blackbird on my shoulder”

- Sufjan Stevens (Mystery of Love)

The tiles felt cool against my skin. How long had I been sprawled here for? My body felt sore, so it must have been a while. Not that it really mattered. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself lying on the floor of my bathroom, of all places. In fact, this very spot had become oddly comforting to me. Growing up in a household where privacy was practically a myth, I was never really allowed to close the door to my bedroom. So the bathroom inevitably became the one place I can escape to. Those four walls have seen me through most of my breakdowns, more than I care to remember, and somehow their silence made me feel safe.

Silence gives me a sanctuary no person ever can. But silence is also where I find myself sucked into my own head, a noisy abyss that seems to exist purely to turn against me, to swallow me whole. Which is ironic if you think about it, because that doesn’t really seem like silence, does it?

Even so, I’d rather spiral alone on the floor of an empty room than in someone’s arms. I’ve learned to comfort myself. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to let people comfort me. It’s easier to fall apart alone when you spend so long believing you have to put yourself back together. And I suppose through the breaking and the mending, you learn things about yourself.

The fact is, my body feels too small for the emotions it contains. I feel things too deeply, perhaps because I’ve been hurt just as deeply. And when you’ve felt too much for too long, you eventually start trying to make yourself impossible to reach. The walls that were once just a means of protecting yourself slowly become the place you live. You get so used to the safety they offer that letting someone through almost seems foreign. I tell myself I don’t need a shoulder to cry on . I’ve wiped countless tears on my own. And yet I have never struggled to love people. If anything, I love too freely. I give and give and give till I have nothing. But somehow receiving has always felt like a language I can never learn. It isn’t that I can’t find love. Its just that once I do, I never quite know how to hold it in a way that its weight doesn’t feel overwhelming. And after a while, giving without knowing how to receive becomes exhausting, and eventually the exhaustion leaves you exactly where you started, slipping back into the familiar solitude, trying to put yourself back together yet again.

And maybe that’s why silence has always felt so much like home.

There's blood on my hands. I watch as the water turns red in the sink, swirling, almost hypnotic. My skin burns as I scrub the red out of my nails. There's a stillness in the air. A calm, I've never felt before. A sense of peace I yearned for.

Happiness has always been known to be transient, the more you chase after her, the further she goes.

"What do you want most in life Tania?"

"Happiness."

I was naive. That little girl never understood that the most sought after materials always come with the most expensive price tag. And happiness?? Oh boy, everyone wanted a piece of her. Hope, her sister, well she was the stupid one who always followed.

There's a knock on the door, shattering the brief moment of absolute silence. Someone asks if I'm doing fine. I am, I reply.

The blood just refuses to leave. I scrub harder. What would that little girl think of me now. Would she hate me ? Or would she forgive me? Would she understand ?

I stare at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize the person infront of me. But those eyes . Those eyes are hers. The little girls eyes.

"I tried, I really did. I tried so hard to bring her to you. But you know how she gets. She always demands a price. I was too much of a coward to pay the price and Hope was too much of a fighter to let it go, so I watched as the light left her eyes. I tried stopping her Tania but Hope really was being unreasonable." The eyes in the reflection changed, they were mine now.

I turn off the faucet and step out. I really did try i swear I did.

12:05 pm (or so i think it was) Sometime in mid 2022

The sound of chairs scraping against tile filled the room. I shut my eyes, my head throbbed as I tried to drown out the sounds in the the stuffy classroom. Post lunch, the air was charged with a restless energy, everyone seemed to be everywhere. I wished I could just pack my stuff and go home, I wished I could just will everyone to shut up, I wished I could disappear. God, I really wished I could disappear.

A slow suffocating weight clawed its way up my chest, pressing against my lungs, crushing my ribs. In the distance someone laughed. I remember the sound clearly, it sounded real, bright, happy. An ugly voice in my head however, just wanted it to stop. I didn’t care who was laughing I just wanted them to stop. I watched, absently as my pen rolled off the table and fell to the floor, I heard the laugh again, I felt like bashing my skull against the wall so that I wouldn’t have to hear it. I bent down to pick the pen up, my fingers were trembling, no, my whole body was. The weight had somehow crept its way up from my chest to my throat. My vision blurred as I fought to let enough air into my lungs. I needed to leave, I needed to disappear. I stood up feeling the room spin, my ears were ringing, I needed to leave.

I remember spending the rest of the class sprawled on the cold disgusting floor of the school washroom, hurling my insides out until nothing was left. I remember raking my nails across the flesh of my arms desperately trying to claw away what I felt. I don’t remember whether or not I cried. I do remember a classmate knocking on the door asking me if I was okay. I don’t know what I told her, but it must’ve been believable enough for her to leave me be. I kept scratching at my skin, my nails drawing blood, I didn’t care, I just needed the feeling to go away.

2:00 am

My body hurt, my eyes felt like they would shrivel into themselves, my skin burned, the scratches, still fresh rubbed against the sheets as I tossed in bed. I lay desperately trying to shut of my brain, but they wouldn’t stop. The thoughts got worse, as I stared at the ceiling fan turning feebly, It would never take my weight, I tried to push away the thought, one of the many that had been making their way to the forefront.

When I imagined death for myself, I could never imagine dying peacefully, I could never let myself just take a handful of pills and let death come for me, slowly sucking the life out of me. No. I didn’t deserve peace. My death would always be red. My death would always be setting my blood free, dying as I watch red pool around me. I did not deserve peace.

I stumbled my way to the bathroom, my knees hit the floor before I had the chance to turn on the lights. And I threw up. Again. This time I cried. I sobbed, begging for it to just stop. I wanted to peel my skin off my flesh, I wanted to reach into my chest and pull my heart out. I did not deserve peace. And in those moments, laying on the cold hard floor I wondered, ‘Would they miss me when I’m gone’.

I couldn’t bring myself to get up, so I continued laying on the floor, my body not feeling like my own. Has it ever really been my own?

2012

All six- year old me knew of was trust. Blind and unwavering trust. And so on that day when she told me that it was all a “game”, I trusted her. After all why would anyone want to

lie to a six year old ? It felt wrong, it really did, but I trusted her like my own sister. And so for the next 2 years I continued playing her “games” stripping myself bare no matter how wrong it felt.

Subscribe now

I envy that six year old, her naivety and how she perceived the world. But God I wish I could go back in time and protect her. Teach her about the cruelness of trust. Because maybe then she would know. Maybe then she would scream or cry when it felt wrong, when her body didn’t feel like it belonged to her. Maybe then she would not grow up and blame herself.

I don’t cry the way I used to anymore, at least not as often. I don’t hurl my guts out at the very thought of the entire thing. Hell I’ve somehow managed to write this without shaking. But the feeling in my chest never left. And there are still days where I find myself on the floor again, wondering if it would ever stop. But patience is a virtue I somehow possess in abundance. So I will wait. Till I won’t have to anymore.

This doesn’t even begin to explain how much this dream means to me, but I tried. I needed to start somewhere.

I stopped writing for a bit because I felt overwhelmed. I needed space to think, to feel, to figure my shit out. I’m still figuring it out, honestly. I don’t have some big breakthrough to share. I just know I don’t want to keep waiting for the perfect moment to do the things that matter to me.

So this is me starting again. Imperfectly.

If this resonated with you in any way, I’d really appreciate your support. A like, a comment, anything. It helps more than you think.

Dear Nathania,

Let’s get rich so that we can finally see the world.

Some days, I stare at the sky and watch the clouds drift across the bare blue canvas. They’ve seen the world. The thought slips in casually — a simple fact — yet something in my chest tightens. My ribcage suddenly feels too small for everything my heart holds.

I want to see the world.

It’s a thought that has lived in my mind for so long that it has turned into something deeper — a feeling. A quiet, constant yearning to see the world for what it truly is: the good, the bad, and everything in between.

As a little girl, I would sit on the floor flipping through the big, glossy pages of my encyclopedia, running my fingers across vibrant images of forests, waterfalls, city skylines, and strangers frozen in photographs. I used to wish I could travel to those places at the snap of a finger.

I’d daydream about walking through the winding streets of Italy and running up forest trails in Peru. I didn’t know much back then, but I knew there was more to the world than the crayon-marked walls of my room.

It was around middle school — 8th grade — when I was told to take off the rose-coloured glasses I wore.

“The world isn’t how the storybooks describe it.”

I began watching the news, and every night at 9 p.m., my heart would break a little. The world I had adored seemed to be collapsing in on itself. I cried one night because I thought it might end before I ever got to see it. The very idea devastated me.

That’s when it became clear.

I want to travel. I want to earn money and see the world the way it’s meant to be seen. I want to meet people and experience every culture I can. I want to use the money I make to help those who need it. I want to explore everything before fear convinces me not to — before the world crashes and burns.

I want to touch the edges of the earth. I want to run through water, feel the sun on my skin, walk across land, and reach for the sky.

The sun will never be bright enough until I touch it.

So,

Dear Nathania,

Let’s get rich and see the world.

Subscribe now

Subscribe now

She heard footsteps behind her, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as she quickened her pace. The footsteps grew louder. She didn’t turn—her walk turning into a jog. The smell of earth after rain hung in the air. Petrichor, she remembered someone telling her. She would never use the word, though. It didn’t suit the comforting nostalgia the smell brought with it; it was too complicated a word for something so simplistically beautiful.

Her eyes met themselves in the windshield of a parked car. She saw herself—disheveled and exhausted. Exhausted from what? A walk to the pharmacy? She didn’t recognize herself anymore. Her eyes looked empty, like barren land void of life. She glanced behind her through the reflection and saw no one. Sighing, she continued walking home, the footsteps still echoing behind her.

The word home felt strange on her lips, the warmth of it alien to her. The little winding street leading to where she lived was littered with discarded cans and cigarette butts. The air smelled damp and musty, the comforting scent of rain long gone. Walking up to the small, rundown apartment, she still heard the footsteps behind her, refusing to go away.

Pushing her apartment door open, she felt cold air pierce her skin like icy claws, making her feel unwelcome and uncomfortable in her own house. She despised it every single time. Her eyes latched onto the small picture frame on the table in the corner of the room—a force of habit. Her chest felt tight, as if her ribcage were shrinking into itself. Averting her eyes, she closed the door and dropped onto the couch, letting her eyes shut.

She heard shuffling in the corner of the room.

“What do you want?” she asked finally, without opening her eyes.

“They were rather beautiful, you know—your parents,” a soft voice replied.

“Put the frame down and shut up, for heaven’s sake. I’m sick of you following me around like a fucking shadow.” Irritation and exhaustion laced her voice.

It was her shadow—the loneliness that had become a part of her, following her everywhere, refusing to let go. It was the aching pain that coursed through her, a parasite that fed on her most vulnerable thoughts, a permanent presence lingering at the back of her mind, clinging to her at her weakest.

The room felt even colder. The walls seemed to move in on her, trying to crush her. She hated this place but refused to move out. It was as though the memories of days long gone were tying her down, anchoring her unwillingly to a mere shell of what once used to be a home—a home that had wrapped her in the warmest memories of beautiful moments spent, those same memories now slowly suffocating her, burning the life out of her.

She lifted herself off the couch and walked to her room, picking up a box of pills. Closing her eyes, she swallowed a couple. They were supposed to help her remain sane, to silence the shadow.

But was having a bit of sanity even worth it anymore?

Subscribe now

Song of the day : Plastic Love Note - Room.

Some things visit us only once — quietly, repeatedly, until one day they don’t.
They arrive without ceremony, weave themselves into our days, and become part of us before we ever think to question them. As children, we accept magic easily. We collect it, protect it, and carry it through seasons without knowing how fragile it is.

This piece is about that kind of wonder — the small, private miracles we outgrow without noticing, the secrets that once kept us company, and the moments that only reveal themselves as endings when we look back much later. I hope it resonates with you as well as it did with me.

 


Every summer the little girl with pigtails set out to find those paper planes. 
The ones that rained down from the sky when the hour struck midnight. 
The ones that flew across  the dark blue canvas ever so gracefully, 
creating patterns only she could see. 

Every summer the little girl with pigtails ran through the field to find those paper planes. 
The ones that dotted the velvet green before she could pick them up.
The ones that came just for her from a land far beyond the fields.

Some red, like the ribbons in her hair,
 some blue like water in the great big sea,
 some yellow like daffodils that scattered among the dirt. 

The little girl with pigtails walked with her arms filled with those those paper planes. 
Tucking them gently in the little shoebox hidden beneath her bed.

Those paper planes were her little secret. 
A portal through times she passed. 
The paper planes became memories she held onto through the harsh monsoon rains, and the seething winter snow. 
Those paper planes were her little secret.

But then one summer at midnight the paper planes came again- dotting the sky in colours red, blue, yellow and green. 
They lay on the dewy grass untouched, unseen.
The little girl  with pigtails no longer ran across the field to catch her little secret. Summers passed.
The paper planes came no more.

Then, one summer at midnight a woman with graying hair walked across the field searching for those paper planes.
The grass no longer scattered with a confetti of colours. 
The woman with graying hair yearned for the paper planes . 
Her little secret.
Her portal through the times to come and the times that passed.

But the sky remained still.

I would greatly appreciate your support if you enjoyed reading this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it, do let me know your thoughts in the comments. ╰(*°▽°*)╯╰(*°▽°*)╯

Subscribe now

Who am I ?

A question I have asked myself countless times—an answer I still await. In fact, it’s something all of us return to, again and again. Humans tend to fixate on the questions we barely know the answers to; the purpose of our existence somehow becomes the one thought that lingers in the background, through moments and emotions as fleeting as they are.

Sometimes, we don’t expect the answer to simply reveal itself. Instead, we keep digging at the soil—loose or rock solid—hoping to uncover something that finally makes sense. Hope is what drives us. Emotions are what anchor us. And emotions are meant to be felt, as deeply as possible.

After all, this is what makes us human.

And perhaps this space exists because I don’t have the answer yet. This isn’t a place of certainty or conclusions, but of becoming. Of documenting thoughts as they form, emotions as they arrive, and questions as they evolve. Through words, fragments, stories, and reflections, this Substack is my attempt at understanding—not just who I am, but who we are in the moments we often overlook.

If you’re someone who finds themselves lingering in questions rather than rushing toward answers, feeling emotions as they are meant to be felt, and treating life like a journey where every moment is to be lived in, welcome.

Subscribe now

Subscribe now