We Are The Women Who Are Difficult To Love

 i. We’re the invisible ones. When someone walks into a room, their gaze floats right over us. There’s no pause, not even for a fraction of a second. Their breath doesn’t hitch in their throat, their heart doesn’t beat a little faster than before. There’s no change. We’ve grown up reading stories and…

via We Are The Women Who Are Difficult To Love — Thought Catalog


Got published on ThoughtCatalog 2 days back. You can read the full article at the link above.


The Sea


The sea is dark, grey, and angry. The colors blue and golden don’t jump out in my mind when I see her. She doesn’t look welcoming; a bright sight. Instead, I see ash colored sands lined with sharp-edged rocks to keep strangers at bay. She is always grey, with white foam churning on the surface; accompanied by an even darker sky, dotted with dark clouds and flashes of thunder that rumble and roar. She looks like a monochromatic piece of art, like a long forgotten photograph tucked between the pages of an old poetry book.

She is somber. I could say she’s angry. Because I see anger there, yes. But her anger lacks something. Intent, I think. Like she doesn’t want to be angry, but since it’s the only thing she feels, she accepts it. You have to take what you can get. Anything’s better than feeling empty.

She is waiting. I think the sea is waiting for hope. But this waiting is not a conscious waiting. It’s existing. Existence can be a form of waiting too, can’t it? She is waiting for the clouds to part, so that she can finally see the Sun again. She wants him to touch her, to caress her with his warm fingertips. Without him, she feels cold. Without him, she feels dead.

She feels lost. It’s strange, really. In a way, she is exactly where she should be. But lately, she has been feeling like there is more. Like the whole world is in on a secret that she is unaware of. She wants to go out there and seek it. But she’s rooted to the land she calls home. And she knows that leaving can be destructive, and that she might destroy everything in her path.

She feels empty. Is it possible to be so full yet so empty at the same time? The sea thinks it is. She’s filled to the brim. She holds so much more than she can handle. Yet, she feels empty. When you hold too much for too long, you stop registering it. It’s easier that way. Otherwise, its weight alone would pull you under. So you pretend for a while, until it feels like nothing. Like there’s a weight on your outstretched arms, but when you look down below, you see nothing. It doesn’t reduce the weight, it’s still as heavy, of course. But it makes the act of carrying it easier. You feel free of your burdens.

She is dying. It’s not visible. She is still holding, is still existing with a life force so potent, it baffles everyone. The waves are full of vigor, the undercurrents fierce. But beneath it all, she is slowly dying. Despite the dull grey, the sea looks alive; almost too strong to come to any harm, immortal. But swim beneath the surface and you’ll see death festering like a wound. She’s slowly disintegrating from the inside, being eaten away by her own self.

She is alone. It’s expected, really. When you’re so big, so vast, so endless, when you’re too big, even for yourself, how can you expect someone else to handle you? You appear so strong, so bold; full of a fevered frenzy. You make people run. Nobody wants to drown in you. Nobody wants to lose themselves in your endlessness. Because somewhere deep down they all know, that after all of this is over, you’ll still be standing, but they? They’d leave no trace.


The Dark Side


Kissing him was like

Biting burning coals—

Your tongue melted.

He tasted like electricity

And every atom in your body

Exploded in yearning.

It was raw, passionate;

An all absorbing madness.

Your skin stung;

His chaos consumed you.


It was a violent revival

Of the human soul.

He became your God.

And you knelt down in worship;

Your body became the sacrificial offering

That satisfied his demonic lust.


Kissing him was like

Treading to the edge of desire;

Where blood and fire, fuse.

It was like walking into hostile territory,

Like traversing to the dark side;

You couldn’t hope to emerge unscathed.



The turbulence in the atmosphere

Resembles the pandemonium in my chest.

You’ve unleashed a chaos of storms

That refuse to relent.

The sky looks like a mosaic of lilac and azure glass.

And if I could,

I would

Arrange the whistling of the winds

To create a symphony

That you will never forget:

Angst-filled music

Fraught with passion, ferocity,

And despair.

Cracked open with the kiss of thunder,

The sky bleeds ink.

And if I could,

I would

Accumulate the drops

And write poetry on your lips.



Oh my, I really like this piece. I think I’m going to cry. I haven’t written this well in ages.

How Do Empty People Write?


How do empty people write?



They go back to the same scars

And claw them open,

Again and again.

They puncture half-healed wounds

And draw blood

Till their veins scream for reprieve.



They cut open their ribs

And lets their heart spill

On the linoleum floor.

Then they sit down and translate

Their agony into words.



They look for ways

To undo their emotional deaths;

Look for the aftertaste,

Of their lover’s kisses

On the lips of strangers.

They try to find love

At all the wrong places.




They tread down

The same treacherous roads

With their eyes closed.

Hunting for the demons

That made them want to die

Once upon a time.

Tasting danger makes them feel alive.



They unlock the box of darkness

That they store in their bodies.

They summon the shadows

Residing within their soul.

They turn themselves inside out

And spit out words that make them feel.




How do empty people write?

They don’t.

Not always.

Sometimes they just sit and scream for hours

In their own pool of blood

Without expelling a sliver of sound.

They grasp for words that never come.

Their darkness chokes them alive.

On Poetry


(picture credits: fitsaudi.com, acquired via pinterest)


Someone once asked me:

Why do we need poetry?

And I’d sat and thought,

And thought, and thought.

But couldn’t figure out,

Why we need poetry;

What makes it so necessary.

What is hidden in the depths

Of meter and metaphors,

In rhyme and repetition,

In imagery and alliteration?

What is it that makes poetry

So significant to human existence?

Just a collection of words

Floating through one’s consciousness,

Falling on the lips

Of someone else.


Clarity came to me at 2 AM

When the world was dark

And my heart was darker still.

Not just darker, but heavier.

My soul crushed with burdens

I didn’t ask for.

I dived into the world of words

Let literary osmosis do its work,

And came to a profound conclusion.

Seeing all the words trickle out of

Empty hearts and heavy souls,

I realized I’m not really alone.


And so, this is what poetry tells us:

That there have been thousands

Who have felt the pain you have,

Suffered the fate you have,

Across boundaries of time and space,

Throughout history,

In different countries.

That pain is recurring, but it’s also transient.

And maybe even, inevitable.

But it’s not the end,

Doesn’t always lead to emotional death.

That you can rip out your heart

And bleed on blank paper,

And still live,

Still survive.

It hurts but it also fuels creativity.

That embedded in this darkness

Is a beautiful poetry

Waiting to be unleashed.


©Shreya Pandey, 2017

I hate that the words flow only when I’m sad. I wish I could write more. 



Image credits: http://www.abduction.tumblr.com

I want to inhale you;

And feel you

Slither down my lungs.


The darkest corners of my soul.

Let me feel your mouth

Kissing all my bones.

Come close

So close

That every time I breathe

You swallow the oxygen too.


Let me absorb you.

Rest on the surface of my skin

Like dust.

Carve away

A portion of my chest

Rest your soul

Against the beat of my heart.

I want you to

Make my body your home

And come back to it

Every time you feel alone.

©Shreya Pandey, 2017