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“Spilling the Ink” – Nayana Nair

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You ask why I don’t stay and fight.
You ask if I realise that
I can win as much as others.
I tell you that everyone has a dream.
And what I get by staying and fighting,
are not my dream.
That I cannot live in this world
of regulated self-expression.
Always fearing when I would spill out of the lines.
So even if my broken is not as shabby and scattered.
Even if my madness is not the sort
that can get admiration.
Even if my hands struggle with holding myself where I am.
Just know that I leave,
not because of aversion to this world,
nor to find a better place.
I leave cause I cannot breathe in water
even if I want to.

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“Meet Somewhere” – Nayana Nair

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My hands
have always been empty
even with
your hands to hold.
Let’s meet somewhere
where you need not be seen,
where I need not be invisible.

“Screen” – Nayana Nair

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I read my words,
and could only see me, as person
walking on the crowded streets
after spending hours of attention
on a screen that blurred the
alphabets and left in my eyes
the only image of me
looking at this screen forever.
I saw someone
who could not bear life.
I wondered when I became a person
only concerned with knowing
this sadness that breathes with me.
I saw someone who I feared and knew
I would become
or I always was.
I became the living shadow
of the ‘me’ that never was.
I read what I write,
and decided never to read them again.
I see what I am,
and decide not see myself again.

“Going back in time” – Nayana Nair

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There could never be a time for us.
We could never ask the question
we never thought of.
We could never bring up a spring of love
in our dry hearts.
And going back in time
makes no difference.
We would always be what we are
anything contrary to that,
anything against our very own nature,
makes us no less than a living lie.
Will that be still counted as love?
There would never be a right time
in the past that is already made
and nor in lives
that had no space for it anyways

“Stuck in roles” – Nayana Nair

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child1

My mother was not always my mother
She was someone else before I was her child.
Can we ever admit to our self
that our parents are also still children,
who have to act as adults.
Cause there is no other option
and they are stuck in their roles
and we want them to remain stuck.
We want them to be responsible for us,
we want our childhood to continue
even at the cost of theirs.
No matter how they suffocate.
I guess, it’s easier to believe
that my mother has always been my mother
and I am always her child.
And that’s how it will always be.
But sometimes I want to be friends
with that girl,
the girl that she was.

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