Dear you

It’s 2020 now and so much has changed since I first started writing this blog in 2014, as a 14 year old really nervous and really excited teenager sitting on my dining table wondering what I wanted my first blog post to be about. It’s been six years now and I still don’t know how to write or what to write about today. I have so much to say though. These past six years have been so long and so short at the same time, it’s almost as if if I were to take a step back, I’d be right where it all started, sitting on my rooftop with a pencil in one hand and a yearly planner in the other, that I called my “fancy diary,” trying to write how the sky and the sunflowers made me feel. Today, I have more than 34 actually fancy diaries, yet I’m still typing all this out on my laptop, wondering how the sky and the sunflowers don’t make me feel as they used to anymore.

I wish I could describe these past six years in passport metaphors and height marks on bedroom walls but they’ve been so much more than just that. I’ve grown a lot. I’ve learnt how to spell professor and Kerala, I’ve learnt how to drive without having someone lecture me on speed breakers every two seconds, I’ve fallen in love and fallen out of love, I’ve found an adequate hairstyle that I don’t feel like fixing every two minutes, and I’ve learnt how to dance, without having to think what my 7th grade dance teacher would have to say about it. I can cook myself breakfast without burning my finger on the stove every thirty seconds, I’m singing again and relearning why I started singing in the first place, and I’m laughing a lot more, a lot louder and without thinking as much about it. I write a lot lesser now but I’ve been writing a lot more for myself. I’ve turned experience into poetry and poetry into an experience. I wish I could write about how I’m feeling at this very moment. It’s ironic how I call myself a poet yet I run out of words exactly when I need them the most.

The past two years have also been the most challenging of my life. I’ve experienced moments where I’ve forgotten what taste felt like, I tried learning how to mourn and I mourned so much I forgot living for a while, and I’ve had to write an obituary, my hands trembled so much more with each letter I wrote yet I’ve had to stand in front of the world and read it out, word by word, holding tears back with every syllable. I’ve experienced moments when I’ve wanted to unlearn poetry, forgetting why I ever wanted to learn it in the first place but I’ve made it through them and I’m here now. I’m here now, but I keep having to remind myself what here means.

I’m proud of myself. It’s taken me a long time to understand what that means and I still have a long way to go, but I hope I have my poetry with me, at every step, because it’s a long journey and it sure as hell gets lonely a lot.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this honest in any of my blog posts yet but I’ve been learning how to be more honest with my poetry, and with myself, and I really hope that this honesty stays.

Today, my blog completes six years, and I feel like I’ve completed my own little journey with it. Thank you, to all those of you who have read and supported and loved my poems, over the years. 

Thank you for staying and making sure that my words feel complete in this world. It does mean the world to me.

So thank you.  
I hope to write more and I hope to write soon.

Emm Ess

I don’t know a lot of things
but I know this
and I want you to know this,
that on days the Sun refuses
to not shine,
I will throw out all the lights,
buy a hundred curtains,
and break all the clocks,
just so that
all the time in the world stops
and only your heartbeat takes away
from the silence.

you can stay there
for as long as you want,
and as long as you need,
and I will make sure
that there’s never any sunshine
and no tick tock either.
there’s only you,
in the moment,
and for a moment there,
the world will stop,
just for you.

//too much sunshine.


I’m always locked in a room, large enough for only myself and I'm always running and sometimes I wish I wasn’t running as fast or as much. Sometimes I wish I could look at myself in the mirror and see who I really am, not just the crossroads of a road that I’m standing in the centre of. There are no red lights here, only go’s. It’s the kind of chaos that refuses to listen to me and I keep saying the same words over and over and over again, hoping it’d hear the urgency of a heartbeat in my syllables. But all I get are jammed breaks and a broken clutch, in a car speeding off a bridge. The bridge I refused to scribble my name on, as a kid because I didn’t have enough crayons to engulf its darkness in its entirety. I refuse to listen to the universe call out my name in the middle of the night. I’m not walking back home, tiptoeing on ash and glass. today, I’ll stay a bit and remind myself why I ever wanted to.

//jammed breaks and a broken clutch


//old crayons 

thirty three sketchbooks, 
a class of thirty four, 
forty nine different art-kits, 
a pack of crayons, 
seven shades on the same page, 
more words, 
more silence, 
the other side of laughter, 
thirty eight sketches, 
more words, 
one shivering hand, 
trembling fingers, 
spilled paints, 
smudged sketches, 
more words, 
less laughter, 
more silence, 

a circle around a square, 
a scale, 
mismatched edges, 
a lot more laughter, 
a lot more silence, 
scrapped edges, 
torn sheets, 
paper planes, 
empty sketchbooks, 
lost art-kits, 
spilled paints,
broken crayons,
empty rooms, 
bruised fingers, 
unheard stories, 
lost silhouettes, 
more silence. 

_a circle around a square

(i) How do you rationalise loss?
Is it okay if i mourn a month when I do not know how to mourn a person?

(ii) Emptiness isn’t the lack or absence of something.
It’s a heart that does not know how to beat like it used to before.

(iii) How can you ever know if your heart is relearning how to beat?

(iv) What is the other side of a forever called?
(v) How can 17 days ever be enough to mourn someone?

(vi) I wish I’d recorded more of your laughter.
(vii) Is the 18th day supposed to make it all go away?

(viii) How can time ever decide when you stop mourning?
(ix) How do you mourn without letting it take away all of you?

//mourning october


(i) You remind me of flickering streetlights on silent streets//

(ii) There's a different kind of silence when you’re around// 

(iii) We're slow dancing. 
It's 7:43pm on a friday night, 
your favourite song plays on repeat,
on our broken stereo// 
There is music in the way you whisper my name. 

(iv) The house feels full when you’re around// 
(v) I keep changing houses looking for you// 

(vi) You left your perfume behind, 
it smells of sunshine on dark October nights// 
(vii) I miss September. 

(viii) I do not know how to grieve// 
(ix) The house has never been emptier// 
I miss the patterns your shadows drew, 
on the floorboards outside our room. 
your footsteps reminding me of the song you were// 

(x) Sometimes, I wish we could undo months//
(xi) We wouldn’t be in October today, 
the sun would shine a lot brighter, 
and the silence wouldn’t hold my heart, 
its claws choking on every word,
that I can find the courage to utter.

(xii) I miss my words. 
(xiii) They’ll never be the same without you// 
(xiv) October isn’t home. 
You were// 


In a letter to Ophelia the IIIrd, Fernando wrote, “It’s too cold here without you.” Seven days later, Ophelia sent him 27 orchids with a note saying, “They’ll keep you warm for me.” The orchids withered in four days.

Fernando plucked out all their petals and hid them in between his favourite books.
He wrote a letter to her each day for 27 days. On the 28th day, he posted all of his letters, tore out all his books, and ran down a cliff into the coldest stream of water that he could find, screaming Ophelia’s name.

He swam in the stream for three hours, whispering her name over and over and over again, dreaming of a love he knew wasn’t his.
after three hours, Fernando chose to drown.

In his last letter to Ophelia, he wrote of the time he was seven and his father left for war. He spent every evening next to the river, waiting for him to return. When all he got was a flag and his father’s uniform, he left home.

Like his father, he knew Ophelia wouldn’t return so he sent her a note with a goodbye and a petal from one of those 27 orchids, saying, “They weren’t warm enough.”