i hide

my poems

in my

cupboard.

left side.

(please don't tell,

it's our secret now.)

some days

I still wonder

what it would be like

to fly-

even now,

as I look at the earth below

I am weighed down

by broken promises

and forgotten dreams.

I fall.

I hate it.

My twisting mother tongue.

The culture I’m meant to love.

I hate it.

The movies with too many songs.

The weddings that last too long.

I hate it.

All the colors.

All the culture.

But more than anything…

I hate the fact

that despite my brown skin,

India rejects me.

I’m half introvert and half extrovert. It confuses people all the time, sometimes even myself.

I love talking even if I know no one is listening.

But at the same time I despise public speaking. Everything about it. The way I feel before presenting with my stomach in knots and the way I feel throughout it. I get stiff, my mouth grows dry, and I studder.

I’m the type of person who when asked to introduce themselves to a class has thought through what they would say a hundred times only because of the fear of messing up.

Although at the same time, I dance in ballets and perform in musicals on stage in front of hundreds of people and I all I feel is at home.

I love parties and yet I still feel just as comfy in my bed where I sit and write in isolation.

I really don't care what people think but I also find myself struggling to get their thoughts out of my head.

I love being myself but sometimes all I wish I could be was someone else.

I'll be brief. My mom had this special nut butter. You know, the one you buy at Costco? Those big industrial jars that tout buzzwords and phrases like "vegan!" "gluten-free!" "ecologically friendly!" "One of these jars can feed a family in Tanzania for a year!"

I knocked it off of its pantry shelf while she was traveling abroad and it hit the floor, and the stupid glass jar broke (did you know that glass breaks easily?) immediately, leaving me a huge pile of superfood nut butter to scrape off the ground. I had to wipe the floor at least five times and burn six candles to eradicate the intense smell of peanut butter in the house.

Three days later she came back from her trip. And nothing. No comments about the nut butter. A week went by. Two. Three. A whole whopping month later, she muttered something about a nut butter she had bought specifically from Costco.

I cannot believe I had the guts to say it but I did it shamelessly.

"Mom, did you not hear Dad complain about gaining weight recently? He totally eats five tablespoons of nut butter a day. He finished it before you left on your trip."

To this day, she does not buy nut butter because she wants to help him lose weight.

....Also....My dad hates nut butter. He also found some 'strange stains' on the tile in our kitchen recently. Oops.

You want to know my secret? The beliefs I stuff deep down in my being and clench my teeth when the urge to share arises?

Tradition is merely peer pressure from the dead.

We go through meaningless motions - ceremonies, formalities, intricate dances of the social realm - for what?

Because that's how we've always done it and that's what's expected of us.

Expected by whom? Family? Colleagues? Society? Why?

Because that's how we've always done it and that's what's expected of us.

Surely the bride and groom do not need an attendance of a hundred or more to profess their undying love, a union most personal and private. Surely wearing a suit and tie does not make one better at their respective career, no more so than a firm handshake makes one a more accomplished man. And surely a lavish funeral brings no comfort to the already deceased.

So why do we bother ourselves with these unecessary formalities, these and a thousand more?

Because that's how we've always done it and that's what's expected of us.

Tradition is the demise of social evolution.

Tradition is the enemy of progress.

Tradition is death.

(1) I live with chronic pain.

Most people who know me know, they just... forget. I don't look in pain, not usually. It's like a secret because I'm very hesitant to complain.

There she goes again. Rolls eyes. (It's never happened, but it could.)

(2) I live with chronic pain.

My brain uses a whole lot of brain power in managing it, to the point that sometimes, even I don't know. I just feel so tired and done, there's that familiar dull aching, if I close my eyes and check in I can feel it. (So I don't.)

(3) I live with chronic pain.

And when I'll tell you, it'll be a whisper at the pew, shameful.

Or it'll be the tag alon fun fact to a smile, a hurried dismissed explanation.

(A secret: a truth I don't actually want you to believe.)