Pause❤️ insta - @thereshamsharma

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  • thereshamsharma 78w

    I know I haven't been active, might not be for a while, but this is something I wrote which has grown close to me, and if someone ever comes looking for me here, I want them to read this. Please take care of yourselves, love and light to everyone :')

    Dear Hugh,

    You are asleep on a bed that has unlearnt my outlines while I wrap your mattress around my skin to trace your moulds again and it has stopped smelling like the almonds you carried in your pockets, it has started to reek of my ugly tear folds. I wear black shirts and blue denims to hide your touch that my skin has refused to wash away. My goosebumps are pages in braille but my blind love walked away with the last pair of socks you took from my drawer. I have stopped wearing shoes, my feet long to melt in your footprints that the tiles of my room have reserved like scriptures on their foreheads. I walk like an empty closet with unhinged doors awaiting your unwashed clothes, while my knobs ache for the grasp of your fingers.

    We made love in buttonless shirts and loose waist jeans, sugar-free tongues and hungry shoulders, Brandy trickled necks and hurting fingers- we kept learning each other's geometry only to lose each other to empty poetries. The last time we made love, you told me it has started to hurt- it was only then I placed our names together, (Hu)gh and Albe(rt)- and wished to forget every language that kept our tongues apart. Our lips were chapped while we licked each other's wounds but our sweaty palms were used to promises slipping away. I wonder if sizzling cheese still burns your mouth and reminds you of the warmth between our thighs that set our love aflame. We were two bearded lovers in a clean-shaved world, running away from blades while holding the knives ourselves.

    I have grown used to pressed collars and ironed arms, the creases on my heart run like streams of water that never get to kiss the ocean. I fold my sleeves three times to grow familiar with empty hands and unheld wrists and stuff my sad toes in a pair of slippers that will never know the weight of your absence. I know there's a part of you that wants to come running to me, but don't turn back, Hugh, not when I have gotten used to your silence, I wouldn't know how to love your words again. I have shredded apart my bricks, there are no walls to hide you from the world, only roofless remnants of a home that has forgotten its own existence.

    We shall love again, in another life, when the blades grow heavy in their hands, and they wrap their fingers around flowers which smell like pride and books that read 'Love is Love'.

    Martyr in the war of love,


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    Love is Love.

  • thereshamsharma 86w

    i wish i could
    wrap myself in sheets of rhymes
    and sing my ironies to sleep
    because it's been too long
    that i am drowning in metaphors
    and i'm tired of wearing my heart on the sleeves

    i wish i could
    bathe my words in honorary ink
    and let them mourn for the flowers on my grave
    because i have been veiling the emptiness
    behind strokes of alliterations
    and i'm tired of begging the pages to behave.

    i wish i could
    hold my words like roses in a bouquet
    and watch them wilt with dying hours
    because i have been holding them captive
    in the lines of my palms
    and i'm tired of watching my veins go sour.

    i wish i could
    bury my proses beneath fallen stars
    and shatter their punctuations under the weeping sky
    because they have been carrying my tears
    in the line breaks between stanzas
    and i'm tired of watching them fade with dead eyes

    i wish i could
    wipe off the ink stains from my hand
    and hear them flow while i try to sleep
    because they have been weighing too much
    on the flesh i wear
    and i'm tired of peeling my skin too deep

    i wish i could
    assassinate the feelings leeching on my mind
    and stitch every mouth that calls me a poet
    because i have been struggling to live
    in a world where death is romanticised
    and i'm still trying to fit in the label called 'human'

    © Thereshamsharma

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  • thereshamsharma 87w

    I know by the time this letter licks your hands, your heart would already have dried out of all the compassion it had held. After scrounging for days about your whereabouts, I have come to know that you're leaving Delhi tonight, to where, no one knows. They don't know why either, but I do. I can almost hear your parents telling you that depression is a myth, and mental illness doesn't run in your family, so your blood is healthy and untouched, while your brain is rotting away because of the company you keep.

    I have spent countless nights awake with you, because you couldn't sleep, and I have shared that emptiness while people were adding to it. I have let you sign my name when you went to see a therapist, and we have always shared the metro rides back home, and everytime the announcement rang, 'Mind The Gap', I have felt you scoot closer to my side. But my love could never make up for the doubts and questions raised upon you by the society, and more so, your family.

    I don't blame you for running away, because I have watched you undress in a manner that you didn't want to ease out of your clothes but your flesh. I have seen the hollow in your eyes, and felt the screams you have gulped down while everyone complained of you being anti-social. I have seen you laughing aloud wishing your tears would go by unnoticed and I know it was you who scribbled behind the washroom door, 'Let me live' while I was watching you die.

    I wish my love would have been enough to conceal you from all the hurt from outside, but when your father asked you to shut up and forget about this mental health crap, I knew I could never save you from the hurt within yourself. I wish I could see you one more time, I'd have read you so intently, that your contours would have melted in my flesh. I would have worn your skin with pride.

    But I let you go. Because I can already imagine you on the train running away from the silent wars of this city, from the ignorance of your parents, from the mockery of your siblings, from the toxicity of your friends, but more so because I can imagine you hoping to run away from yourself. I hope the new air frees you of the invisible prison they created for you.

    It would have taken just a few words to keep you here and make you feel comfortable and confident in the sheets of your skin.
    'are you really okay' instead of 'why are you so distant'
    'do you want to talk' instead of 'stop overthinking'
    'how can i help you' instead of 'what's wrong with you'
    If people would have said these more often, perhaps you would still be in the metro with me, sharing the ride home, clutching on your yellow t-shirt while the announcement rang in your ears, 'Change here for blue line'

    © Thereshamsharma

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    Mental health awareness month

  • thereshamsharma 88w

    I emptied my school bag off the books that taught me how to survive but not how to live
    I packed some t-shirts of my brother and dad,
    that smelt like cigarettes and sweat,
    but moreso because
    it would always smell like them.
    I took one of ma's saree
    so that someday when I am sad,
    I can drape the silk around myself and
    think of it as her arms caressing me to bed.

    I also stuffed my pillow
    that smelt like lost lovers and broken dreams, insecurities and anxiety threaded into the seams.
    and I took my diary
    which I never happened to write upon
    the blank pages were a story that was not mine to tell.
    I stuffed a few packets of maggi
    because that's the only thing
    I know how to cook,
    and I knew my hands
    would never smell like mom's kitchen.
    So I stole chocolate cake from the fridge
    that my mother saved for the kid
    that wasn't yet born,
    because it tasted of new beginnings,
    of a future I wouldn't be a part of,
    so I lick away the icing before I let the present melt.

    I took a shell that I found on the beach
    when we had the happiest day of our lives,
    but my happiest day is yet to come
    Because everything until now has been numb.

    I tear the pockets off my dad's shirts
    because they often carried empty wallets
    that were too heavy on his chest
    And I slipped my feet into his torn shoes
    hoping that he'd buy something new
    for himself for the first time.

    I empty the flower vase
    and keep the roses,
    the roses that were about to die,
    so that someday when I lose myself
    to the sky and the ground at once,
    I'll have someone to share the grave with me.

    I took my empty lunch box
    and my pencil case because
    they trapped parts of my life
    that I was going to let go of.
    And I took those letters
    that my grandparents wrote to me
    How they still smelled like
    their saline hands and young hearts.
    I dress myself into a frock
    that my mother stitched for me
    when I was a kid,
    and i've outgrown that frock
    like someday i'll outgrow this home.

    I snuck a look into my parents' bedroom
    and I wished I could take my mother's hands
    and bathe them with
    love and lotion and
    never let them do anything
    that mars them with rough creases
    on her palms
    and I wished I could take my father's eyes
    so that the nights
    when I struggle to sleep
    because my eyes are heavy,
    I can look at his,
    and they'd teach me how not to cry.
    And when I am bidding
    a silent goodbye to my brother,
    I wish I could take his feet,
    the round toes too alight,
    his feet too alive,
    while my limbs are tied
    to a death
    I am not supposed to mourn.

    When I zip my school bag,
    and wear it on my shoulders,
    the bag is too heavy for my young heart
    and tiny shoulders,
    so I take pieces of big things
    and less of small things,
    and run away as fast as I can,
    losing myself to the dark.

    So today when you told me
    you loved me with all your heart,
    I ran away, yet again,
    because I am not used to
    being and receiving whole,
    I've survived on pieces
    and all your love
    is too heavy for a heart
    that has never grown out of that child.

    © Thereshamsharma

    (A big thanks to @sanguinity for going through and appreciating my old pieces <3)

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    Leaving home.

  • thereshamsharma 88w

    when my kindergarten teacher
    asked me to write about happiness
    i wondered if happiness was a silent smile
    or a loud laughter.

    So ma, i thought,
    are you happy when you
    let out a giggle when i imitate your actions,
    the giggle that ripples through but
    dies when the stone drowns,
    and your face moulds into a frown
    over the lunchbox i didn't open?

    are you happy when you
    let out a laugh with snorts in between,
    like with all the happiness roaring
    out of your mouth, the screams choked
    in your throat exit through your nose
    and your lips are curved but your face
    is straight, and you are still
    wondering if your world is flat or round?

    are you happy when you
    laugh a deep rumbling laughter that aches your ribs-
    a laughter that awakens the four year old
    forced to sleep inside you, who
    is still dreaming to be a teacher
    while you guide me through my homework-
    and your mouth is open, but your heart
    trapped in the unsaid goodbye
    to your dreams?

    are you happy when you
    half laugh and half cry, the tears start to flow
    but your soul remains dry-
    like the warm sound of your laughter
    is a reminder of your fading smile,
    and now that you put me to bed every night,
    you pray for everyone but yourself,
    hoping that while the years die inside of you,
    our hearts remain alive?

    are you happy when your
    laughter has no sound, your teeth are grinning
    but like the songs inside of you
    have forgotten to chime-
    a laughter that escapes your lips
    when you see me covered in mud-
    like all the times you've bathed me,
    you've washed away a piece of yourself
    that makes me laugh aloud,
    while you smile without letting me know
    that your teeth are starting to fall out?

    but i never asked if you were happy
    because you never showed me
    you were sad. i kept practicing all your laughters,
    while i was learning how to smile.
    So, when my kindergarten teacher
    asked me to write about happiness-
    i wrote 'ma'-
    i wonder now if i should tell them that you're gone
    leaving me these laughters and smiles
    that only make me sad.

    © Thereshamsharma

    (also, can you please tag me in your posts, i've missed out on a lot, and i don't want to anymore, thank you, stay safe, love and power!)

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    when my kindergarten teacher
    asked me to write about happiness
    i wondered if happiness was a silent smile
    or a loud laughter.


  • thereshamsharma 89w

    I know I'll never send this letter to you,
    but no matter where I hide it, you'll find it,
    like all little things I often misplace
    and you can find them with closed eyes.

    Papa told me you were the most beautiful woman
    in the society when you got married.
    That you didn't know how to cook,
    but the smile brewing on your face
    made up for the undercooked sabzi
    and the hint of love in your eyes added
    a warmth to the cold chapatis.

    When I was four,
    and even before I knew I was a child
    I saw the childhood wrapped in your open arms.
    And when you held me and lifted me up to the roof
    I wasn't afraid
    because you were there to catch me
    even if I didn't know i was falling

    When I was thirteen,
    and even before I knew I was a teenager,
    I saw the young love budding between adjacent chairs
    on the dining table, holding you and papa close.
    And when you denied me dessert late at night,
    I wasn't mad at you,
    because I knew you will have dahi cheeni
    ready before exam first thing in the morning.

    When I was eighteen,
    and even before I knew I was an adult,
    I saw the responsibilities weighing on
    your drooping lids and wrinkled smile.
    And when you didn't let me go to
    my friend's flat for a party,
    I wasn't sad because of you,
    because I knew of the celebration you'll have planned
    for when I return.

    When I am going to be thirty,
    and even before I know I am a mother,
    I would have seen it in all these years,
    in your welcoming smile and selfless heart.
    And when you don't let me leave my child for some chore,
    I will not do it mumma
    because I know you'll never leave me,
    even if you never find this letter.

    © Thereshamsharma

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    For mumma.

  • thereshamsharma 89w

    i remember dadu saying,
    'khao jo labh bhata
    pehno jo jag bhata',
    so i unpack the skirts and ask my brother to keep an extra pair of unisex pyjamas, long enough to hide my curling toes.

    While I drool over my dinner that night, I practice having my food without lowering my back too much, knowing my plunging cleavage is considered an offering on the plate. I unpack the v-necks from my suitcase, and ask my brother to keep a couple of extra unisex t-shirts, the necks high enough to hide my choking breath.

    While switching channels that night, I realise my legs are apart from each other - the space between is an open envelope inviting typed stares and unsealed mouths - so I close them like an accordion, making no music but an echo of stereotypes. I unpack the leggings from my suitcase, and ask my brother to hand me over the few unused salwars from the cupboard, loose enough to keep eyes off my tightening gut.

    I stare out the windows of my apartment, realising the glass is merging my reflection into that of the sky - a peephole, only allowing sight both ways. I pull over the curtains and walk over to unpack the see-through kurtis from my suitcase, and ask my brother to keep an extra unisex jacket, solid enough to hide my lifeless flesh.

    I curl into a ball to try and fall asleep when my breasts and stomach fall over to my left, and my night dress rolls up to let me breathe. I walk hushed steps and unpack the tops from my suitcase, and ask my brother to keep a couple of extra unisex shirts, straight enough to hide my curves.

    I fall asleep with the thoughts of being with my relatives again in the morning, and breathe enough to make up for the confinements awaiting me in the peripheries of their smiles. I wake up next morning, too tired from the thoughts, while my brother is making preparations to board the train. He picks up my suitcase to place it near the door, when he tells me it's empty, and I sit on the bed with the weight of it sinking me down.

    © Thereshamsharma

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  • thereshamsharma 96w

    The coffee beans in my wallet cover the stink of brooding loneliness while the two hundred rupee note trapped in the back cover of my phone resonates with my limbs. Everything outside the walls of my room is chasing the end, and the drafts of my failed beginning lie crumpled on the cold tiles. My eyes sail over a five inch screen, whose brightness is a stark contrast to the light my soul is used to. Everyone around me is tailoring the epilogue of their stories, and I am still wondering if mine is supposed to rhyme.

    I keep dried leaves in my pockets sometimes, they often creak whilst I walk, but I am used to sounds of things falling apart. I store the pieces in an empty drawer, I sleep peacefully knowing I am not the only one. Too often our camera tries to capture the sky, only when it's crowded with clouds or singing colours of dusk to the ground. I have pictures of empty sky in my phone and it looks exactly like a blank page. I am still working on my draft, you see.

    The fabric that drapes me today is what sunshine would smell like if the clouds weren't so loud. But my face is still singing a twilight that people have fallen asleep to. The ink stains on my hand are temporary scars that I turned into poetries. I wear them like a proud Shakespearen sonnet while my mom asks me if I could for once stay spotless. Every second is drowning in the tears of a senile yesterday and the frown over a premature morrow, and I sit here asking myself if today is good enough to die.

    © Thereshamsharma #life #thoughts #diary

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    Everyone around me is tailoring the epilogue of their stories, and I am still wondering if mine is supposed to rhyme.

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  • thereshamsharma 105w

    I know it's not easy, but some things are meant to be tough. It's easy to be held in your arms, it'll never be easy to let go.

    Someday, when you are in a foreign land, walking on an empty road on a night darker than the pool of pain brimming in your eyes, you'll come across an ice cream shop, and it'll remind you of my taste in your mouth and you'd order my favourite flavour and all voids that the distance between us created in your soul, will be filled in with the first lick, and the foreign land will begin to smell like home.

    Someday, when you are seated on a rusted bench in a crowded park, and the noise would be ringing in your ears, you'll recall the moments when we both went silent over phonecalls, just listening to each other breathe. And at that moment, with all the people sticking against each other, hovering around you, the world will feel empty.

    Someday, when you are laying under covers, struggling to find the remote and watch something on the weekend, your eyes will go towards the window, and my address would flashback in your mind, my flesh would reflect before your eyes, and the bed covers would start to feel cold.

    Someday, when someone asks you out for a cup of coffee and compliment you on your lovely smile, you'll think of my last text to you that morning, and how they were the only words that could paint crimson across your cheeks. And when you say yes and are seated with her in the most alight and beautiful cafe on the block, your eyes would look for an ill-lit street covered with dirt, and how you want to cry, but the person who would wipe your tears would not be in front of you.

    Someday, I am going to be yours, and you're going to be mine, but we still wouldn't be us, and everything that came alive with us being together will again begin to die.

    © Thereshamsharma

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  • thereshamsharma 107w

    We bathed in each other that night, like sky does with the sea, only they make love in parallel lines, we glide in brackets.

    It was freezing outside the windows, but the season melted when my spring collided with your autumn. The air smelled of stolen kisses and melting passion. We were like two rhymes fallen off different stanzas, kindling our own free verse. Your fingers were like knitting needles, crocheting me to warmth yet hurting me with every ebb and weave. You let your dark night go deep in my pink sky, and twilight has since been spelled with silent moans.


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