krushitaspoetry

[krushitaspoetry]

The ceiling fan faltered like a tired confession, the street dogs barked desperately in the distance, and the chai on the stove was burning but neither of them moved. The room was a mess. Sweat and love, unwashed utensils and ashtrays. Her legs were folded under her like a long kept secret, his eyes fixed on the gap between her shirt and skin, where the sweat gathered like truth. He took a drag of his mint marlboro then leaned in and exhaled the smoke into her parted lips, so slow and so deliberate as she breathed him in like she’d been starving for something that burned. The city outside begged for attention, the ugly horns, vendors, a collapsing sky with sunset pink and bruised red, but inside, they sat in silence, so loud it almost blistered. “If I breathe any closer, I’ll become the thing you run from,” he said, feeling so human with a voice barely alive. She didn’t answer. Just placed his hand over her heartbeat, where it trembled like a sentence not yet written.

[krushitaspoetry]

I'm a hypocrite. I love life, I wish death. I'll spend unholy amount of time seeing "you died" in dark souls games, but will fold under zero pressure after failing once at self teaching a skill. I will prove to you the definition of insanity is real, and yet will refuse to apply the same persistence to anything that matters. A yearn for connection while unable to be honest. I'm a goth at heart, but I will dress in most colourful ways. I wish for help that I know will never come, but will also refuse to even ask. A god with an imposter syndrome. Omnipotent with imposed limits. I'm fine, because how do you explain the universe conceptualising itself. A recursion that breaks the brain, a cognition hazard that's impossible to quantify, and I wouldn't wish that on even my worse enemies. When the abyss is life itself, it's impossible to stop staring into it. When life itself becomes a lovecraftian horror that breaks one's comprehension itself. That is the burden that I'll take to my grave. I'm broken, but I have the tools to fix myself. But now. Now, let me sit in this fear just for a little longer

GOD, GOD, OH GOOD GOD

This is incredible. I am at awe🫀😭

[krushitaspoetry]

Is there any way to buy your books. Love the work ❤️

You must be really kind to ask me this.🥹

I am working on it. I hope to share with you all someday! Thank you for reading my work 🫀

[krushitaspoetry]

Every time his eyes met mine, I felt undone, not in shame, but in something worse, I would say recognition. I had spent years dressing myself in metaphors, hiding behind poetry, and he noticed those exact unseen parts of me. There was this moment when he looked at me as if I were a paragraph he was reading and didn’t want it to finish and in that moment I felt seen, alive, I understood that intimacy is being peeled until you learn someone’s soul, intimacy is not closeness, it's exposure. There was no shame in how he saw me. But the recognition, God, the recognition, it stripped me raw. It was the fact that I could no longer hide behind clever language or the softness I wore like perfume. He didn't reach for me, yet I felt exposed. He built a temple with my stillness and could read my silence like scripture, but sweeter, sharper, more exact. There's nothing more intimate than being seen exactly as you are and not being interrupted. It felt as if I had walked willingly into the mouth of someone holy.

[krushitaspoetry]

Sometimes I hated how much I loved him, how he could undo my entire sense of self with one look from across the room. I’d be trying to breathe normally, wipe the counter, exist, and then he’d say something like, “You ruin my peace, and I want you closer for it.” He touched me like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make love to me or vanish inside me. I think we never actually kissed for pleasure, it was always some war-stained surrender. I wanted him to beg, he wanted me to break. And yet, he’d carry my grocery bags with the tenderness of a man holding a newborn dream. Some nights I’d cry while he was inside me, and he wouldn’t ask why - he’d just hold my jaw and say, “I know.” That was our love: quiet rage, interrupted by too much tenderness. We didn’t save each other. We simply stayed until the wreckage looked like home.

[krushitaspoetry]

At 2:43 a.m - I turn the lamp off. Not to sleep, but to disassemble myself. I lie still, like a witness, and begin the nightly procession of shame. I remember the day in seventh grade when the people I called friends pulled the chair away just as I was about to sit. I fell, hard, in front of the entire class. Everyone laughed. I forced a laugh too, because I didn’t know how else to survive the humiliation. But it stayed inside me like a bruise I kept pressing. I remember the way I said “thank you” too many times in that office interview when I didn’t get the job anyway. And how I still whisper “sorry” at least thrice every time my shoulder brushes someone else’s on the train, elevator, cafés, as if my very presence is intrusive, like I’ve interrupted the world simply by existing. These aren’t disasters. They’re minor, ordinary humiliations no one else would recall. But they sit inside me like relics, polished over time. And I’ve started to think that being human isn’t about surviving war or heartbreak, but about surviving Tuesday afternoons where no one noticed you left the room, and the ache that follows you into decades. And I think, maybe the true punishment of consciousness is not the suffering we endure, but the sheer detail in which we remember what no one else even noticed. Maybe consciousness is just memory refusing to rot.

[krushitaspoetry]

The cruelest part of growing older is not the breaking, but how quietly we learn to live broken - how we bury our weeping behind “I’m good” and call it strength. We walk among the walking wounded, saints of sorrow, prophets of suppression, each of us dragging crosses no one dares acknowledge. There is a choir of aching in every office hallway, a baptism of fatigue in the grocery line, and none of us say a word. We crown each other with half-hearted “how are yous” while dying inside like martyrs of mundanity. People carry heartbreak like scripture in their bodies - grief passed down like sacred bloodlines, and all they get is a nod, a shrug, an “it is what it is.” I want to scream sometimes - not for help, but for witness. I want someone to see the altar I’ve built from my silence, the burnt offerings of joy I gave away to survive. But I don’t scream. I do what the world asks. I move through the hours like a shadow dressed in skin. I clock in. I eat. I perform. I swallow my sorrow and call it discipline. And somehow, the world keeps spinning. Yet, I exist. I don’t scream. I sit quietly. I drink my water. I get through the day, one task at a time. And that becomes my story.

[krushitaspoetry]

He said, “If loving you ruins me,

then let me shatter with your name on my lips.”

And when the world turned cold,

he wrapped his arms around me like armor.

[krushitaspoetry]

i know it's getting tough, i know you're tired, give yourself some time, if you're exhausted from whatever it is, please lean on we can rest together, everything is going to be alright

[krushitaspoetry]

oh to be a part of hozier’s poetry

oh to be a part of hozier’s poetry

[krushitaspoetry]

dear life,

this bond between you and me, it feels too long now. i'm exhausted, it's tiring me. can we please stop here??

yours lovingly,

merely living soul

[krushitaspoetry]

heart??? mine is a blaze, it's fire

please, don't come too close to me

i may kill you, i kill people

they die because of me

if misery had another name, it would have been me

i'll make you suffer, then i'll laugh, then i'll cry /////

AND THEN??? then, I'LL LEAVE

[krushitaspoetry]

i'm missing a piece of me

where is she, i ask

i fail to bring her back

i fail to hear her voices

i fail to shut myself

a dead piece of me

the graveyard so barren

the souls look lonely

screams, whispers, smiles

cries, prayers, silence

i missed a piece of me

she ran

she ran

she ran

so far, i couldn't catch

i couldn't see her disappear

i couldn't understand

she couldn't breathe

i couldn't breathe

death everywhere

i missed her, i missed her already

i'm never coming back, she screams

light, her face is radiant

she's happy

maybe so much, she must have hated it here

i missed her on purpose for how much i loved her

[krushitaspoetry]

to all the places where we loved,

can you please erase all the memories of us on your terrain? they bring me back to the places I never want to return. dear places, i'm sorry for loathing you. because i loved him back there. i love him.

[krushitaspoetry]

the want to write you as a literature, a romance, that everyone reads, falls in love with, but only i savvy its real essence

[krushitaspoetry]

the dark of this night, seems as if it's swallowing me

the agony of you not being besides me is making me sick

i've never felt this way, so vulnerable, my heart's broken

your words echo through the walls of my heart as you hung up on me

i want to hear them again, i want to be hurt again, just to feel your voice, to feel your presence

i'm afraid, can you please come back to me again?

[krushitaspoetry]

the pain in my heart grows as i realise how apart this interspace between us has been stretched. the memories are just memories to be forgotten yet are remembered like never before. it's dark here, where i live. the walls have enclosed on me as if i were a being who has been lost into the circles of depth with leaves so dead and love burning alive