cookiesandwater

[cookiesandwater]

Thanks for the tag @rain-rainynights 🌹

It's hard to pick a favourite, but I recently rewatched A Silent Voice (Koe no Katachi), and realized just how much impact that movie had on me as a pre-teen. Especially with how much I related to both Shoya and Shoko.

I think I would be fine in a world like that. Physically, sure. Emotionally, I'm not so certain 🥴

Tag time! @nyx-tenberis @wrentalks @picklemafia @cherrypicked-insanity and all my other wonderful mutuals 💗

You’re living the plot of your favorite movie. How screwed are you??

Reblog and tag!!

@fweens-clone @feral-ass-raccoon @rbarrysncream @rougeside10 @davidtennantgenderenvy @sunlit-mess @davidtennan-t

[cookiesandwater]

Thank you @belled-ing and everyone who got me to 50 reblogs!

I genuinely never expected that 5, let alone 50 people would see my work. This is such a dream, thank you everyone 💗

//ambition, and the lack of it

they tell me to dream.

to blaze like stars,

and leave smoke trails in my wake.

to reach for the throne,

and a gilded crown,

and to become worthy of it.

to take the world by the reins,

and steer it to my will.

but there is no fire in my veins.

i am content to sit by the window,

watching the world drift by

while i do nothing worthwhile.

i do not wish to change how the world spins.

my hands do not lust for power.

they crave neither greatness,

nor change.

others unleash themselves like hurricanes,

while i float by,

like silvery clouds too lazy to storm.

i have heard enough

of gold to find,

journeys to take,

dangers to brave.

i have listened to the starry-eyed

ramble on and on

about the wonders at the peak

of yet another mountain

they must scale.

i have nodded along

to tales of breathtaking skies,

and impassive hills,

and milk-white papery snow

and cerulean lakes that ripple coyly.

but i am happy to stay home,

and adore the lovely flowers

by my window

that bloom only in spring.

my hands are not idle,

only unhurried.

they were not built for

passion or adventure,

or torturous toil.

my hands tend to the roses in my garden.

they stroke a cat with splotchy fur

and absent-mindedly scribble

on the back of receipts.

they make tea.

they do laundry.

they stay folded in my lap

as i hear of yet another adventurer

i prefer to admire

from a distance.

is it so wrong

to while away precious time

in stillness?

is it so wrong to hear of ambition,

and how it drives one mad with longing,

yet feel… nothing?

while others blossom into greatness,

i settle into silence,

where i belong.

and that,

i think,

is enough.

//prompt: ambition, by @picklemafia and @ghostingmyghosts 🌹

[cookiesandwater]

reblog if you're corny and insufferable

[cookiesandwater]

//dining with midnight

Midnight beckons me like an old friend.

It has set the table for two, and is perched on the edge of my finest pouffe, like a bird poised to take flight at any instant— to disappear into the night, leaving me wondering if it was ever here.

I pull out my own chair.

The skies darken, overrun by stars, every pore coated in ink.

Midnight grins— a flash of white teeth in voidic black, like lightning tearing apart the skies on a storm-heavy night.

It sips its wine while I cut open bread.

Midnight is fleeting: a breath held, painstakingly, the everlasting pause between two seconds, a cloud bursting into incessant rain, wispy remnants floating away, gone—skies clear before you can process.

Midnight laughs at my complaints; a chortle that reminds me of stars dying.

“We have a system, my dear,” Midnight croons. “We’re right on time. But, we do not live by clocks. Now, I am not just a ticking number on the watch, am I?”

Midnight does not reside in my heart. It is simply an acquaintance, like a stranger you see every morning on your daily walk.

We exchange niceties, small talk. Familiarity is the magnet that draws me in.

But tonight…

The candles burn brighter than ever. Midnight lingers, its wineglass half-forgotten, as my bread lies cold.

The stars, curious, lift the sky-veil of darkness, pressing their steaming faces to the window.

The clock ticks, yet neither of us look up.

I speak, Midnight listens— reverence disguised as politeness, a quiet understanding evident in its eager nods.

A warm hand closes over mine, fingers tightening, hesitant.

I realize— Midnight and I have stopped being strangers.

Somewhere between the bread and wine, the star-watching, the shared laughter, unspoken confessions that linger in the heat like a held breath, the countless moments of co-existence— I have let Midnight in.

Way in.

And I know— when it slips away into the next horizon, I will find fingerprints on the wine-glass, a dusky scent on my curtains, its voice in the hush before the dark.

Midnight always leaves. But tonight, it leaves a part of itself behind.

// prompt: midnight by @picklemafia and @thenightquill 🌹

//I tried to write in a slightly different style today, not all lowercase. I got the idea to write this at midnight (how surprising) yesterday. Hope you guys like it 🤍

[cookiesandwater]

//woman

they told me being a woman would feel like blooming. petals unfurling into soft curves, sharp sensuality, songs tuned in hips and honey.

but i never fit the mould. i looked in the mirror and saw angles- a body too quiet to be called beautiful. a chest that never rose like the others. ribs hollow enough to echo, skin that stretched taut over all that is wanting.

some days, i feel unfinished. like a whisper of a woman God forgot to finish writing.

i watch them, sometimes; when i forget to be pleasant and envy possesses me.

the girls who breeze through life, taking up space, while i retreat further into long sleeves and shame.

i am hungry for more than food. i devour like a starved dog, but my bones still strain against my rickety frame. i crave to be a woman; one who is undoubtedly so. to live in a vessel that does not need fixing, fattening, forgiving.

i live every day in misery, comparison draining me slowly as i look around me and see what i could have become without the curse they called ‘undeveloped’ woven into my skin.

but at the end of the day, i am still a fool. i hold onto hope.

someday, i will not be the butt of another joke. i will not force a smile when they mock my appearance. they say ‘skinny is not an insult’. as if cruelty isn’t clear as day in their tone. as if i cannot see the disdain in their stares.

i will blossom too, and feel more than just the pains of womanhood.

i too, will be worth looking at. worth taking up space. a worthy contender in this quiet stand-off.

until then- i will hold my head high. patience is a virtue; and i will practice it with grace.

like a woman.

//This is based on my personal struggles and body image issues that resurfaced recently after a slightly traumatic doctor's appointment 🥴🥴 at least it gave me poetry material tee-hee.

[cookiesandwater]

Thanks for the tag @rain-rainynights 🤍

Currently reading: Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Stowe (my mom said I should)

Last song: The Moon Will Sing by The Crane Wives

Last film: The Imitation Game (I loved it so much)

Last series: Alice in Borderland

Sweet/salty/savory: At the moment, salty. I'm craving chips.

Tea or coffee: Tea is a mood, coffee is a necessity. I prefer coffee, but being Indian, I can't stay away from tea either 😖😖

Working on: Homework, trying to navigate the extremely toxic, highly competitive Indian education system without losing my mind, and making hot glue jewellery.

You next, @picklemafia @cherrypicked-insanity @wrentalks @yourquitemuse @echo-temporis @nyx-tenberis 😁 (only if you want to)

— TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE !

thank you for the tags LOVE you guys and hit me up on my disc for a kiss: @gojodickbig @fayerie @sugurusladyknightt @fear-is-truth

currently reading: haha who reads lol... last song: cowboy gangster politican - goldie boutilier last film: superman last series: overcompensating sweet/savory/salty: spicy i make my own rules tea or coffee: anything with caffeine to keep me going working on: getting over this gosh darn cold that wants to keep me shackled in my bedroom

✦ nine no pressure tags my loves: @prosypepper @joemama-2 @letteremi @hellowoolf @redrrem @getouyuri @eraserbread @nialovessatoru @kunareads

[cookiesandwater]

50 posts!

[cookiesandwater]

//ambition, and the lack of it

they tell me to dream.

to blaze like stars,

and leave smoke trails in my wake.

to reach for the throne,

and a gilded crown,

and to become worthy of it.

to take the world by the reins,

and steer it to my will.

but there is no fire in my veins.

i am content to sit by the window,

watching the world drift by

while i do nothing worthwhile.

i do not wish to change how the world spins.

my hands do not lust for power.

they crave neither greatness,

nor change.

others unleash themselves like hurricanes,

while i float by,

like silvery clouds too lazy to storm.

i have heard enough

of gold to find,

journeys to take,

dangers to brave.

i have listened to the starry-eyed

ramble on and on

about the wonders at the peak

of yet another mountain

they must scale.

i have nodded along

to tales of breathtaking skies,

and impassive hills,

and milk-white papery snow

and cerulean lakes that ripple coyly.

but i am happy to stay home,

and adore the lovely flowers

by my window

that bloom only in spring.

my hands are not idle,

only unhurried.

they were not built for

passion or adventure,

or torturous toil.

my hands tend to the roses in my garden.

they stroke a cat with splotchy fur

and absent-mindedly scribble

on the back of receipts.

they make tea.

they do laundry.

they stay folded in my lap

as i hear of yet another adventurer

i prefer to admire

from a distance.

is it so wrong

to while away precious time

in stillness?

is it so wrong to hear of ambition,

and how it drives one mad with longing,

yet feel… nothing?

while others blossom into greatness,

i settle into silence,

where i belong.

and that,

i think,

is enough.

//prompt: ambition, by @picklemafia and @ghostingmyghosts 🌹

[cookiesandwater]

Omg this is so fun, thanks for the tag @rain-rainynights 🏴‍☠️

It's your turn @picklemafia, @wrentalks , @cherrypicked-insanity , @saffronpoetry , @todayslordangelo , @marangho, @versesbyaaliyah , @girldelinquent + anyone else🌹

tw suicide mention

if this gets 50,00 notes I will never commit suicide

[cookiesandwater]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 250 likes!

When I started posting poems on here for the first time, I had never expected for anyone to read them except for me. I am pleasantly surprised at having reached this milestone. Thank you so much to everyone who took a few minutes to read my poems, you motivated me to keep going. I am grateful beyond belief.

[cookiesandwater]

//skin

sometimes, i wish i could unzip my skin and step out.

leave it folded neatly on a chair like a rejected dress, price tag still dangling. like something someone else bought. like something i could return.

it never fit right anyway— too tight at the seams, too rough at the edges. too loud in places i wished to hide away in silence.

when you’re ‘not pretty’, every glance is a question. i become a specimen under glass, lit by jaundiced-bulbs, broken by curious scalpels. they search, they uncover, they carve: every minute flaw magnified hundredfold, out in the light for all to see.

the gazes dissect, peeling me layer by layer like fruit. i wonder if they can see the rot that blooms under the surface. the cries for help i muffle with shaking fingers. i wonder if my imperfections lie flush in the sun, flaring brighter than the quiet bleeding of my soul.

do they know how it feels to brace yourself before facing your reflection?

do they know that ugliness twists your perception of being perceived? compliments become taunts, half-hearted conversations come drowning in pity. every smile curls like a sneer, every glance a look of disdain.

you begin to believe that you don’t just wear your skin— you become it, and nothing more.

but sometimes, i trace my skin in the dark. a small story unfurls under my fingertips, like a secret Braille only i can understand. there is solace in this act— not in its beauty, but in familiarity. in the fact that my skin belongs to me, and only me.

and i find comfort in knowing that this battered shell i reside in, draped in veils of doubt: cloud-soft one moment, armour the next—

it endures. it is untouched, unrelenting, invincible.

and it is mine.

//prompt: skin by @picklemafia and @butwhyareyoureyessosad 🌹

[cookiesandwater]

Thanks for the tag @rain-rainynights 💗

Here's 10 things about me:

I’m East-Indian. I grew up in a largely Westernized educational environment— very common in my area— which means I speak, read, and write English far better than my native tongue. I regret losing touch with my roots and hope to reclaim my mother language someday.

I have a strange superpower: mosquitoes seem to despise me! I live in a mosquito-heavy region, yet rarely get bitten. No complaints.

Spring is my favourite season. I was born in February, I love flowers, and the world is just more alive and colourful then.

Speaking of colours, I adore them. I love to draw and paint. It's been years since I've picked up a paintbrush due to a packed student schedule, so I am terrified of losing whatever skill I had. I also enjoy dancing, singing, reading novels and writing poetry.

I speak 4 languages: English, Hindi, Odia and French.

Some of my favourite books at the moment are The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. (The last two made me sob. They are must-reads, nonetheless.)

My greatest fears are reptiles (excluding snakes), frogs and toads, falling into manholes, deep sea, growing apart from people I share meaningful connections with, disappointing God, the unknown, and change. Dolphins, pigs and capybaras also freak me out. There's something wrong with them, I just can't put my finger on it.

I started writing short stories when I was 6 years old, complete with stick-figure illustrations. The first poem I remember writing was in fourth grade. It was titled 'Nature' (how creative, I know), penned down untidily over a chaotic forty minutes in class. I remember the substitute teacher reading my work with a smile. I later recited it at a school assembly, only to have classmates accuse me of plagiarism. In order to prove them wrong, I wrote more. And I never stopped.

I primarily listen to the Arctic Monkeys, Tame Impala, Mitski, Cavetown, Frank Ocean and NF. I've recently gotten back into k-pop, and plug in to Enhypen in my free time.

My favourite subjects are Chemistry, Physics, Maths, English and French. I love learning new things and solving problems.

Tag time! No pressure, of course, but I'd love to learn about you guys:

@cherrypicked-insanity @saffronpoetry @wrentalks @girldelinquent @eternitysoup @marangho @todayslordangelo @yourquitemuse @strangenessinordinarylife @ff4t4l3

Ten Things About Me

My greatest fear is bugs. Straight up if I see an insect inside my house, I want to move.

Lemon Lime, green apple, and blue raspberry. No explanation needed. 🤤

I have a huge scar on my foot from a cat food tin

I am super short. Think 5’1-ish

I always carry a book

Pink is my favorite color

I wanted to be a Neonatologist but college was too expensive so I started working ASAP

I love art. All art. From the masters of the Renaissance to modern art. All of it has meaning and human passion that I find beautiful.

I love shoes that make me taller 🥸

I’ve written and rewritten my novel more times than I can count 🤣

If you’ve been tagged it’s your turn, make your list and tag 10 @‘s.

@eleanorjane0690 @doctorkepner @districtunrest @charlunday @charcoalseraphim @groceryreceipts @ashesinverses @stardust948 @mandrake-mistakes @xoheartsaurore @notsocooljess @dandelionsunset1210 @distractionsfromthefood

[cookiesandwater]

//flinch, and bloom

When you reach for roses,

Thorns will draw blood— no doubt.

But what of it?

Surely a bloodletting is but a small price to pay for the wonder of a rose:

The breathtaking fragrance,

Velvet under your fingers,

Each bloom precise, unflinching in its beauty.

Surely you won’t forsake your dreams, fearing

You might not grasp the stars.

You think failure will be the end of you.

You ask: what if I fall?

What if I plummet from endless skies?

What if I crash and burn,

And fade,

And worst of all—

What if my dreams remain, far and fleeting,

With the added burn of disgrace,

Haunting me from a distance?

What if I lose?

I ask:

What if you don’t?

What if you soar— so far, the stars burn just to touch you back?

What if you rise, hands bloodied but full of light?

What if pain is the price of becoming limitless?

Will you let something so small stop you from treading the path you were destined for?

If the answer is yes— then so be it.

Stay grounded, a coward,

Content to watch pale reflections of the stars

Flicker in shallow waters.

The same stars you could have held in your hands.

After all,

Greatness is not for the afraid.

//toxic motivation>>>

[cookiesandwater]

Thank you @brownsugar4hersoul and everyone who got me to 25 reblogs!

//the perfect guide to romanticizing heartbreak

step 1:

cry in the shower. wail like a banshee — deafening, guttural. but not loud enough to drown out the background music.

your life is still a movie. you must perform.

boil yourself in sun-hot water. make sure the mirror fogs up, so you don't have to look at what you've become.

step 2:

sit in your room at 3:17 a.m. the glowing laptop screen is moonlight.

with shaking hands, type out your grief. unleash your sorrows like a merciless flood.

then pause, press backspace, and replace it all with: “i’m fine.”

hit send.

step 3:

become the epitome of heartbreak. smudge your mascara with purpose. smear your lipstick— violently— in a way he never dared to.

burn your toast and call it symbolism. chop off your hair, and call it transformation.

break, but make yourself art.

step 4:

once darkness descends upon morgue-pure skies, listen to old voicemails.

call them love songs, confessions.

find meaning in silence. read subtext in blank pages. find undertones in conversations that only happened inside your wrecked head.

it’s just like weaving poetry out of your drab, colourless life. you’ve done it a million times. you can do it again.

step 5:

bleed.

the wounds of the heart need neither salve, nor barrier.

but always remember — to bleed pretty, to bleed quietly, to bleed in lowercase.

//to break soft.

[cookiesandwater]

I wonder;

How many original thoughts and honest works of art have been buried— hidden from those who seek truth— all because of the constant need to cater to an audience. To appeal to the masses.

I wonder how many ideas have been quietly killed in this mundane, yet soul-crushing manner.

//ramblings of the wounded

[cookiesandwater]

//the perfect guide to romanticizing heartbreak

step 1:

cry in the shower. wail like a banshee — deafening, guttural. but not loud enough to drown out the background music.

your life is still a movie. you must perform.

boil yourself in sun-hot water. make sure the mirror fogs up, so you don't have to look at what you've become.

step 2:

sit in your room at 3:17 a.m. the glowing laptop screen is moonlight.

with shaking hands, type out your grief. unleash your sorrows like a merciless flood.

then pause, press backspace, and replace it all with: “i’m fine.”

hit send.

step 3:

become the epitome of heartbreak. smudge your mascara with purpose. smear your lipstick— violently— in a way he never dared to.

burn your toast and call it symbolism. chop off your hair, and call it transformation.

break, but make yourself art.

step 4:

once darkness descends upon morgue-pure skies, listen to old voicemails.

call them love songs, confessions.

find meaning in silence. read subtext in blank pages. find undertones in conversations that only happened inside your wrecked head.

it’s just like weaving poetry out of your drab, colourless life. you’ve done it a million times. you can do it again.

step 5:

bleed.

the wounds of the heart need neither salve, nor barrier.

but always remember — to bleed pretty, to bleed quietly, to bleed in lowercase.

//to break soft.

[cookiesandwater]

//void

there was a grief once— wild, clawing.

a wolf howling at my ribcage, teeth sinking into every breath.

a fist wrapped around my heart, tightening.

a cage of ribs, lungs crushed like paper.

a storm behind my eyes that refuses to die down.

a scream trapped in silence, a voice mangled by sobs that escape every time i try to hold the facade.

but this— this is not grief.

this is drinking coffee that tastes like air.

fingertips swirling in boiling water, watching steam rise like ghosts, just to feel anything at all.

this is watching the sun rise, and set, and the moon swell and shrink again, and again, and again.

and smiling, and eating, and sleeping, repeating— on a loop i no longer notice.

this is not grief.

this is forgetting.

what music once stirred in me, what colour used to mean.

how birds, and hills, and rain, and love, and death once flowed through me like breath, like language, like poetry.

now i sift through memories like running unfeeling fingers through dust.

tracing faint lines across the shards of moments that lie untouched, in corners i dare not enter.

i live in a melancholy monotony; unswayed, untouched, untouchable.

and somewhere along the way, i begin to fade.

like light dimming behind unseeing eyes. dust settling on old toys. red-hot coals cooling to grey ash.

a star burning out in a galaxy crowded with so many others, its absence goes unnoticed. unfelt.

and no wolf howls for me. no fist clenches. no storm brews.

only silence. only stillness. only void.

//prompt: void by @picklemafia and @cherrypicked-insanity 🌹