When I say I want to be a writer,
I'm not talking about
Putting alphabets together,
Into patchworks of
Crystallized words,

That sound rhythmic enough,
To alert your collapsing sense of sound,
That reminds you of its existence,
Only when
The alarm ticks or
The dogs cry,
And make you hear your heartbeat,
I'm talking about being your heartbeat.

When I say I want to be a writer,
I'm not talking about, 
Surviving storms and disasters, 
And living to tell the tale.
I'm talking about being the disaster
That makes you
Appreciate the stable ground
Beneath your feet,
Just enough
To know that
You might not find it
The morning after.

When I say I want to be a writer,
I'm not talking about
Easing your suffering or pain,
Or easing my own,
I'm talking about
Transforming Suffering
Into
Channelized Calmness,
About Breathing Fireflies And Firearms
All at once,
About being a ghost-town
Always looking for more ghosts,
To feel like it doesn't need,
More blood on tongues,
More grave on cradles,
More salt on wounds,
More pain on pain
To combat pain.

I'm not talking about describing
The absence of a loved one,
Or of moonlight,
Or of the first ray of sun,

I'm talking about
Griping Icebergs, and
Breathing Fire into them,
So they know what it feels like to exist,
With brittle bones and warm hearts,
With longing eyes and sweaty palms,
With broken ribs and calloused knees,
With hope and fear,
With fear and hope,

So they know, 
How To Hope Against Hope
When Satan Calls For The Sun,
To soothe the grief in his chest,
When the forest consumes its fireflies
To let the dark conceal its destruction,
When the child cries out in vain
For
Being Born
Wasn't
What
She Asked For.

I'm talking about building
Fire-escapes Through Words,
When Words Are What Failed The Love Of Your Life.
I'm talking about being Satan's Last Prayer
And About
Everything You've Hated
Being healed And Forgiven
Into Rebirth.

I'm talking about rethinking colors.
For what if
Red is blue asking for help?
For what if
Black is all the white from the stone-age?

I'm talking about
Building cradles over graves.
About teaching your heart to consume its own self
When it turns too bitter to beat.
About Making Gateways To Funerals
From our own flesh
When it starts consuming the human will to live.

About Loving
Despite The Absence
Of Who It Is Or What It Is
That You Had Chosen To Love.

About The Author:

Avnika Gupta is a poetess, spoken word performer, theatre artist, and a raging feminist, trying to create comprehensible sentences, out of her scattered thoughts, about herself, the awkwardness of everyday life, the space between pleasure and pain; mostly manifesting her life mantra: “Don't Be a Damsel In Distress, Be A Bombshell In Eustress." You can hug her or agree to disagree, as she believes in letting you be yourself, just as fiercely as she was, is, and becomes: a more honest and authentic version of herself with each passing minute.

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