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I write to feel a little

or to feel a little less.

Waiting for the chaos to settle down,

standing in the eye of an absolute mess.

But now I’ve run out of strength.

There’s no fight left in me. 

There’s so much living left to do,

But there’s no life left in me.

I wait for the sun to set and the stars to rise, 

Because that’s my moment of peace, 

An escape from dying every single moment 

And losing myself piece by piece. 

I wish to be tougher than I am.

I wish to be less fragile.

But above all I wish to live a little,

To stop feeling like I’m on a trial.

A trial that ends in a life sentence.

A trial for killing a girl.

The murder of the girl that I used to be,

For hurting and wrecking that innocent pearl. 

The pearl is gone,

And so is the thief.

The murderer is on the loose,

Holding on to a belief. 

A belief that one day she’ll find her. 

One day they’ll meet.

One day, they’d be one again.

Instead of fighting for the driving seat.

As they melt into being one,

While steering the wheels in the hope to survive,

They forgive each other

For just trying to find a way to be alive.

So I wait. 

Wait for this moment to reconcile, 

Because now I know that my forgiveness 

Is my only respite. 

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Stuti Smruti Mishra

Stuti, a 21-year-old pursuing law and exploring her creative side, often feels like a black sheep, despite others perceiving her differently. Whether navigating intricate family dynamics, conforming to societal norms that compromise her inner peace, or facing personal struggles with health and well-being, there is always something reminding her that she is somewhat out of place. However, she learns to be kinder to herself, understanding that self-judgment is unnecessary.


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