#ritikajyala

[ritikajyala]

and nothing helps, no amount of rest, no green teas, no walks in nature. I bleed on paper and it smells like roses, roses full of thorns, thorns digging into my chest, and I bleed on paper. And the next morning, I find the words too cringe and the roses look like dried blood, clotted into me, heart full of clots. And the night comes again, and you ask me how I am. I tell you nothing helps, not the walks, not the teas, no rest. And I bleed on paper.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned

[thatcollateraldamage]

@ritikajyala said “the way men love, and the way we fall for them” and my bi heart hasn’t been the same ever since I read that

[ritikajyala]

I know the sunset will not last longer than a few minutes, I know the leaves of summer fall but today I gather the fleeting moments and wear them like a choker around my neck, today I capture all the smiles, all the rays of the sun and swallow them whole. I know all things end but today I breathe in all of the beginnings and wait for another sunrise.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[ritikajyala]

2+2=5. "When a lie has been told enough times, it becomes real." Two and two is five. Every morning I tell myself I like who I am. How many times do you repeat the lie?

I don't hate myself. I love myself. I'm surrounded by myself, hounded by my own cries, caged inside my own ribs. I love myself. My body is my temple but some days it feels like the ruins of Petra. I love myself. I just don't like myself all the time.

On rainy days bleeding blue, I'm tired of this body, of this mind. 2+2=5. If you could sell all your bad memories, only on the condition you'd have to give away the good ones too, would you still do it? Are you your memories or are you the vessel that houses them? Are you the product of your thoughts or the manufacturer? When you repeat a lie enough times, it becomes part of the truth, expands and births itself anew.

Two plus two is five. Am I the voice in my head or the notes of my heart? Am I the lies I tell myself? Lies of consolation, lies of condolences. If I love myself, why do I keep seeing my corpse at the bottom of the ocean, on a road, slumped on my chair, buried in the dirt? If I like myself, why do I keep hearing four, four, four? Two plus two is four. Where do lies end and god's honest truth begin? Because lord I'm tired of not knowing.

-Ritika Jyala