𝙠𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙩

𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 // all writings are my own © khush bakht // ig & pinterest with the same username

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It was April and she was the saddest thing under the sun.

Khush Bakht via wordedarchive

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“i used to write” is such a sad, sloppy, slow thing to say and i say it with the hesitation of a child stopped midplay. “why did you stop?” and i wish i can come up with a better reply than merely explaining how the horrors of day to day life got to my head or the unexplainable exhaustion that has found a home right in the centre of my bones but the only thing my smartass can say is “just”. they nod their head in a yes as if they understand but how can anyone truly does because its like taking away one’s heart and then asking them to breathe. like a fish out of water, gasping for an inhale or a rush of relief. 

khush bakht / they never called me back after that interview.

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and then i think, all this grief is really just me trying to keep you alive. to continue keeping you safe in the little closet that is my heart. because what really is grief if not love preserved.

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things my mother might've forgotten to teach me, but i've learned anyway:

watching the sun rise in the sky / tieing my own shoelaces / swallowing that sad lump in my throat / be the observant one in a room / wrapping myself in shawls instead of coats / wringing these bones till doom / being a safe space to comfort souls / breaking that generational curse and saying no / waking up each day and feeling whole

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what do you need that you're always looking for in other languages?

khush bakht via wordedarchive

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It's November and I feel my life to be on the brink of change.

Khush Bakht via wordedarchive

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must be nice to feel happiness without constantly worrying about what will happen next

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why do i write? is it for you or myself more? i guess we'd never know, but what i do know is this. fame, followers or flair aside; i want my words to sail continents and cross borders because younger me needed to hear them so much. i write in hopes of being enough for atleast someone who has not yet given up on this world. i write to have you know that you're not alone. that it has been felt by me before. that this too shall pass and acceptance shall greet you at the end of this long road.

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so many words, so much to say yet never enough to actually convey

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October is a mighty month.

Emily Dickinson via wordedarchive