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Updated: Jan 23

By Swati Joshi

They said it is no use loving someone

who can’t love himself.

Their demons are strong enough to power on

And subtly defy words unsaid.

It sticks with time.

More so, it depresses the already shortened.

No companionship, no promises of betrayal

no ropes of belonging can tear the

thin white edged sheer woven with neglect.

Are insecurities purchased or are they inborn?

If my brain defies to trust, to give in,

is it a nuisance or some congenital defect?

It is no use embracing someone

whose bullets have already hit his soul.

Their life is short and meaningless,

for self, for the dementors doing

their shenanigans.

Remember them, make them a ruby coin.

Play tributes and instill in hall of fame.

If you desire so

But there is no use longing for someone

whose memories are the only thing left.

I heard whispers of ,” Such a prodigy!” 

“Such a genius!”

White lies , white lies

Such a tragedy on hands of homunculus.

The posthumous legacy is shining golden.

I feel my iris turning yellow

but when I looked at him

and then at the mirror.

There is no use opening your heart to someone

whose touch would fade from distance.

By Swati Joshi

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