Everything I've Never Said (except that its a blog)

Every few months I convince myself that writing is a whim, its just leisure, just another quirk, a hobby. I seem to forget that I need it to survive, need it to see myself- in the mirror and in the eye. I need to write. Writing is not a multivitamin; it’s a life sustaining pill.  "Love of My Life" by Freddie mercury is playing in the background. I'm wondering if I'm much too young to stop believing in love already. The air is crisp this time of January and if you dare to step outside, you will feel it slap your face. Sometimes like a disappointed parent, other times playfully like a laughing friend, some days like a drunk husband. Growing up is right around the corner, but it is a blind turn. And the car I'm in has no siren. It’s a hauntingly beautiful life. I have never quite loved life enough to go out of my way to live, but at the same time never hated it enough to grab the bottle, light the smoke, glide the blade or sniff the coke. So its only fair that I have...

I didn't plan on doing an introduction, but I have my first blog post ready already and it feels wrong to post it without one. Hi, I'm Lakshita, a student who made a podcast named "Everything I've Never Said" at 15 years old for fun. (there is barely anything on it but I will get better at it I promise.) A few things about me are- Dead Poet's Society is my favourite movie; I impulsively cut bangs at 15 years old and that has permanently and severely dented my social life; I'm a cat person, infact I'm terrified of dogs so that was never an option; I'm in the process of learning how to cook and people often say if I was a colour I'd be yellow. (highly disagree) I have loved writing, all my life. The first poem I wrote dates back to when I was 6 years old, which is when I barely could read or write. Writing poems was never a career trajectory for me, but more like a way to deal with all that is asphyxiating and difficult to maneuver. The way I wri...

I’ve been looking on and on, At heaps of pens and papers Some cut up in halves and quarters, some intact like an uncredited money bill. Crisp like the air that would enter my bedroom window, If I ever bothered to open it. Books I haven't read yet and scents I’ll never spray. Trinkets that will never sit on the crest of my ears now that they have turned grey. I wish for so much Then I wish to throw it all away. Catapult into a new person and leave it all here, it rots to stay. Incense candles that I light on days when each thought is all-consuming and cannibalistic, I watch the wax melt, I dip my finger in it, wait for it to stiffen around my nail beds, Feel the softness amidstthe bleakness.  All my candles now have craters in them, but that’s okay They never had much fragrance anyway. I open drawers and business cards fly out, “Sensitive care” tags and to-do lists, All untended, each box unticked.  I have so much to do, when will I do it? I have much to keep, much to store, mu...