My Garden Is Paradise
I am a gardener.
My garden is paradise.
Navigating complex emotions of jealousy, ambition, insecurity, joy, fear, peace, anger, happiness, betrayal, contentment, disappointment, love.
I am a gardener.
My garden is paradise.
I broke a glass ceiling of my own, as a student representing my college on the campus festival circuit.
This boxy is a box. It is not me. When you trap my identity in labels of gender, regional feature, skin colour, this body makes me feel like a prisoner.
Can you miss someone who died before you ever met them? Yes, if you are a reader. I miss Marsha Mehran.
This picture was shot in January 2020. I had no idea that the what the years ahead would bring.
A boundary is a lesson in consent. It’s rooted in a sense of self. Who you are, says what you allow.
I thought about people who hit me. In plural. I experienced enough before adulthood. Yet at 23, when a man I loved hit me, I knew something was wrong.
Are you chasing compliments, dodging insults, fighting defensively? Are you building your identity propped on someone else’s kudo? Compliments are not about your feelings or you, at all.
A poem of delirium when the pain has transcended escape.
There’s a name for my generation. Children of Baby Boomers who arrived some calendar pages too early to be Millenial. Generation X.