sreeja

Hi there, I read some of your poems and I think your writing is remarkable.

i wanted to say your name but it broke inside my mouth and what came out was a mouthful of blood and birds and i carried them to you like a gift, here, here is what i am when i do not know how to hold myself together, and you took it in your palms without flinching, let the blood smear your fingers and the birds peck at your wrist until they found skin tender enough to disappear into, and this is what i mean when i say hunger, not that i am starving but that every time you look at me i remember i am alive enough to ache and isn’t that what devotion is, to ache and to keep aching, to unravel myself thread by thread and still press what is left into your hands, to say here take this even if it is ugly and not enough, and you keep taking it, you keep swallowing my pieces until i can no longer tell where i end and you begin, and i am frightened of that, yes, but i am also singing in the fear, i am also opening myself wider, splitting ribs, baring marrow, saying look this is the place i saved for you, and when you touch me there it does not hurt, it only reminds me that i have not died yet, that i am not done loving, and there are days i want to stop, days i want to go back to being a body untouched, a body locked in its own shadows, but then you appear with your hair dripping with the scent of rain and i know i would burn everything again just to see you touch the fire and call it beautiful, and so we keep going, you and i, not lovers not friends not saints not sinners but something between, something tangled in the ache, something made of mouths that never tire of opening, hands that never stop reaching, and we do not need a name for it, we do not need the world to see, we only need the hunger, the devotion, the way our bodies do not resist but fall, fall again and again into one another as though gravity has finally chosen to be merciful.

it is a curious thing, the way the world can cradle you in its warmth and yet never quite meet your skin, and I—yes, I, the knotted, trembling, selfish heart of all things—wander through rooms full of voices that call me by name and yet do not see me, do not see the small betrayals I carry under my skin, and I imagine them, those who love me, tilting their heads, smiling, thinking of me as some bright shape, and not the tremor beneath their gaze, or the shadow that slips across their chairs when I enter, or the small sharpness I leave behind like crumbs of glass. yes, I who am terrible, terrible, terrible, yet they speak my name with tenderness, yet they place their hands in mine, yet they remember to bring tea, ask me if I slept, love me, though I leave bruises in the air I breathe, though I am a hollowed thing, hollowed by my own insistence on survival, hollowed by the hunger to be both adored and unseen. and sometimes, in the quiet rooms after everyone has gone, I feel the awful satisfaction of having been loved at all, the bittersweet salt of being held in the mind of another while knowing, sharply, that love has no eyes for the cruelty lodged in my ribs, that it cannot reach the terrible parts, cannot touch the tangled mess of me, cannot soften the sharp angles I have built to keep myself safe, and yet they love me, and this love is a cruel, exquisite thing, because it reminds me every instant that I am not only terrible, I am also human, I am desired, I am kept, I am remembered.
          
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Hii!! It would mean a lot to me if you could check out my poetry collection Organized Chaos and give me some feedback please ❤️

Hello!!I’m hoping to grow as a writer. If you have a bit of time, would you mind reading my poetry book ( War Of Adolescence - narrative poetry ) and giving me honest feedback

Hey everyone,
          Sharing a new piece that i wrote just to survive the sentence. Read it or don't. I wrote it anyway.
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1485353496-play-pause-replay-self-portrait-as-mouth-after-you

(SOME NEWS!)
          
          Hey everyone,
          My poem has been shortlisted for Pick of the Month by 'Ink, Sweat and Tears,' and I'd be so grateful if you took a moment to vote for it.
          If the piece resonated with you—if it made you feel seen, stirred something quiet, or simply stayed with you—I'd be incredibly honored to have your support.
          
          You can vote here: https://inksweatandtears.co.uk/june-2025-pick-of-the-month/ 
          Voting closes at 6 p.m. on Wednesday, 23rd July (BST).
          
          Thank you, truly, for reading, caring, and carrying my words with you. Your kindness means more than you know.
          
          Affectionately,
          Sreeja.

posted something old, something half-grown and slightly frayed around the edges. because the ache won't leave me alone.
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1520985196-play-pause-replay-bloodline

sometimes, we write not to be read immediately or for comments or that little thrill of someone saying "this moved me" (though god, how lovely when that happens), but just to keep ourselves alive. this piece (link below) was one of those that i wrote not with a reader in mind, but with a memory in my chest and a tremor in my fingers. i suppose that's why it means so much to me. because sometimes, writing is simply an act of remembering who you are when nobody's watching. and this piece sat with me in a way others didn't and offered me everything. 
          
          and though it's always a gift to be read and connect with thoughtful, generous readers and writers, I think it's also okay to say: i wrote this one for me. if you read it, I hope you meet it gently. but if not, that's okay too. some pieces are meant to be lighthouses, and others are meant to be small secret fires that burn just for the person who lit them.
          
          https://www.bruisermag.com/naskar_girls

@preciouspearl20 oh no you don't have to. as long as you're writing, that's what matters. after that, you pick and see what you like, what you want, and what you need.