By Praanya Nath
I write ugly words.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because spilling them on paper is better than spilling them on people.
Maybe because they’re a knot in my stomach,
and if I don’t untangle it, it will choke.
Maybe because writing ugly words
is better than turning into an ugly person.
I write painful words.
Maybe because my remedy to pain is ink.
Maybe I need reassurance—
that someone can or will hear me,
feel me,
or truly see me.
Maybe they’re my silent plea to flee.
I write harsh words.
Maybe because there’s no other form they can take.
Harsh words for a harsh world.
Hard facts born from harsh acts.
I cannot bear not to write.
I don’t know if it is a curse or a drug.
It is as necessary to me as breathing.
My lungs are as thin as paper
before words are etched on them—
or in other words, before oxygen fills them.
To me, it doesn’t matter if they’re ugly, painful, or harsh.
After all, the pain of having these words
may be better than the pain of losing them.