By Raashi Goyal
I have a lot of regrets,
which have been jumping up and down in my head.
They make me feel all the silent pain, again and again.
And then they say, "Life doesn’t end when you fail a test or when you feel lost."
But I already feel like giving up—will the hard work really match the cost?
The cost of not spending time with those I love,
the cost of working till midnight, but still showing up first in the classroom.
I don’t know how to put this into words,
And this is the first time I’ve felt like not writing and just feeling the thrust.
They laughed about my illness, but I endured and still took the pill,
Because no one is coming—I need to take that shot in the dark, or I will go downhill.
The irony is that I still wrote about it,
But will it be enough for them? Or anyone else on this planet?
There are cuts in my heart, cuts in my brain—
all this negativity makes my happiness drain.
"I am very complicated," they say, but at the end of the day,
"I have a lot of regrets," is all I'll say.
I have all my flaws, you all have yours.
I don’t need to be reminded again and again what they are called.
I’ve climbed the mountain, but there's a bigger one ahead.
I’ve reached the top, yet so much remains undone in my head.
And then I wish I looked like her.
I wish I were pretty
I wish I were worthy enough so boys would look at me.
Because nowadays, that’s the level
I’m reminded again and again of my own insecurities and devils.
Oh God, why am I made to suffer?
Why am I built to feel pain?
Why have I grown thorns, now useless and vain?
I make mistakes, I hit rock bottom, and repeat—
then I go cry it all out, but I cannot even scream.
I feel like a failure—the only thing I succeed
the only kind of people I love die
before I can tell them “I love you” properly.
But at the end of the day, I’m just sixteen.
My life is as blurry as my life expectancy.
I don’t expect flowers every day,
but I need you to give me some privacy.
You don’t need to compare—there is no diversity.
I’m just like the others; you need to respect simplicity.
I’ve got a thunderstorm in my head, but I like to enjoy the silence,
because you wouldn’t understand, even if I took therapy.
I don’t want to be forced into your way of thinking or believing.
You say I’m complicated and neurotic—and I don’t disagree.
You think I’m distancing myself and not living my life how I’m supposed to.
I don’t want to argue because I don’t even have the right to speak.
Just curse me out already and leave this so-called “insanity.”
Make sure to lock the door.
I want to be there for you—but not really, no.
Because I’ve learned the hard way to let people go
and do whatever they want to be.
At the end of the day, I’m just sixteen.
My life is crumbling in every single way.
I just keep hoping it’ll get better someday.
I am not present—but I’m always at their convenience.
Again and again, I hate that torture. I hate that experience.
My future is slipping away like water,
yet I am doing nothing and staying silent.
Maybe this week has been too much.
Maybe only this week has been too violent.
My anger, my love, my future, my work—
all of it is falling from above.
My grief, my innermost peace,
my future, my oh-so-perfect dreams are crumbling in front of me.
Maybe I’m not meant or good enough for big cities,
and meant only for the suburbs.
People say that it will get better—
that it will all be oh so fine.
But I have been writing letter after letter,
and still getting no reply.
They say life is short, so live every second and smile,
But what if every second of it makes me want to die?
Makes me want to change my body and my whole mind.
I want to change, but I don’t know where to start.
My goals are distant; each day they keep getting harder.
I once used to be oh-so-perfect and smart,
now I let my steering wheel go—I’m breaking the rules apart.
I’m driving the car with shaky hands. Maybe I should take a walk.
But my self-driven thoughts drive me to the edge of the hill—
should I go, or should I stop?
I’ve been driving down this road too long now.
Will I be able to change the gear?
Will I get control of my car?
There’s so much to life, but I’m stuck in the too little.
My leaves have dried up; my branches have become too brittle.
I’m stuck in the middle of the ocean—I have the safety supplies.
I’m still waiting on hope. Is this called life?
People are usually stuck in a circle of living, but I’m stuck in a square.
Each small or big victory leaves me with a dead end.
My happiness, my love—
all of it is being taken away.
The twist?
The taker is the thoughts in my own brain.
I scream. I fight. I repeat. I cry.
Sixteen years in—is this called life?
I feel so complicated, like I have everything I need,
And even more than I dreamed.
But still I have more than a thousand puzzles left unsolved inside of me.
People are there.
Everything is perfectly placed everywhere.
But why do I still feel like throwing up,
and leaving everyone I share love with?
The butterflies have turned into sharp needles.
They cut. I bleed. I get hurt. They repeat.
They’ve left scars that everyone can read,
but I hide them with my smile and crooked teeth.
The people who get it are close to me—and only a few in numbers.
My anger, my aggression, is breaking the thread connecting one to another.
There is not one thing I can do right.
I feel like that light bulb that’s finally running out of light.
I ask for not many—but just one.
Will it be like this forever, like it has been this month?
I usually know what to do with myself,
But now I’m the tree that’s finally about to shed.
I’m looking here and there—
where did the “I learned something new” phase disappear?
Not one thing around me has changed but me.
Why do I suddenly have a new perspective of life being sad and gloomy?
I’m blessed with what I have, but there’s still a part of me that feels clueless.
Going back and forth about my choices—I know its right, but I still have so many issues.
Am I rushing it? Is it too soon?
I know so much but have nothing to do with my time.
Am I really living, or just existing in this world so wide?
Maybe I’m just another human to come and leave,
Or maybe to change this world into something very happy.
I could end up doing good or bad, but for now I believe
maybe the light bulb will light up again.
Maybe it just needs a new battery.
A sense of sorrow, a sense of loss,
a sense of sadness, a sense of being torn.
I felt uncomfortable in my own body.
I felt loved by others—but not by my own heart.
I was that flower slowly picking one petal after another apart.
I felt like an accident—maybe I was made by God in His toughest hour.
I was unsure. I felt so complicated, even though I had come so far from the start.
Grief and sorrow—those pretty much summed up my mind.
Why did I feel inferior to others, even though they are my own kind?
But then, slowly, I realized:
Pretty doesn’t mean pretty in this generation now.
Because everyone is copying each other—more plastic, less skin.
They look worse, but feel better somehow.
“Beauty resides in everything,” they say.
And for once, I agree.
I admit I have flaws indeed,
But I’ve learned to accept myself the way I am.
And after a long time, I feel freed.
Free from the thunderstorms of toxicity.
Free from my insecurities.
Now, I am re-watering my roots.
I am becoming a new flower.
What you focus on grows,
That spirit is in your hands,
It is your power.