Anwesha Mishra

Drama Tragedy


Anwesha Mishra

Drama Tragedy

The Other Side Of Depression

The Other Side Of Depression

3 mins 471 3 mins 471


Everything is warm.

My body, my eyes 

And the beads of sweat accumulating on my forehead 

Made my mother precipitate and cry. 

I beg my dad 

"Anything but injections. Please !",

Because I was scared of them. 


My body feels cold. 

Swollen eyes and 

The cold smog accumulated inside my head 

Blurs my vision.

My soul begs 

"Nothing but a syringe. Please !",

Because I was scared. 


My mother force-feeds me tablets

After dinner because I'm sick. 

"I hate my life!" I cry angrily.


I stuff a fistful of pills into my mouth

Because I'm sick.

"I hate my life!" I angrily cry. 


I fell from my bike. 

I got wounded. 

My hands were bleeding.

I cried. Loudly. 


I fell in love. 

I got wounded. 

My heart was bleeding.

I cried. Silently.


I am afraid of the darkness. 

I am afraid there's a monster underneath my bed. 

I wrap myself entirely with my blanket 


I am enchanted by the darkness. 

I am friends with the monster.

I wrap myself up with my scratched skin.


The cut on my hand hurts. 

It is bleeding. 

I could not stop crying.


4 am:

Razors are my best escapade. 

The red lines on my hand look beautiful.

I cannot stop crying. 

3 am: 

The data says the pills will take time to work. 

I cannot wait. I am running out of time. 

Tik Tok. Tik Tok. 

2 am: 

I don't like the taste of phenyl. 

Maybe, three sips would do the work. 

1 am: 

It's cold in here. On the terrace. They say "there is collateral Beauty in death ". I want to die beautiful. 

12 am : 

I gently fold the note into a tiny piece of paper with sharp corners and sharper edges. 

I clutch it inside my fist and let the edges pierce into my skin,

Deep enough to disturb me. 

"HELP!" , I smiled at the ocean. 


I wrote everything on a piece of paper and burnt it down straight away, as I was suggested. 

Later in the night, everything hit me back like a boomerang. Harder, this time. 


I made him read my diary. "Baby stop overthinking ." He laughed it off. 

I didn't stop writing. 

I shared a relatable quote on Instagram. My inbox was flooded with sympathies. I didn't want that. 


These dark corners have become my home. No wonder why they say "The grass always looks greener on the other side. ". It's grey here. 

I look at myself on the mirror of my bathroom. Dark eye bags, dried lips, restless and moist eyes.

That is who I am. The tiles on the bathroom have soaked more of my tears than water. 

The stars are indeed keepers. They know my story.  

We sing eulogies for each other when either dies for one more time. 


The tear-stained pages of my diary was a piece of gossip for the entire college. 

There's a lump stuck in my throat and I'm having a hard time swallowing that.

There's no enough space in my stomach to churn out the indigestible stuffs. 


That's how this all started. With so much of nothingness inside my heart.

Staring at the ceiling is my favourite job. Focusing on the blankness is an every night task. 

A widely stretched curve on the face can be so many things at a time.

It can be bewitching, delusional, manipulative, soothing or lethal. It is everything, deadly most importantly.

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