Toxic Rose

They carved their laws into my skin, Bound my soul in chains of sin. They fed me love like poisoned bread, Then left me starving, left me dead. Their hollow gods, their empty creed, Their plastic smiles, their rotting seed— I spit on love, I curse the name, I burn the world that lit my pain. I am the sickness they can’t cure, The scream that festers, dark, impure. Their touch disgusts, their words are bile, I am the outcast, born reviled. No mercy left, no faith, no light, I thrive in chaos, breathe in blight. A walking plague, a burning scar, I am the reckoning. I am war.

Priyanka Sen’s life was a meticulously choreographed ballet, an intricate performance of success and control. Every morning, she woke before the city stirred, before the sun dared to spill its first light over Kolkata’s horizon. She never needed an alarm. It was as though her body had been programmed—a machine of precision, discipline, and ceaseless forward motion. She stretched her arms, feeling the firmness of her toned muscles, the result of years of ruthless self-discipline. Her breath was steady, her mind already calculating the day ahead: a leadership summit at the ITC Royal, a video conference with international clients, a school meeting for Ayan, a dinner party at The Oberoi with investors, and somewhere in between, a ninety-minute workout, perfectly timed meals, and an hour of mindfulness meditation—because that’s what successful people did. She turned toward her husband, Rishi, who was still lost in sleep, his breathing deep and peaceful. He had the luxury of resting. Priyank...

Come closer, love, let your fragrance weave,   Through the curve of your neck, the rise of your sleeve.   Let me taste the fire on your parted lips,   Feel the heat where your heartbeat dips.   My hands will linger where shivers ignite,   Tracing your waist in the hush of night.   Tongue to your collarbone, slow and sweet,   Drinking the sighs where our pulses meet.   Fingernails teasing down satin thighs,   Your breath unsteady, laced with sighs.   Wrapped in the heat of desire’s embrace,   Lost in the rhythm of passion’s chase.   My lips carve poetry down your skin,   Writing in whispers where longing begins.   Teeth at your waist, a lingering tease,   Drawing out gasps, soft as a breeze.   Your back arching, nails carving sin,   A dance where only the fire can win.   Flesh against flesh, lost in the tide,...

The Vanishing of Srijan Unknown: "Brilliant analysis on Calvino. You must have spent years buried in books to think like that." Me: "Some people get lost in books. Others are born inside them." I stare at the message. Read it again. The cursor blinks, waiting. Did I write that? Did she? Did it come from somewhere else entirely? The profile says her name is Abira Sen. But I don’t remember ever finding her. Or her finding me. I try to retrace my steps. A discussion on Invisible Cities—yes, I was reading the thread. A comment buried deep in the replies, something sharp, something that made me pause. But the moment I try to picture it, the memory slips. Like ink running in water. My phone vibrates again. Another message. Abira: "Are you always awake this late, Srijan?" Srijan. The name makes my skin prickle. I type back. Me: "Do we know each other?" Three dots blink. Stop. Start again. Then— Abira: "I think we do." I wake up to the sound of...

I wake with my cock buried in the earth. It is damp, breathing, swallowing around me with slow, shuddering pulses, thick as lungs full of water. My fingers dig into the soil, into something warmer beneath, something that moans through the shifting roots. I close my eyes and thrust deeper, deeper, until the moss parts and the roots coil around my thighs, winding over my stomach, sliding under my skin like worms burrowing through meat. The earth hums beneath me, its voice low and hungry, and the trees above shudder, their branches twisting, stretching, heavy with thick, dripping fruit. They bend toward me, their voices whispering through the leaves, urging, begging, crying out in sharp, breathless gasps as I bury myself inside the soil’s pulsing mouth. The taste of salt floods my lips before I can pull away. It rushes in, sharp and thick, forcing itself past my teeth, my throat, my ribs. The waves slap against me, rough and relentless, dragging me under, pressing into my chest like a lov...

I was once mighty. Sturdy, polished, standing firm under the weight of love, madness, and triumph. I carried a man through his highest highs and lowest lows, absorbing his joy, sweat, and sorrow. I was more than just a leg of an old recliner—I was his foundation, his crutch, his throne. And then, one day, I broke. So did he. My name is irrelevant. If you must call me something, call me Left Front Leg. The noblest of them all. The first to touch the ground, the first to bear the weight of passion, rage, and deep, whiskey-drenched contemplation. This is the story of Chidananda, my master, my burden, my ruin. It began in the heat of an August afternoon. Chidananda was younger then—robust, impatient, hungry. The world had not yet weathered him down, though his receding hairline was already hinting at the inevitable. That day, he stormed in with a woman. A wild thing with red lipstick smeared like war paint, her laughter rolling through the room like a goddamn drum solo. She kicked ...

I am the left ventricle of his heart. For forty-five years, I have pumped rivers of blood through his body, sustaining the weight of his hope, his longing, his relentless, foolish love. I have swelled with passion, clenched with pain, and now, I rot. The first time I faltered, it was quiet. A dull ache at the edge of his ribs, a slow tightening in his chest. He ignored me, of course—he had ignored himself for years. But I was screaming. I had been screaming for a long time. Then, one night, I collapsed. It happened in the middle of an empty apartment, with only unpaid bills and a hollow silence for company. He had just lit a cigarette, staring blankly at the clock, when a searing bolt of pain tore through me, through him, folding him over the arm of the chair like a snapped puppet. His fingers clawed at his chest, nails digging into his own skin as if he could pull out the betrayal buried there. A betrayal not just of flesh, but of everything. When the ambulance came, he was still cons...