Women in love are Horrible.

Releasing emotional investment and embracing new beginnings.

Dear reader,

Today is 7.12.24, a usual day of December and the winter arc.

I'm standing in my balcony with my coffee mug all alone, staring at the moon and it's 12:00 AM. The air is heavier, cold, and enough crisp to slit my heart open through the stillness. Or you can interpret that I'm standing at the threshold of the year.

The days slip effortlessly through my fingers, moments I once lived reduced to memories within the blinkc of an eye. And now, I yearn to be reborn, to emerge as a different soul, so that when the next year dawns, those memories will be treasures worth cherishing.

I know getting a new life isn't possible but creating a new by healing, embracing and letting go is definitely possible.

Women in love are Horrible

Not for others but themselves

Women in love are often their own worst enemies, transforming into a version of themselves they barely recognize. As they fall deeper, they tend to shed their confidence, second-guessing every move, and overanalyzing every conversation. The all-consuming passion can morph into self-doubt, causing them to lose sight of their own identity, values, and aspirations. In this state, they're not horrible to others, but to themselves, as they struggle to reconcile their love with their own sense of self-worth.

And so I'm horrible!

And what could be worst combination than a women in love and a writer? Bleeding my heart on paper and using same papers to soak my melted soul. Writings, literatures and fictions have shaped my soul is such a way that I believed love is a singular, once in a lifetime experience.

Loving someone without any expectations form the age which itself doesn't sound serious at all was innocent and pure but at the same time a deep wound which couldn't be cured.

I've documented my every stages of being in love in the forms of poetries-

• The very moments I realized that I'm falling in love-( 2019)

• When love Surpasses respect and devotion-(2020)

• When I realized we weren't meant to be-(2022)

• When I still can't get rid of my emotions and could see no other boy at that tangent.(2022)

• When our ways were parted away-(2022)

• When a ray of hope kissed my soul, your reappearance, a delight whole(2024)

• They when I confess my emotions (Nov-2024)

---

But now I'm burning all the poetries I once wrote.

Burning all the poetries I once wrote, the flames dancing with the memories of love and heartache. I'm watching the words that once flowed from my soul, now disintegrating into ashes. It's a cathartic release, a liberation from the weight of emotions that once consumed me.

I'm letting go of the past, embracing the uncertainty of the future. The flames have purged my heart, leaving behind a sense of clarity and purpose. I'm rising from the ashes, like a phoenix, ready to start anew.

As I reflect, I realize I've sacrificed my own identity, gnawing away at my self-worth like a persistent lice infestation. I've melted my boundaries, my passions, and my sense of self, all to be seen, to be heard, and to be loved by him.

If fate brought us together, I fear he'll never gaze at me with the same adoration he once reserved for his first love.

Being a part of this generation, I still can't resonate with people of my own age. I've always seen love as a whole, a beautiful thing which accessorize one's life but now I cannot see it fragmented into ugly pieces of situationships, hook-ups, benching, ghosting, breadcrumbling, love bombing and what not.

I find myself standing on the edges of this modern landscape, feeling alienated from the world of fleeting affections and disposable connections. Love, to me, has always been a sanctuary, a profound union of two souls seeking solace in each other’s existence.

But now, it seems to be a game—a series of calculated moves, where vulnerability is seen as weakness and sincerity as naivety. The concept of 'forever' has been replaced with the convenience of 'for now,' and the idea of nurturing love through patience and understanding seems almost archaic.

I crave the kind of love that doesn’t shy away from depth, that embraces flaws and imperfections, that doesn’t run at the first sign of difficulty. A love that is more than just a transaction, a fleeting high, or a placeholder for loneliness. It feels as though the essence of love has been diluted, and in its place is a maze of selfishness and fear, where people no longer want to build something lasting—they just want to avoid being alone.

And so, I remain apart, longing for a connection that feels timeless, waiting for the one who sees love not as a commodity but as a gift, a sacred space where both hearts grow and flourish. Perhaps I am searching for something rare, but I’d rather stand alone in my truth than lose myself in a crowd chasing illusions of love.

Poetry and writings have always act as a therapy to me. Whether I'm drowning in sorrow or overflowing with joy, poetry have always provided me solace and homely comfort.

And now, as I try to detach the memories of my first love from my heart and soul, the anguish feels unbearable—an ache that defies words.

It’s as though I’m being asked to forget a novel I’ve read every day for the past six years, one whose pages I’ve memorized, whose lines have shaped the very fabric of my being. Each memory feels like a bookmark I can’t discard, and yet, to move forward, I must let it go.

It’s not just the person I’m trying to forget, but the version of myself I became when I was with them—the dreams I built, the moments we shared, It’s like dismantling a part of my own identity, brick by brick, knowing that no matter how much I try, I’ll never fully erase the foundation they laid within me.

And yet, amid the sorrow, there’s a faint hope—a belief that perhaps, in losing this story, I might finally begin to write a new one, one where I am no longer a supporting character in someone else’s tale but the protagonist of my own.

Yesterday I wrote a short poetry amidst this all chaos Swirling in my head.

Which

Amal Kiswani

used in her recent newsletter letter effortlessly and gave a complete new life to this piece.

https://open.substack.com/pub/amalkiswani/p/the-internet-is-turning-you-stupid?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=4l0n5g

You can check it out too!

You all can check it out too❤️

This acted as catalyst for my self to write down my vulnerability.

Here's a short poetry-

POETRY AND PAIN

Romantisizing the pain

Whether it's crying in the rain

Or surviving in the dark

Moments, so dulled and stained

Still poetry evokes the sense of spark

Creating art out of your

bleeding heart

Isn't only artistic

But majestic too

Just like you!!

Kriti's Newsletter

And a special thanks to those who always encouraged me and appreciated my work wholeheartedly

Aryan Kavan Gowda

Ritwik Upadhyay

ikupadhyay

Rick Barooah

Halima Ahad

Sky

,

Gala

,

Iqjot Kaur

,

Lit Pulp

Sending you all virtual hugs for always having my back here❤️

Note-

Thanks for investing your precious time in reading this newsletter. For such poetries, essay and short stories subscribe @poeticpebbles and “SKETCH OF SCARS”