Bhoomi's diary

My heart is a broken mirrorball with its pieces lying around, and every time I try to glue it back, you break it up again.

The glue is self-love, and you fill me up with hate for myself.

I wish I could run away from all this, but I just can’t.

I pour my heart into words because it’s the only thing I know. If only you could care for whatever I wrote.

Sometimes I want to scream at you and make you listen, but I know that, as always, you would just interrupt midway and pass the blame on me.

They say parents are your safe space, but what if they’re not? What if they take up their generational trauma and pass it on?