loose hair and unfinished justice
female rage in Indian imagination
kavya's journal archives
i write because i can't speak or die
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no religion is feminist
a substack comment section conversation
grieving, constantly grieving.
i was seven when i first experienced grief.
devour
the cereal doesn’t taste the same anymore,
grief is on the platter
i peel myself apart, layer by trembling layer,
the desire to be loved
i hate when i cry, i hate it even more when i smile; the mirror shows a stranger, someone i can't reconcile.