Faultlines of Writlurk

She wakes from the dirt,
claws at the bones of this rotting empire.
No soft hands here.
These hands,
they pry the sky open like a mouth, make it spit its secrets.
and count the threads of broken promises.
And, the truth that lies buried
Beneath the pavement, forgotten, rotting.
On your streets that are your mouths that swallow hope whole
The world spins around her like a butcher's wheel—
but she doesn't look away.
Doesn’t blink.
You tell her to smile,
but she shreds that too,
a map to nowhere in her teeth,
a galaxy of blood.
You call it history—
but it's just the dust in her throat
and the light that flickers when she breathes.
Don't ask her to dance with you.
The floor is on fire and her boots are made of revolution.
She does not bow,
she stands
and the earth cracks beneath her.
You see her?
Good.
But your eyes—
they are not enough.
The moon?
Her reflection,
a mirror to the fractured silence she shouts from.
Watch her rise.
You can't drown what was never meant to stay under.
The cage rattles.
She sings,
and you call it: chaos!
It’s not chaos.
It’s creation.
You hear her?
No?
Good, you’re not supposed to.
She speaks in tongues you can’t translate.
She doesn’t need your translation.
You tell her to be quiet,
but her silence?
It’s an inflicted weapon.
You’re afraid of what you cannot hear.
She spits into the sun,
and it flinches.
A flicker of light trying to burn her back
but she wears shadows like a second skin.
You thought she’d fade,
but she tastes the sky and it’s sour,
a memory of men who thought they owned it.
The sky is now a bruise, bloated and waiting to burst.
Her mouth is a graveyard,
her teeth, shards of forgotten gods,
and when she smiles,
it’s not for you.
It’s for the wind that hums like a hungry ghost
sweeping through the ruins of what they thought they built.
You called it civilization—
she calls it a coffin with a velvet lining.
She turns it inside out and wears it like a cape.
Who needs wings when you’ve got roots
that drag the earth with them?
She bleeds ink and fire,
writes in the veins of her mother,
her grandmother,
her great-grandmother,
and each word is a knife that slices through time,
through your idea of time,
through your neat little boxes.
She gnaws on the neck of silence
and swallows the dark whole.
You told her to speak sweetly,
so she carved a tongue from razor blades
and let it taste the salt of their tears.
She wears the pulse of a thousand broken promises
and hums through the ruins of your comfort.
Her breath is made of glass shards
and razor blades dipped in the blood of gods you’ve forgotten.
She doesn't ask for your forgiveness
because she knows better—
you don’t have the hands for it.
She doesn’t make sense.
She never will.
And that’s the part that cuts you the deepest—
she refuses to be understood.
You want her to fit in your neat little boxes,
to wear the labels you’ve stitched into the seams of your own rage.
But she is the thunder
before your storm
and the one that eats your sky.
You don’t see her—
not really.
You never have.
You only see the idea of her,
and the idea of her burns you.
She is not your idea.
She is the nightmare you wake up screaming to,
the one you wish would leave,
but she is already in the walls.
So scream,
scream all you want.
She isn’t listening.
She doesn’t need to.
She is not the one who’s been silent.
You have been.
She is the scar on the horizon where the sun should have risen,
a thousand forgotten cries stitched into her skin like tattoos of violence,
each one a story you never bothered to hear.
Her body—
a map of erasure,
the imprints of every hand that reached
and tore,
twisted,
pulled,
and never let go.
She is the hollow echo
of what was stolen,
the thing you covered with sweet words
while her blood watered the roots of this world.
They called it conquest,
but it was theft.
Every inch of her was mined,
plundered in the name of something holy—
a religion that didn’t see her,
a god that never whispered her name.
Her hands were shackled with the promises of progress,
her mouth gagged with the silence of centuries.
Still, she spoke,
but her voice was a thunder you couldn’t understand,
a crack in the sky where the storms of history rained down.
You marked her,
branded her like cattle,
and called it civilization.
But her scars?
They are pins,
stars on boards etched in blood
that trace the journey of every woman
who was never allowed to breathe without submission.
She is the soil turned to ash
beneath the boots of your armies,
the crushed hands of those who built your temples
and never saw the light.
Her pain was the oil you burned
to light your mansions,
and you drank from the well
of her tears without ever seeing her thirst.
She is the stone you tried to carve
into something you could own,
and when you failed,
you burned her body
and called it the funeral pyre of progress.
You think you erased her.
But her name is the soil you stand on,
the air you breathe,
the pulse you ignore in your chest.
She is the dark beneath the skin of your city,
the rust in the gears of your machines,
the echo that shatters your glass towers
and makes your foundation tremble.
She is the truth you bury in your backyard
while you laugh at your own reflection.
Her revolution doesn’t need a flag.
Her revolution doesn’t need a name.
Her revolution is in the cracks,
the fractures where you never looked,
the silence that grows louder the more you ignore it.
She will rise,
but not from the ashes you think you’ve left behind.
She rises from the things you refuse to see,
from the hands that were never allowed to touch
and the mouths that were forced to swallow their own rage.
And when she opens her eyes,
they will burn brighter than the lies
you built your empire on.
Those lies of yours that hang in the air like smoke,
choking the breath out of the world.
The air smells like burnt paper and broken promises.
She is already here,
and you will never stop her.
She is the skin scraped raw by the weight of forgotten years,
the quiet ache beneath every cry
that was never acknowledged.
She is the broken foundation of your “progress,”
the cracks you erased to keep your structure upright.
Progress by roads that are paved with her stolen teeth.
Her breath is made of all the lost moments,
and when she inhales,
the world shudders in regret.
But you never see her—
you only see the shadow of your own reflection
dancing in the chaos.
You thought she was a whisper.
But her whisper is the sound of walls cracking
under the weight of your good intentions.
Every word she spoke was another bruise
you inflicted in the name of change.
Her body is not your project,
it was never meant to be your territory.
You used her with your systems,
pulled her apart with your rules,
stole the fire from her eyes
and made her bow to your vision.
The laws of your sovereign are chains,
forged in silence, rattling with every step she takes.
You stole from her with your ideals,
and made her work for the dreams of others
who never bothered to ask.
You planted your flag in her soil
and watched her bend
while you stood back and called it progress.

Your progress is nothing but a slow rot,

eating through the skin of the earth.

She is the girl you buried under piles of indifference,
the one you swore to forget,
the one you buried without her story.
But herstory was never meant to be erased.
It is the cry that will break your walls
and turn your structures to dust.
She is the cracks in your perfect image,
the fracture in your narrative,
the one you tried to suppress
and thought you could silence
with every promise you never kept.
She doesn’t need your forgiveness,
she doesn’t need your pity.
She’s already swallowed your excuses
and spit out your blame.
She wears the skin of every woman
who was told to shrink,
to stay still,
to fall into line,
to stay quiet under your gaze.
But her skin is not fragile anymore—
it is the shield made from every setback,
every slap,
every taunt,
every prejudice,
it's thick with rage
you thought would break her,
the shield that turns every hurt
into something stronger.
You tried to bury her with your silence,
but she is the echo that rattles your walls.
She is the cry that follows you in your sleep
and tugs at your breath.
You thought you quieted her,
but every lock you put on her voice
only made her words bolder,
like a warning you couldn’t ignore.
Her fire is the storm you never anticipated,
the wave you never prepared for,
the light that will expose everything you’ve hidden.
She will not be the calm after the storm—
she will the storm now.
She will become the spark that lights the match
and burns away the things you thought would last,
you proudly built on her backs,
your property.
your world.
You cannot control her,
you cannot erase her,
you cannot make her forget.
She is the truth coded deep
in the fabric of your structure,
and when she decrypts,
it won’t be with your permission,
it won’t be with your consent.
It will be with the power
of every person
who has ever been held back,
ever been forgotten,
ever been silenced
and told to be still.
But she will not be still.
She will never be still again.
Her rage is not a roar—
it is the flicker of a dying candle
just before the flame gives out.
It is the last breath you take
before the tide pulls you under
and you realize
she was never drowning.
She was always the water.

- Oizys.

Some thoughts: Okay, happy International Women's Day. Things are still bad, in a simmering stage after a lava explosion. It might get worse, who knows... At home, I am talking about. Of course. I kept thinking about writing something, a poem maybe, for today. But, I was unable to track down a theme, a particular focal point to nail it. So, I went on with the wonky flow of my mind. And, this is it. My goal is the journey of fight. And, I am merely picking this day up to depict it. Throughout this journey, every fighter's battle is to impart the truth, the absolute truth that the way human life instils autonomy in you as a form of dignity in civilized society, the same way, that same human life instils that same level of autonomy in her as a form of dignity in civilized society. And, the struggle is of some people unable to swallow this pill. We have the date marked, celebrations organized but is your mindset aligned? That would be the question to ponder. When you ponder, you'll realize that if it has already aligned there would've been no need of marking such dates, celebrating such days. Since it is not, people glorify it to reach audience, seek people's support. Make it pink and pulpy and shiny. The gore is yet to touch you because you sit your rosy bubble of life. Such is the inequality in life.

Burning Eyes, Retch, That Itch in the Middle of Left Foot and Another Pitch of Melancholy

Burning eyes. The kind of sting that comes from too much screen time or a sleepless night, but this feels different. Like a fire in my mind, a heat that won’t burn out. It’s strange how everything else around me feels blurry, but this discomfort is sharp—always there. I close my eyes for relief, but there’s no escaping the irritation. Every blink makes it worse. And then there's that damn itch—right in the middle of my left foot. Always dormant but acts up during the weirdest of times. I’ve scratched at it so much now, it’s more a dull ache than anything else. It’s maddening, that feeling of something crawling under the skin, but there’s nothing to see, nothing to touch. Just that sensation, gnawing at me. I can’t even get comfortable. Even the most innocent movements trigger it. Ah, the retch—that feeling. You know, the one that rises up in your throat, uninvited, like a wave that threatens to spill over but never quite does. It’s almost like a reflex to everything that’s going on in my body. The burning, the itch, and now this—just the body’s way of saying enough. The sensation comes and goes, like it’s trying to get me to choke on whatever's bothering me, but there's nothing really there to spit out. Just the discomfort lingering in the back of my throat. Somehow, as if my body is conspiring against me, my mind spirals, too. That pitch of melancholy, sudden and deep. It’s like a shadow that falls without warning. I was fine, or at least thought I was. But now everything feels weighed down by a sadness I can’t put a name to. It’s not the kind of sadness that comes with loss, but more like a low hum beneath everything—quiet, steady, and relentless. It’s all a bit too much today—eyes burning, the endless itch, and this deep-seated melancholy that creeps in and makes everything feel heavy. It’s a subtle kind of torture, a reminder that something’s off, but it's never clear what. A mental overload, maybe? A signal my body is sending, telling me that something’s wrong and I just can’t quite catch it. It’s like the body’s language for all that’s unsaid. And today, it's speaking loud. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not.

There were days where my need to leave, need to escape was fantastical. But now, it has changed. Something has changed. The tone, the edge of the feeling to escape has now become a need. Almost, psychological. It’s wild how that shift happens, isn’t it? How the once-distant fantasy of running away, of escaping, becomes something more urgent, more visceral. It starts off as a daydream—this place or that place, a different life, a different story. You picture it in flashes, in fragments, almost like it could be a movie reel of “what ifs,” something you could step into if the moment ever arrived. But now? Now, it feels like a pull, a weight in your chest. The kind of thing that claws at you in the quiet moments. The kind of feeling that goes beyond the romanticized escape and becomes an almost necessary impulse. It’s not about the fantasy anymore, it’s about survival. It's like the walls are closing in, the world’s edges are pressing too hard, and the only way to breathe again is to leave—physically, mentally, emotionally. It’s not just the thought of leaving; it’s the need to escape from the inside. The noise, the pressures, the routines, the same everything, all of it becomes too much to bear, and there’s only one way to get relief. Maybe it’s not even a place you want to go, just anywhere that’s not here. What changed? Maybe the fantasy turned real, or maybe you’ve reached the point where the discomfort of staying outweighs the fear of the unknown. Either way, it's more than just wanting to go somewhere else. It feels like needing to be somewhere else to even begin to feel okay again.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? The itch in the foot—small, nagging, always there. It’s like the body’s way of reminding you of everything that’s trapped inside, that you can’t quite get rid of. The itch never fully goes away, no matter how much you scratch at it. And the retch? That feeling that rises but never quite releases? It’s as if there’s something in you that needs to escape, to be let go, but you can’t find the release. It’s trapped there, stuck in your throat, or in your mind, and the more you try to push it out, the more it festers. You can’t scratch the itch, and you can’t purge the retch. Both are the body saying, something’s wrong, and I need a way out. The eyes, the windows to everything you’re trying to escape, but they only show you what’s in front of you. They can’t turn away, can’t look anywhere else. It’s like they keep seeing the same walls, the same reality, and it’s suffocating. No matter how much you want to escape or move beyond, the eyes hold you captive in the now. They refuse to let you see anything but what is, and in that, the reality of can't sinks in. That’s where the melancholy creeps in—the space between what you want and what you can actually do. It's not just a sadness, but a kind of quiet resignation, the acceptance that the escape isn’t coming, and the discomfort has nowhere to go. It’s a deeper sadness, born from that feeling of helplessness, from the realization that things can’t change just by wishing them to. The weight of the unmet need, the tension without release, piles up in the soul and spills out as melancholy. It’s like the mind and body are screaming for relief, and the eyes just keep telling you no, and in that silence, the sorrow grows. You end up stuck in that space between desire and impossibility, where there’s no clear way out. That’s where the heaviness settles in.

That’s a raw feeling, isn't it? A kind of weariness that stretches deeper than just physical exhaustion. It’s the kind of fatigue where you’re not just tired of your body, but of the whole process of trying to keep up, to push through. The mind keeps racing, the body keeps aching, and it all just builds until you wish for any kind of release. A full stop, a breaking point, just for everything to end. Not as a desire to escape to something better, but to finally, finally let go of the constant tension. The scream, the need to just release, but then there’s only silence afterward. A silence that promises nothing but an end to the noise, to the struggle. Then, darkness. As if everything around you can finally just collapse, like a theater show that’s reached its final act, the curtain falls, and it’s over. No more thoughts. No more weight. Just... nothing.

- Oizys.