SUITCASE
by Nishtha Gangwar, India. Second place in the Writory International Poetry Contest, August 2025, scored 92 out of 100.
Grief is like a suitcase that I have never opened. It rests at the periphery of my thoughts, collecting dust like an old transgression, its locks corroded by the passage of time, yet the burden still constricts my chest every time I attempt to inhale. I promised myself I would eventually open itтАФ on a day when the sky felt gentle, when my hands ceased to tremble and the phantoms in my throat fell silent. But that day has yet to arrive. So I carry it with me. Through bustling gatherings, through solitary nights, through dialogues where I wear a smile but every word tastes of decay and rain. Deep down, I know what lies within: images that bleed nostalgia, notes that carry the scent of forgotten summers, a laughter I will never hear again, a heartbeat I cannot return to. People advise me, "Just let it go." But how can you release something that has become the very essence of who you are? How do you abandon what has molded the pain in your name? So I hold onto it. Weighty. Unopened. A harsh legacy of love and grief. And perhaps one day, when my hands are steady, I will unzip the silence, and allow everything to pour outтАФ like sunlight after a prolonged winter. But not today. Not yet.
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