I speak the language of a vanilla-flavoured day.
Just beige pastels, and an ordinary tint of a café-au-lait.
I have spent a lifetime crawling over a blanket of shells,
just to coat my bones in the achromatic pain of synonymity
so that my crescendo of affliction remains unheard,

against the symphony of living in a world that only breathes in forte.
I write in flavours of muted saffron and, unripe pomegranate seeds
only to make myself believe that I’m trying;
trying to live in-between the colours of royal threads and the sweetness of red wine.
But threads will start to unravel and meet new stitches,
and wine will continue to age and begin to taste of something entirely different.
And so I here I remain in the comfort of simple perpetuity,
speaking in vanilla just to stay classic
even though “staying classic”
just means that my words can only be pollinated by a meliphona bee.


Inara Lalani is a sixteen y/o that is buried beneath her words that are scattered across the world with the turbulence of airplane flights. She writes on Tumblr here ( and here (

Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, prose, reviews, and interviews from marginalized creators.