The Four Melancholic Virgins, by Karundeep Singh


This article has been submitted by Karundeep Singh for the CLATGyan Blog Post Writing Competition. If you think this article is a good read, ‘Like’ this article on Facebook (the button is at the bottom of this piece) or post a comment using the ‘comments’ section below.



I was sitting in front of my typewriter; drinking till my depression sprung a leak. Nothing new, I’m a wannabe Bukowski. I hate the taste of alcohol. I hate the hangover I get when I forget to drink my fair share of water before passing out. I hate how I have to hold my penis steady for minutes in one hand while lighting a fag with the other, pissing and trying to aim in the bowl every damn morning.

But hey, bottoms up? I scrolled up our conversations, our make believe fairy tales where you were always the damsel in distress and I was your knight in shining armor. It was beautiful how you morphed into a dragon, flared my iron-hide, burned me alive. It was so easy skimming through and deleting them. You told me you loved me but you hated me all at the same time. You killed me, reduced me to listening to Taylor swift.

But tonight, I was on my 4th pack of Chivas well blend with crushed ice and I rampaged through my drawers for a cigarette. My fingers explored the darkest part of the drawers, lined with cobwebs and probably a dead squirrel too, but I stumbled upon your letters and the ones I wrote as a response but I never got to post because I forgot my stamps.

Well, I did read them. Didn’t skim through, though. Read every line, every word, every period, every space properly, gently tucked all the letters in my pocket and went outside – I didn’t have cigarettes , I was drunk, I wanted a puff, I’d drive my fist through a mirror to get one. I swear I’d kill a guy for one.

Got a box of Camel. Lit one fag up. Burned one letter. Watched it burn as I smoked till the charred taste of the bud amalgamated with the blood in my mouth.

Lit another. Burned another.

Lit my eighteenth. Burned all eighteen letters

It’s amazing how I needed alcohol, cigarettes and hatred inside me to get your taste out of my mouth. I wish I could’ve arsoned you, if it wasn’t illegal.

I’m sorry I’m really drunk.

I love you so bad.

I’m sorry I love you.


I made a little cut on the side of my lower lip and watched myself bleed till my goatee was drenched in blood.

And I gazed in the mirror for minutes on end, thinking about what my insides would taste like.

Droplets dripped onto the ceramic sink, mixing with the water drops and racing off to the gutters, each drip echoing in a smoke filled room. The ventilators were turned off. It was fun watching my insides race towards decomposition.

The beads that survived, traced down my jugulars, crossed my clavicle and channeled through the rib cage. With a loud splash, blood splattered on my foot, the warmth of my blood tingling the synapses.

What a beautiful caricature of self-harm depicted on the tiled floor, each drop lost adds to the beauty of each breath wasted.

It was the fifth day I had not seen her. I missed her so bad. I wanted to write her name on my head with my spinal fluid.

I wanted to fuck with god.


Life is happy.
Life is sad.
Then you have drugs for the ecstasy.
A rush in my veins.
A toke in the lungs.
I sit here in this dark room,
Writing about my hell.
But this isn’t hell, my dear,
This is just the beginning.

When memories replay the bittersweet melody
You and your touch linger on my skin.
Your memories haunt me like ghosts
And with time passing by I grow a bit insane.
I look to the door hoping to hear you knock
Running towards me.
But you never come and I wait everyday
Stare at the door and sometimes out the window.
But this isn’t hell, my dear,
This is just the beginning.


I’ve been a smoker for years now.
The cigarillos I had when i was sixteen
Don’t count. Same goes for the vodka—
I wasn’t an alcoholic until twelve shots
Of whiskey became foreplay
To getting drunk.
Maybe this means I also wasn’t a poet
Or lover or writer or anything worth putting
A meaningful title to, back then.

Now I drink my alcohol straight
By choice
And smoke half a pack a day
And the drugs are a catalyst
For learning how to live in myself.
I beat on my ribs with brass knuckles.

As a kid when my friends asked
Why I preferred playing war
Instead of house
I told them I didn’t know the difference.
Now I’m almost an adult
And the only thing different
Between war and house
Is that one of them
Gives you a medal
For surviving.


Karundeep Singh is a seventeen-year-old who gave the CLAT this year. He is an aspiring writer, pianist, singer and Bukowski wannabe. He tried to commit suicide when he was 16. He is now staying sober. Good vibes. 


  1. your article blew my mind away .
    this is great . finally i read  a piece of work.
    keep writing man . you ‘re  incredibly talented .

  2. Sometimes it seems like it’s better to just finish things off. But that is luxury. Sometimes simple things like getting out of bed, talking, eating, breathing requires more effort than we think we can put in. But we have to do it anyway. The first day will be worse than death. So will be the second. As will be the third. But one day you will find that brushing your teeth, sitting, blinking, even smiling requires less work than it did the day before. Best thing about rock bottoms- you can only move upwards from there on. 🙂 

    • Thank you so much inayat. 🙂 and no, i’m not single, i’m in love with the most amazing girl on this planet. thanks again. 😀

  3. I love this. The raw emotion that comes across is absolutely stunning. Congratulations on having written something so beautiful! 

  4. “i wanted to fuck with god”

    them feels, bro.

    really, really amazing.
    i HATE poems but absolutely LOVED what you wrote.

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