“GAMES”

Below is part 5 of “The Purge” series.
This is the first poem I’ve written that talks about some part of the experience of womanhood as a whole, in terms of my own personal journey as well as the women I see around me in the world. I really hope you like it! 🙂


 

I am not a glorified playground-
easy to run all over.
I am not your sandcastle by the beach-
easy to wash away,
with a little bit of saltiness from the sea.

I will not be your battlefield!
To shoot who you want
with my mouth;
to slay men like you, for you,
with my smiles;
to stab to death
whom you owe debts
to,
with the touch of my fingers on their skin.

I will not be sold,
or bought,
or traded,
or advertised.

Shrinking,
to leave more space for your confidence
to fit in.
Your hollow pride,
from harming those who did not know how to fight…

Everything!

I punished myself for, for decades
ever since I learnt the meaning of punishment.

 

-II-

 

If you think my lips are sewn with battle cries,
think again!
I use each word I write
as rungs of a ladder, climbing up,
and over these walls of shame
that you had decided to lock me within.

I am tired
of men like you
who think I am their plaything
That I am a right
they were born with
and there’s nothing left,
of me to stop them.

You use me
and teach me
to be ashamed of it;
of everything I know you did.

I will not sit here washing away the stains
of my… being.
You do not get to escape, spotless.

These are not my sins,
not my stains,
not my cages,
not
my
shame.

Hereby, I return it all to you
whom it rightfully belongs to,
I quit your circus, your poker games
that only you could ever win-

Congratulations, on losing.

 

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“THE PAST, THE PRESENT AND PROMISES”

Part 4 of “The Purge” series: 


 

I used to wear my halo
like the devil wears his pride
Well, look here, I broke it now
The truth, I will not hide.
No more never swearing
at assholes, no more smiles.
And when you say, ‘fuck you’
I say, ‘you’re too late to the party’

mmm…kay?

Did you think this would continue to rhyme?
No, it wouldn’t.

My slightly broken, slightly erratic,
badass-as-hell self, welcomes you!

This body is my turf now-
I will fill it with flowers,
paintings, and chandeliers made of dewdrops
… and healthy food maybe?
I will decorate the walls with awards:
“Congratulations on getting up today!”,
“Congratulations on working out!”
“Congratulations on not killing yourself, or wanting to!”
“Congratulations on making it this far”

I will tell it
that it does not have to bend, or break
every time somebody wants
to feed their ego with its cries.
You can go around me,
if I’m taking up too much space.

Now I won’t lie and act
like I don’t care anymore;
My heart still breaks
when a little kid fixes my car,
when babies are thrown away if their body parts,
do not conform to the rules of normalcy,
when you tell me that I’m
too damaged,
too erratic,
too caring,
too
much
me,

It stings.

And it stings most of all, to fight back.
It stings to let the light in
It stings to like being loved
It stings to not hate, loving me.

But watch as I do it any way.
For the darkness may be comfortable,
familiar,
even easy;

but the light,
oh the light!
When it runs through my veins like electricity,
I think,

I could do this forever,
And never get burnt.

“STAND STILL”

Part 3 of “The Purge” series


 

For days when your heart does not remember
How to be a giant slaying warrior
walking in slow-mo into battle
Like Wonder Woman-
in No Man’s Land;

For days when the nightmare that woke you up
wakes up with you
It smiles, leaning against the kitchen counter
In a bathrobe, sipping coffee
As you stand there hating yourself
for what you’ve just done;

For days when the day
feels too long to live through;

Put your hand over your heart and say,
“Slow down, cowboy!”
It has just realized that it is too big
to be caged inside your body.
“Or maybe, your body is just too small!”
it says.

Give it a smile.
Say, “I love you.”
Hold it close and tuck it in,
into the comfiest comfort blanket you own…

And stand still.

Even when needles start climbing up your back
saying how you are worth nothing, if you do not move:
“If you do not move, you are worth nothing!”

Just stand still.

Let the world be itself.
It is okay to stop fighting
everything.

II

You know, depression does not come easy.

It comes, after you have been stabbed
192 times in your gut,
only to pull open the stitches.

And the pills,
they make you feel like you’re lying to yourself.
And the people,
they ask on your good days:
“Did you take an extra dose of your mood elevators?”
No,
bitch.
These are my own endorphins.
I know how to make them.

And sometimes you want to
Step 1: Throw up and cry
Step 2: Fail at the throwing up part
Step 3: Just cry;

For one moment!

Just
Stand
Still.

Breathe it all in.

Breathe in the scents
of flowers that go to sleep with the sun,
coming from beyond your walls of sadness.

Open the door.
Walk two steps outside;

And stand still.

Breathe in the beautiful songs
of birds who, too, have not yet found their way back home.

Breathe in the dancing river
that, also, does not know how to be steady
Even as it stands still.

So breathe in,
The dragon with enormous wings
Soaring through the sky-
if that is who you are in your dreams.

Because your heart, too,
is a masterpiece!

It does not have to find home…
It will grow one.

“LISTEN”

The second part to the “Purge” series. 


 

Terrible nightmares, the rare kind
are normal
For people who have seen them come true
Before they even dreamt them.

I’m woken up everyday at exactly 5 am
It’s like my body knows when the monsters come
Like it knows: the unwanted touch
Like it knows: the bleeding wound
Like it knows: the bruises
Like it knows: screams crawling into my skin
Like it knows: exactly where all the scars are.

After I wake
My heat rattles like a wooden toolbox
too big for the number of nails inside it.
My hands tremble, I say, “Hush!
You’re braver than this!”
I say, “Hush! Allah is here.”
I say, “How much of this will be real?”
I say, “We don’t know yet but
lets hope not too much.”

I say,
“You are not alone.”

But, you!
Do you have tears in your eyes yet?
I know you’re there too.
I know you’re just like me.
So listen closely, to
what I’m about to tell you:

The abusers
The rapists
And the liars
Cannot put out the fires
We’ve lit inside our bones.
They make the world bright
They make the culprits burn!
175 years in prison
or 175 million, in hell.

And sometimes, they hurt…
When we don’t want them.

But, honey! Want them!
For they are your recompense
Your own personal miracle.

They are your soul, lit!
Lit enough to light others,
Lit enough to make an example
out of how lit you are
Damn, girl!/
Damn, boy!/
Damn, self!
You are lit!
And I adore you for it.

It is time that you did too.

“PURGE”

“Purge” is about cleaning out what has been inside forever. It’s about looking at all of yourself and accepting it with open arms, and in the end of this potential series of poems that will follow this one, hopefully, falling in love with yourself.


 

My innocence is the grave that no one brings flowers to.

My past is a bed of thorns that I lie in everyday.
Some nights, I don’t get a single scratch
And on others, I talk to the moon
to distract myself from how I’m bleeding out;
Only to recover the next morning.

Where the new dawn calls me, I walk.
I am chained.
I haul the poles I’m chained to, out of the ground, and I walk.
Then like an Olympic hammer throw, I toss them away,
Glory and sway!
And the crowd roars in applause!
…but the seats are empty.
And the chains are still tied to the hammers,
clawed around my wrists…
So I walk.

I wonder if the universe were upside down
And we were all stars that stars gazed upon,
Would they have found me in a constellation?
Would I even be aware that I was part of one?
Or would I be the star that exploded alone
as lovers watched through a telescope,
wishing for eternal joy;
Because the way I shot through the sky that night
was too damn miraculous.
Would they tell their grandkids
how their first kiss
was underneath my final light?

What will I be telling mine?

 

Threads #35

I try to be the bigger man; and the men in my life keep getting smaller.

Their hearts have practically disappeared and I wonder, was doing the right thing, the right thing?

Flowers in Tombs

My therapist told me that when I get anxiety and urges to self harm; that I should start writing. So last night, I did. (If you have trigger points, related to self harm, do not read further.) 

 

I’m a disease. An epidemic. And I’m gonna spread like I always do until everyone I love is the same broken worthless piece of shit as me. Until they also become dysfunctional.
The worst part about me is that I look like a wonderful human being but all that is a lie, a cover up to make people fall for this act of innocence and purity. And when they start to love me, oh boy. I start releasing my venom slowly into their veins until the began to need me and become paralysed. Then I heal them and act like I am an angel.
I’m a disease. An epidemic. I go around pretending I have a disease and I take medicines for it but that is not true. It’s all me.
And that is why I deserve these scratches on my arm. Heck I deserve them everywhere. I deserve blood coming out of my broken skin cause I am a seemingly beautiful mess that deceives nice people.
Why am I even asking for help and letting them know about this? Now that they have started to realize how full of shit I am and have begun to try and care for themselves away from me because they really can’t do it near me because I ruin it. Why now? I should stop. 11 times or 121; why should anyone know? Why not cut them all off and run away? Once and for all? Just me and my demons dancing together in perfect harmony cause we belong in each other’s arms.
It’s better than slowly being hated and hated and hated and hated and hated until one day they just say it out loud that I don’t deserve anything from them. It’s better to say it to myself beforehand. It’s better to leave everyone beforehand. Before I hurt them. Before I burn them. Before I make them bleed like they made me.

Damn, that felt good. I would say I’m sorry for making you read that but I’m really not. I wanted to show you what anxiety and depression look like and I was in it when it was the only reality I could see so I don’t want to apologise.
Now, to the “beautiful saviors” themselves, the mental illnesses.

First of all, fuck you.
I would say I hate you
but you’ve lived inside of me
For more years than I can count
And I don’t want to accidentally say I hate myself.

Come on, you already made me do that
nine thousand and two times
(not counting accidents).

You say you’re here to protect me from all the abhorrent people
but they seem to me, to be
the ones who birthed you within me
And now you want me to be the surrogate carrier?

I’m sorry but I don’t love you that way
Or them, for that matter.
You’re not here to save me
from anyone but myself.
And I’m the only good thing I know
So no.
Thanks.

I don’t want to be safe from my best friend,
Or my mom
Or even the boy who left,
These are my loves.
You can’t twist them and break me
and take them away.

You’re a perpetrator

A trespasser.
I know I fell for your tricks
and that should make me less than you
but fuck you
I am strong as hell.

And you can watch me someday,
spreading all the love I have in me,
today. And so can they.

For my heart will forever be open
Even if it’s scared to fall in love again
Even when it can’t trust people
or want to make my own bed
or eat
or sleep
or pray to my Allah.

You won the battle last night,
and I am going to have to carry these scars on my arms
as proofs, forever.
but fuck you
I’m winning the war.