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It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.
 2d Kalliope
lizie
mom says
i’m the best person she knows.
i smile.
i’m good at pretending.

she says i’m kind,
but i know when it’s a performance.
she says i’m gifted,
but it feels like a trick
i’m barely pulling off.

my sax squeaks,
my test scores blur,
my muscles ache in the water.
and still she calls it talent.

i nod along,
quiet and guilty.

if i’m so good,
why do i always
feel like a lie?
There once was a lass
who gazed upon the sky,
like a sailor’s widow
with eyes pining the sea.

A different ocean,
with clouds and birds—
not crests and reflections,
another kind of mirror.

A looking glass, yes:
one reveals past and present,
the other is a blank portal,
not yet formed; possibility.

Burdened by years of earth,
the girl reached up high.
To fly free in the skies,
a plan she did birth:

Simple avian appropriation—
"What could go wrong?"
Manufactured imitation—
"In the skies I belong!"

Remnants of spent candles,
some old pillow filling,
so easily on handle
to construct her wings.

And like that, she flew!
Never close to the sun,
no solar balance due—
destination once begun.

Wise to not create cracks,
a creature in the sky;
falsified wings on her back—
her presence flies on lies.

Nary a muster, ******, or flock
would take this creature in.
Unwelcome, artificial stock:
a lost and confused being.

"I have no nest, no call, no cry,
no wind-song born from feathered kin—
yet higher still I ride the lie,
if not a bird, then what has been?"


Her wings were stitched from want and thread,
a blueprint torn from childhood dreams.
She passed the clouds, yet still she bled—
unseen by all, or so it seems.

"You gave me wax, you gave me fire,
a name I wore, a borrowed skin.
I climbed the hush of false desire—
but never learned the wind within."


{fin}
She Never Fell is a contemporary reinvention of the Icarus myth told through a lyrical, ballad-like structure. It follows a nameless girl who constructs makeshift wings from household materials—spent candles, pillow filling, and broom handles—in an impulsive bid to escape the burdens of earth and ascend into the sky. Unlike the traditional Icarus figure, she does not plummet from the sun, but instead succeeds in her flight, only to find herself isolated, unrecognized, and existentially lost in the very space she longed to inhabit.

The poem unfolds in a linear narrative, beginning with her yearning gaze toward the sky and culminating in a confessional coda from the girl herself. Through a series of stanzas that blend fairy-tale tone with postmodern detachment, the speaker reveals that her wings—and her identity—are borrowed, artificial, and born of haste rather than transformation. Despite achieving flight, she remains alien to the realm she reaches, neither welcomed by birds nor grounded by truth.

The piece was written as a metaphorical exploration of personal appropriation and the illusion of autonomy, inspired by a former partner. The poem critiques the idea of transformation built from borrowed identity—where the tools of liberation (symbolized by fire, wax, and flight) are taken from another without full understanding.

The intent was to invert the Icarus myth: instead of falling from ambition, the protagonist rises—only to discover that success without self-realization yields a different kind of fall. The line “so easily on handle” becomes emblematic of this—the effortless, almost naïve ease with which we reach for escape, without understanding what we're leaving or where we're going.

The poem serves as both a personal reckoning and a broader commentary on the complexities of identity, desire, and the silent costs of artificial ascension.
It's 3 A.M. again...
The night's silence feels like a scream.
I found myself analyzing, once again.
Stress makes my skin itching
Till I let it bleed, bursting.

Disappointments from unsuccessful attempts calling,
Waking my buried feelings, making them digging
My wall that i long tried to built strong

I can feel the sun's plans to rise along
After that, perhaps i'll hear some chirping from birds' songs
And maybe then, these feelings will be gone.

I'll let myself fall into dreams-
A chance to run away from real things-
Until I find myself thinking:
It’s 3 A.M. again...

Every mistake I’ve made feels as heavy as they made by 100 men
And maybe when the clock hits 6,
I can finally sleep by then.
Too nice,
too play-fair,
yet little did they choose
to know the bruise of her Achilles, heal—
from the hardened ballet soles,
the dandy polished Oxford shoes,
to the leather combat boots.

The bunions remained irreversible,
as she dreaded in changing rooms,
in the open river water Styx?

Not so chill—it’s plantar fasciitis.
Yet they say that she is a goody two-shoes.
Alas, she puts on her kitten heels;
extra studs, extra bling.
No red bottoms.
Chill.

👠
_________

© Ayisha Rahman, 2025
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