Ink Jan 2

my head's a balloon
one blow away from bursting.
please don't hit me, babe.

Ink Oct 2017

The black rain
beats against my numbing skin.
It feels of frostbite with no venom,
of glass with no rough edges.

It feels of days spent in front of my plate of food
three years ago
where I could taste the metallic flavour of a nuzzle
and my own blood.

It feels of the days spent in my room
two years ago
where the bedsheets would call my name and reach for me
as soon as I kissed them good-bye.

It feels of the days spent on the bus
one year ago
where I watched the passing twinkling streets
and wished for a car to come and claim me.

It feels of the days of hollowness
these days
where I realize I have not found cover from the rain.
I have only stopped feeling it drench me in pitch black.

Ink Sep 2017

I have twirled into the arms
of a Prince
with a petal-light touch
holding my hips.
He caresses me to the beat
of the breeze of music
that hammers in my heart:
blood pounding with the thrill
of that first night
soon to come but not yet arrived.

The Prince is a surreal, majestic garden-
cheeks warm with the rosy blush
of youthful blooming buds,
eyes like the dawn cascading
light onto wherever he peers.
He peers at me.
And as he leans in,
with smiling dew-sprinkled lips
like grass on a spring's morning,
I realize his arms are vines.


I realize I am trapped.
The Prince is an overgrown garden,
his rosy cheeks are of alcohol
pumping in his veins.
His body sways to beat the howling wind-
the blaring music-
caressing me to the beat
of his own desires.
My refusal is the deafening bloom
of a sunflower in a field of sunflowers-
unfelt.
His lips are soaking in the liquid
that sloshes in his solo cup,
and churns in my rumbling stomach,
a rain that drowned the crop.

My Prince is not just my prince.
He is the Prince of the countless girls
he has swooned before tonight.
As I stumble in his arms,
I am a mistake waiting to happen.
I am a mistake in a field of mistaken female flowers
being entangled by the vines of self-titled Princes.
Tomorrow, these Princes will say
it is my mistake for not raising my fences
to protect myself from the overgrowing garden
that is stretching around me.
Today, my blood pumps with fear
of my first regretful night that approaches
but has not yet arrived.

Ink Sep 2017

Men I don’t love
Send me emails telling me that they care about people like me.
They say,
I am committed to helping people achieve their dreams by providing the right support. I want to thank you for your interest in utilizing this opportunity.

The boy I know
Sends me a message saying he saw potential in us.
He writes,
I wanted to help you become better. And when you spoke to me that first day, I thought that maybe we could become something greater than we are now. Together.

Men that know me
Send me emails saying that they liked learning what’s in my head.  
They say,
I recognize the time and effort you put into this and truly appreciate that you shared your thoughts and ideas with me.

The boy that doesn’t love me
Sends me a message saying he knows what he meant to me.
He writes,
I know how hard you tried to make this work. I think you’re amazing, how you always give your all into everything. How you gave your all to me.

Men I don’t know
Send me copy-paste emails that I have memorized.
They say,
There was an outstanding selection of applicants this year and the competition was intense. I regret to inform you that you were not selected to receive an award.

The boy I love
Sends me a message saying what Men I Don’t Know couldn’t.
He writes,
It’s just that this isn’t what I’m looking for.
You’re not who I am looking for.

Rejection has many faces, and I have seen too many of them.
Ink Aug 2017

I am the lost hum of dawn in a bachelor's room
Who lies awake with tired eyes
I am his calm and faltering discontent
That blooms with the watering of his hidden cries

I am the spots he overlooks in the mirror
Made by the fists of his hands that never clean
I am the river he steps over on his kitchen floor
Spilt by a bottle he used to drink away his dreams

I am the collared shirt at the back of his closet
That his mother gifted him when he went away.
I am the tag on the shirt and the noose around his neck
Waiting for him to admit he is not okay.

Male suicide is too untalked about.
Ink Jul 2017

When the pressure builds on your shoulders
And you’re on the verge of breaking
Let me be your first call
To stop your voice from shaking

When the nights are achingly short
And the days seem to drag on
Know that I’ll listen to all of your worries
Until the crack of dawn

When you find your life is hostile
And the world is harsh and cold
Remember that you are fragile when alone
But together we can be bold

When these days are long passed
And our memories become foggy and strained
I hope you’ll remember your friend in high school
That cared for you when it rained

When we grow old and tired
And our days are filled with regret
We’ll look back at these high school years
And friends we hope we won’t forget

I’ll be glad I had thanked you then
For shielding me from the eternal storm
And wish that we'll meet in sunlight soon
Where we are not our thorns

For Noor. It's a continuation of the poem I wrote you before.

Sorry, it sucks. I have writer's block.
Ink Jul 2017

On evenings when my blood runs thin
But my spirit aches for release,
I pull out my pen and paper
And begin to write
The words I cannot bring myself to say

My hand does not move
As the paper beneath it
Grows damp under my ducked head.

I am not a poet, I think.
Who is a poet other than one who captures
emotions inside words?
I am not a poet, I think,
Because emotion does not drive my pen.

I am a translator.
I translate regret into tears,
And the tears smudge the empty words I wrote in ink
To paint a portrait
Of myself:
the one who tried to feel but couldn't.

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