Sheikha: Favorites

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Ten

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Asphyxiophilia

Ten

A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
That is all that I see.
My knees are tucked against my chest
And my arms are wrapped around them.
My chin is positioned between my knees
And my eyes peer out between the spaces.
I shrug my shoulders against my ears
So that I don't have to hear
What's going on downstairs.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
But the words, like a poisonous gas,
Seep through the air vent.
"*****. ****. You don't see
What's she's doing to us."
I tilt my head and bury
My face in my forearms.
I bite my lip and try
Not to cry.
But I can feel the heat building
And my chest tightening
As the tears begin
To crawl from
My eyes.
I listen again,
Unintentionally,
To the shrill voice
Piercing my not-so-silence.
"Take her home,
We can figure this out
On our own."
I try to breathe,
But oxygen escapes me,
As if it too hates me.
My chest shakes,
My heart rattling
In its cage, cold from
A lack of love
And warm embrace.
I bury my face deeper,
Into the crevices of my legs,
Until I hear the footsteps
Crashing up the staircase.
A whimper escapes my lips.
She twists the **** and throws
Open my bedroom door,
Long strides to reach me,
And a fist near my throat.
She reaches for my hair,
And knots it between her fingers,
Before using it to pull me like a rope.
Dragging me across the carpet,
And into the kitchen,
She tosses me
At my father's legs.
"Now tell her exactly
What you told me."
I look up at him
Through frightened eyes
And he reaches down
And pulls me from the ground.
"I'm taking her home."
A trickle of relief
Slides down my throat
Until a wave of pain
Crashes into my leg
From behind.
My face hits the
Linoleum first,
Followed by my hands
Then shoulders, then hips.
"That's not what you said!"
He steps between
Her and me
And lifts me
From the floor,
Holding me close,
And walking quickly
Out the door.
And finally,
I am safe,
For another day.
But as my father
Sits me
In the passenger seat
And drives away,
I silently pray that
No other ten year old
Would ever feel this way.

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Rooftop

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Asphyxiophilia

Rooftop

Sometimes I wish I was a rooftop
Because I don't believe there is
A more honest place on earth.
They feel the warm touch
Of the sun
In the middle of the afternoon.
They feel the chilling touch
Of the snow
In the middle of winter.
They feel the romantic touch
Of lover's nestled
Against each other
As they gaze at the stars.
But sometimes, they feel the soft touch
Of sad feet
Walking slowly towards the edge,
Never to be felt
Again.

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Taxi Driver

Jul 2013 Sheikha

Asphyxiophilia

Taxi Driver

Sometimes I wish I was a taxi driver
Because I don't believe there is
A more honest person on earth.
They hear the apologies of
Intoxicated teenagers
On their way home from the clubs
That they used fake ID's to get into.
They hear the quarrels between
Frisky lovers
Who drank too much on their dinner date
And can't wait to shed their clothing.
They hear the ramblings of
Elderly folk
Complaining about gas prices
And the brand-name stores that
Put the local businesses under.
But sometimes, they hear the confessions of
Lonely travelers
Who were wandering the streets
At 3 in the morning, contemplating
How they would like to take their life,
Until they saw a taxi cab driving past
And realized it was their sign to go
Home.

A Loose Sequel to Rooftops

Jun 2013 Sheikha

Chapters of You

Jun 2013 Sheikha

Asphyxiophilia

Chapters of You

I can't rewrite the chapters of you
That have already been written,
The ones with torn pages and
And coffee stains and faded ink.
But I can promise to hold the pen
That will write the next few
Chapters, the ones with daisies
Pressed between the pages and
Smiles between every paragraph.

Jun 2013 Sheikha

Things I Don't Understand

Jun 2013 Sheikha

blankpoems

Things I Don't Understand

I write a lot about things I don't understand.
I keep thinking that maybe if I write about them,
I'll be able to gain a better knowledge.
So far this has proved untrue.

I write a lot about love when all I really know is that it hurts.

I've been told by people (yes plural) that they either
don't know how to love or don't like love itself.
And quickly and shakily, and with an unstable mindset,
I am starting to think that what those people meant was not
"I don't know how to love", but "I don't know how to love you".
Not "I don't like love", but "I don't like the idea of love with you"

I am a blackhole of both unrequited love and endless bottles of
self destruction and I secretly like being perpetually alone.
I am a lover without a lover.
I am a writer, and writers are almost always broken.
If not broken, there are definitely surface cracks.
Take it from me.

My poems are all about love and you, and I don't quite understand.

Jun 2013 Sheikha

Two Young Girls

Jun 2013 Sheikha

Asphyxiophilia

Two Young Girls

A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are the same age
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen

A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are different ages
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen

A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a note
That her ex-boyfriend wrote
When he loved her,
He doesn't anymore

A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a card
That mother bought
When she cared,
She still does

A young girl
Walking home
Toying with the blade
She keeps in her purse
She thinks of dying
And ending the hurt

A young girl
Walking "home"
Toying with the tubes
Tethered to her veins
She thinks of living
And running again

A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of demons
And darkness entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them

A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of cute boys
And field trips entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them

Two young girls
In hospital beds
One wanting to die
And one wanting to live
One confined to the sheets
And one able to leave
They're fifteen

One young girl
Gets out of bed
And places a flower
Near the other girl's head
And the other girl smiles
And asks if she's dead
"Of course not silly,
You're very much
Alive, so go to
School and
Learn something
And stop wanting to die
Because it's not your time."

The other girl says,
"I'll leave if you do.
I'll go back to school
If you go back too."

One young girl smiles,
"I wish I could go,
I'd give anything to
Go back and live
On my own. But my
Bones are brittle and
Won't let me leave,
So you go and you
Live life for me."

Two young girls
Finally freed
One walking
Through hallways
One walking
On golden streets
One with her head high
And her razor shattered
One with strong bones
And cute boys beside her.

Jun 2013 Sheikha

My Mama Said

Jun 2013 Sheikha

blankpoems

My Mama Said

I like to write my name on a piece of paper over and over again
until it's messy enough that I forget who I am

Erasing the edges, smudging it out until my identity is nothing but a fast blur;
something that could only be noticed if you were looking for it-
something you would probably be disturbed to find anyways

Like when you're driving and you see an animal on the side of the road
and you have to pull over because it's your third week of being a vegetarian
and you almost have to force yourself to cry about it, but not quite

Or when you're cleaning your room and you find that old wooden box
you put your earrings in when you were seven years old
and now you're almost triple the age you were at that time
and you find those earrings, but there's only one of each so you put on mismatched ones
and cry yourself to sleep because you're missing parts of you that you thought would
always be there

"Mama said there'll be days like this,
there'll be days like this, my mama said"

On the messy days I like to forget who I am and pretend I'm still who I used to be.

— The End —