She's in a constant state of comfort, pure bliss
Knowing she wouldn't be pricked by a thorn,
If it wasn't for the smell of rizq colouring His roses

She's in a constant state of purity
As His clouds turn into heavy storms above her head
Gently rinsing away the bad, returning her only for the good

She's in a constant state of obedience,
As gratefully awake she is
Her eyes let go of tears with utmost ease
Honoured, they fall and sink into the lowest of grounds
Only to join His droplets of rain, humble, in their firmest sujood

It was as if her old shirt has tightened its grip unto her — slowly spreading crumbs of itch and scars from her last night's episode.

And sometimes, she would often wear her old clothes to feel its tightness and grip her unbalanced body, so she would look at herself and roll her eyes in disgust. And often, she would toss around her big shirts and compare the two, while her wounds slowly turning into scars, she would see to it and add another collection,
and she would call it a day. Eat a lot more than yesterday and hide in her memories, until someone finds her, but she's never found.

Sometimes, she will serenade someone but no one can hear her. Give some pieces of her and turn it into songs, but no one listens.

And she would call it a day, spend a lot more than yesterday, and hide in the present realm of her new found friend, her favorite scent from her old shirt.