I was at my uncle’s house,
new to the city and just a teenager.

One afternoon, someone’s shoe was stolen from a mosque—
an incident I didn’t know about,
and I hadn’t even visited that mosque at the time.

That night, I went to the mosque to pray.
As I prepared for my prayer,
someone grabbed my collar
and accused me of being the thief.

They judged me by my poor appearance
and the fact that I wore similar-looking shoes,
which I had bought from a store, not stolen.

That day, my self-esteem about my looks was destroyed,
and my social anxiety began.

A mob gathered proudly, ready to punish me.
The noise was so loud
that no one could hear my pleas of innocence.

Fortunately, the call for prayer saved me—
temporarily.

The mob decided to beat me after the prayer.
They took me to the third floor,
made me stand by a large window to pray,
and surrounded me so I couldn’t escape.

For a moment, I thought about jumping out the window,
but I wasn’t brave enough.

Trembling in fear, I prayed to God,
begging for salvation
because I was innocent.

After the prayer,
as they prepared to attack me,
I spotted my cousin in the distance.

I ran to him and explained everything.
He confronted the accuser
and forced an apology out of them.

They said sorry,
and I forgave them,
but their apology couldn’t heal my shattered self-esteem
or erase my newfound social anxiety.

Even now, whenever I see a thief, robber, or hijacker
caught and beaten by a mob,
I feel deeply sad.

Even if they committed a crime,
they deserve proper justice
and the right to be heard.

I understand some people vent their frustrations
by punishing criminals,
but mob violence isn’t justice.

A mob can never establish true justice.

My plea to them is this:
at least, don’t feel proud about beating someone,
even if they’re a criminal.

I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.

i don’t like thinking about the stain on my brain
about the awful
disturbing things
that i’ve done and seen and played out in my skull
oh no, i don’t like who i am
the truth of it all?
i don’t like feeling this small.
i’m on fire and i think everyone should just let me burn,
or toss me into the pool and then let me drown,
save me just to **** me in a different way,
pull me out and put a needle in my veins
i need to change
i need to want to change.
did you like who i was yesterday?
i think i’ll be her again.
do you think we could scrub my mind clean and just begin again?
i could forget your name and you could forget that night in my bed
no one would need to know a word that i said
and somehow i’ll know not to touch you ever again
and then you could heal and i could be cleansed-
i don’t like thinking,
i don’t like being a part of the torture that was my upbringing.
i don’t like sleeping,
i don’t like being the last bit of defense before you start swinging.
i wanted to be something better than i am today
but i can’t point out exactly when everything blew up in my face
and even though it’s my fingers that are covered in this powder
i’m sure it’s anyone else’s fault for how i got here.

I remember it all
Down to the stretch of my shorts and the tie in my curls
The way you lingered; daring to get closer
As if a magnet drew us together
I thought; so that’s what fate feels like
But now I wonder if that’s how antelope feel as a lion closes in
If the tug in my gut was my body sensing your threat
I never was a good runner
Or maybe I knew you’d catch me regardless
But I remember it all

I’m running through the streets

I left part of me  in those sheets

I run home to you

Crashing like waves on the ocean’s shore

This city can’t contain me anymore

When they told me it’s not normal

How she made me feel this abnormal

How she played me like a fool

Just because I was too cool

And now I’m haunted by the memory of her

I never asked for this, why me?

Haunted by things I cannot see

My heart’s beating fast

My bones remember the past

Every inch of my body aches

The carnival is loud.
The voices rise in competition,
each one pulling for the crowd’s attention,
each one demanding to be seen,
to be known,
to be applauded.

But none of it lasts.

The bright lights will flicker,
the tents will come down,
the applause will fade.
And the ones who built their names
on the roar of the crowd
will be left alone with their silence.

You feel this, don’t you?

The moment after the rush,
when the thrill of being seen
is not enough to keep you full.
The moments between performances,
when you are left with yourself.
You have felt it.
And because you have felt it,
you cannot unfeel it.

That is the nature of truth.

It does not beg.
It does not force.
It simply remains,
waiting for you to turn toward it.

But not all will turn.

Some will sell the last of themselves
to the carnival,
to the barker’s voice,
to the fleeting thrill of attention.
Some will press their hands over their ears
until they no longer hear the call at all.
Some will attempt to crucify what unsettles them,
to keep the show running.

And yet, truth stands.

It does not chase.
It does not barter.
It does not make itself smaller
to be more easily held.

It remains,
whether you turn today,
or tomorrow,
or never at all.

For life does not demand.
It does not entertain.
It does not offer a show.

It simply waits.

And in time,
the waiting will be yours
to bear