Curtains

A perennial shower of peace spreads across my chest

Joy crawls over my body like sticky ants

Their sweet blood infuses with mine

I hear a song these curtains muse~

They’ve been watching me curl up and inside,

They’ve been learning my silent wish;

A lily settles upon my lashes

My fingers extract the elixir that completes me

I tear apart the walls and the couch and the stains

The stains of the waves getting out of control, spinning all over the place

Blue runs deep and high above

The curtains sing your name,

Draw them.

-Nameera.

Image Credit : Unsplash

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Staircase to Earth



Hell.

All this time, he spoke to me in varied hues of oranges and reds. He whispered in flames that burned my head, he moved about in a curfew that swept my need for fresh air. I am a tree, with a broken heart carved on my stomach. The knots of insomnia tighten around my thighs until I bleed Eve’s sin. Unholy birds perch upon my nape, they think my darkness is a home they’ll never find again.

Heaven.

The flowers here grow even more cheery while I paint them. They look like promises of something I haven’t seen yet. They whisper poetries that make no sense. The sun shines brighter than before and I can look at it, gaze into its soul. The moonlight becomes a passage to ballroom where love dances with fate. I watch it, I admire it from afar. I’m good here but so far away. Where is it that my bones ache to be?

Earth.

Home. Love. Life. Trauma. Death. So many colors that come without our choosing. If we chose black, white unfurls at the edge of our existence. If we chose red, green finds a way to our heart. We bind prayers upon our foreheads and paint heaven and hell. Our deeds paint us in either of the two. I sleep under a blanket of warmth, I’m in love. My bones don’t ache anymore. My bones say I’m home ~ on earth.

-Nameera.

Maple Syrup

Maple syrup dreams

The garden of roses doused in reds

Buzzing of bees at your kneecap

A handicap desire skips in the middle of my chest

My mouth is a hollow cave

It hollows out on a platform of colorful lies

My paper heart crumbles with laughter

This music makes me love you like never before

I eat rainbows and cherries

My breakfast swells at the hem of my lips

We make love on the dining table

Pour some sugar and some ice

I like my coffee cold and sweet

Smack your lips twice, clenched fists and open windows

The wind and your touch

The dust and your body against mine

Maple syrup dreams, sweet and astonishing

-Nameera.

D I V I D E

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The gap between my teeth widens
I’m six years of carelessness and a body clothed in flesh
My flesh is skin and a human anatomy I’m yet to understand
My flesh is carrot juice and French fries
My flesh is a subtraction of the numerical, perhaps the only confusion in my life
My flesh is unafraid and knows how to breathe in and out without having to give it a second thought
My flesh sees other flesh like mine and that’s where the story simply ends
Years later my headscarf has another story to tell
The bindi upon my forehead tells yet another story
And just like that, so many stories gather themselves at the periphery of my existence
My best friend dabs my cheek in pinks and greens
My best friend waits more eagerly for sewiyan than I do for Eid
Do you like horror stories? I do too
I think we all enjoy a little thrill in this mundane existence
We’re all looking for something out of the ordinary to provide forethought to
What if that horror isn’t fiction anymore?
It is as real as the red bindi across your forehead and as dark as my black Hijab
It has its horrors that transform streets into a war zone
Cities into hell
Cold winter mornings smell of gunfire that echoes through these lanes
But do you know what sounds worse than that? The silence
That is the scariest story of this divide
It isn’t secluded to bloodshed and cries for help and hunger and poverty and dirty politics and differences and awkward means of reaching out to each other and change in perspective and the birth of ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ and ‘He’ and ‘She’ and a myriad other pronouns that have been put to shame
It is the silence that has followed this divide
The lack of a proper noun to voice concern
The lack of a proper noun to replace the wrong
Because black will always remain black no
Matter what shade is forced upon it.

Image Credits: Photo by Alex on Unsplash

YOU

The metaphysics of my existence circumvent the physiology that reeks of me. My nose, my ears, my mouth and my hands are tales that hum Mozart across park benches on a windy afternoon. There is a moon that grows in the middle of my chest, it grows until writing feels like playing the piano and my fingers move across the keys that have the power to contain and redefine me. Philosophy is the muse that often makes me wonder if we are mere thoughts of the universe, each one so unique and different. What if the distant universes we never see are the worlds we create inside our heads? I’ve always been a subject of my ruminations not because the idea of my being is the only element that lives to entice me but because there is so much we leave to an outer perspective, forfeiting the vitality of looking beyond our reflection. We are mirrors learning from each other, recreating the same habits confined by normalcy but the moment we look beyond and beneath, a universe of differences unfolds like a mighty wave. That is who I am and that is who you are, a mighty wave, set aside from every reflection that you have ever come across just as others  have too. But you were always flowing with a unique rhythm, a whole different energy that defines only you and no other.