“Hey. Are you up?”

He poked her ear with his finger.

She ignored him.

He shook her a little.

“Are you up?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“We shouldn’t have fought like that today. Especially with the kids home.”

“Whatever. Nothing new here.”

“Yeah, but that was way out of line. You could have waited until they went to bed.”

“Right. Because that’s the problem. Kids. Kids are the problem.”

“That’s not what I said. But you need to think about how all of this affects them.”

“Right.”

“No. Not right. Anyways, it was bad on my part to come home drunk during the day. I also shouldn’t have told you about her.”

“Whatever.”

“No, I mean it. You know I have a drinking problem. I’m working on it. I will get help. I’ll go wherever you say.”

“Yeah. What’s new?”

“No, I mean it. I don’t like hurting the kids. And you—you are my kids’ mother. You don’t deserve this.”

She stared at the wall.

“But you need to understand and not pick a fight when I’m not feeling well.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Come on. Don’t be like that. Why do you gotta make this worse?”

“Apparently that’s what I’m good at.”

She turned her head slightly.

“You know. The dumbass with no sense of how this life works.”

“I didn’t mean that. You can’t hold that against me. I wasn’t in my senses.”

“Yeah. What’s new?”

“Can you at least look at me? I’m talking to you.”

He sat beside her and pulled her face toward him.

“STOP touching me.”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. Come on, you can’t be this angry. It’s nothing. I said my bad. I shouldn’t have told you about her. I wasn’t thinking.”

“So it’s okay as long as I don’t know about it?”

“No. She means nothing. I married you. We have kids.”

“Yeah.”

She looked back at the wall.

“Kids. We have kids.”

“Anyways, let’s forget it. Start fresh.”

“Yeah. What’s new?”

“No. I mean it.”

“Yeah. Like you meant everything else.”

“Okay, what do you want from me? I’m trying over here. Can you stop giving me that attitude? I’m doing my best.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Can we move on from here? Let’s go somewhere tomorrow. I’ll take the day off and after dropping the kids off at school, we can go somewhere.”

“I don’t want nothing. Just let me sleep.”

“Come on, please. Don’t be a bummer. We can go anywhere.”

“You can go. I want to stay home. I have to organize the kids’ closet and the tubs need cleaning. I have my day planned.”

“They’ll still be here the next day. Come on, let’s go shopping. You’ve been wanting new shoes. Let’s go get some.”

“I’m fine with my shoes. Please stop. I just want to sleep.”

“What’s up with you? What’s with so much attitude? I made a mistake. Come on. Can we move on? I’m trying for the family. Can you put in a little effort?”

She turned around.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. I know you do a lot for the family, but I said I’m working on making things better. Can you give me a chance?”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him.

“Another chance. And another.”

“That’s what I love about you. You have kept my family grounded and you don’t let things get to you.”

She blinked.

“I know talking about her was a bad call, but please. Let’s move on.”

“She is not the problem.”

He looked at her.

“I don’t care. Just whatever.”

She pulled the blanket closer.

“Huh. Fine. I’ll go with you. Let me sleep.”

“There’s the woman I married.”

He smiled and leaned toward her, pulling her closer to kiss her.

“Yeah.”

She moved her face away.

“Let me sleep.”

—

Author’s Note

Part Two.

This is about what happens after the explosion. The apologies, the excuses, the promises, and the expectation that everything should simply go back to normal. The fight ends, but the damage doesn’t.

Some feelings and things I have known or witnessed, but the story itself is fiction.

More to come.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

Leave your thoughts and comments below. I would love to hear what you guys liked, what you didn’t like, and how the story made you feel.

Thank you for being here. I thought I should officially introduce myself and let you know what you are dealing with.

I was conceived in 1990 in a rural village of Pakistan to a beautiful lady...

Wait. That’s way back. Let’s fast-forward to now.

I should probably only tell you about my purpose here on Substack. I came here because I was looking to share my writing and get some opinions from strangers because, what am I without the judgments of others?

Apparently, nothing.

So please, read and judge away.

Once I get enough of you to really get addicted to judging me, I will be publishing my novel that I have been working on for, like, 10 years.

Even though my little brother told me five years ago that it was great and that I should just make some edits and continue publishing it.

I didn’t believe him because why should I? He was being too nice. It made me question his intentions.

So here I am, still working on it.

Aside from that, my favorite color is yellow. My favorite teacher’s name is Mr. Taylor. He was my first teacher in sixth grade when I started school in the USA. He was the best teacher ever and I have not met anyone better.

Also, that reminds me: my mom’s maiden name is Bibi.

And here is a little poem my friend wrote at my request during lunchtime. I asked her to write me a poem, I gave her the first line and she wrote the rest.

It is very close to my heart.

I don’t remember her name because I only saw her during lunch for the last half of eighth grade. I wish I remembered her name so I could hug her for seeing what I didn’t know.

Here it goes:

I am stupid!
That is what they say,
But they don’t see behind the mask.
The mask that hides my pain.
The happy smile,
The cheery face,
Are all lies.
It is just to hide my pain.
The pain, the lies,
The fear that won’t subside.
That is my truth.
This is my life.

Hope you liked it.

Now, on to the now.

Since being on here, I went from wanting to pull the darkness out through my ears to simply letting it release itself.

I don’t fight it as much anymore or give it my mind.

That’s what writing has done for me. It gave all those thoughts somewhere to go besides staying trapped inside me. Here where I could turn them into words, stories, jokes, nonsense, and sometimes something beautiful.

If you are new here, Welcome.

And if you have been here for a while, Thank You for sticking around.

100 of you. That feels pretty damn special.

Now, let’s see where this goes.

Maybe to a million dollars in my bank account.

You can make that happen once I set up my Buy Me a Coffee.

If you want to make me a millionaire slowly, you can become a paid subscriber for fun.

Let’s see.

—

✨✨✨WelCome✨✨✨

Here’s a Picture of me with my kids. I know. I know… I look like a mess. Just a Mom life.

“Who am I supposed to cry with?”

She looked at him, trying to find something in his face that was still hers.

“You won’t tell me what’s in your heart. Nothing feels the same. Your smile has changed. I think you are going to leave me and be with someone else.”

She swallowed.

“Not that you were ever mine to begin with. But how dare someone come between us and take my happiness away.”

Her voice trembled, then hardened.

“I will burn them along with everything.”

He stared at her.

“But what bothers me is, are you going to let go of my hand? That’s one thing. And you reading your poems to someone else.”

She laughed once, sadly.

“Not that you ever read me any.”

She knew.

She always knew.

“I still love you,” she said. “I tell you everything in my dreams and wake up crying because your hand is not in mine. Who is it that’s whispering in your ears?”

He said nothing.

“Our love is away from the bodies meeting. It is nothing lust. It is the pure soul craving each other. I trust you. I only say what I say because of my right over you, not because of ego.”

“Shut up, you stupid bitch. You think talking bullshit like this is going to help you be loved?”

She froze.

“Aaaaaahhhhh. No. No.”

She covered her ears.

“You take that back. You do. It’s all her fault.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you are good for nothing.”

Her face crumpled.

“But my heart. My heart is hurt. It only knows you. How will it survive?”

“Let it die.”

“No. You don’t mean that. You don’t. I know.”

“You know shit.”

She looked at him as if she had suddenly remembered something from another life.

“Remember how you passed me by as a stranger and smiled? And you came back and said hello because I smiled back?”

She smiled through the tears.

“Yeah. Mistake of my life. Now I can’t be punished for that for my whole life.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I do.”

“No.”

She reached for him.

“I will chop you up. Take it back. Aaaahhh—”

He grabbed her.

“You’re hurting my face. Let go. Let go.”

“You’re going to chop me? Let’s see.”

He pushed her onto the couch.

“Now show me how you’re gonna chop me.”

She stared up at him.

“Don’t. Please don’t. I love you.”

He stood over her.

“Are you worthy of any love? Tell me. If you were, wouldn’t you have your father on your side?”

Her eyes changed.

“He fucking sold you on the first bid. So let’s see what I paid for.”

“I’m your wife.”

“Yeah. The one I paid for.”

“Please.”

She sat up slowly.

“Can I just sit with you?”

“No.”

“Remember all those times we spent together? We were together. Happy. The way you would smile at me.”

Her voice began to break again.

“Without you my heart feels like it’s leaving my chest. Can you just sit here with me? Without you I will die. I will find you and kill myself right there in front of your castle. Don’t do this to a broken soul.”

She reached for his shirt.

“You can’t break a broken piece. Wouldn’t you just keep me?”

She pulled on his shirt.

“What the fuck is with you? Have you lost your mind?”

He pushed her away.

She landed against the couch.

“Without you, what am I worth?”

Her voice was smaller now.

“You are my only drug and no other drug helps tame this pain. All I think of is you. You are only on my mind. No one is going to help me get through this.”

She looked at him.

“There are only a few breaths left to breathe. Won’t you stay a while?”

“You are crazy. Your dad was right about you not knowing how the fuck one lives. You have no sense of speaking or doing anything. You will destroy the house just like you destroyed his house.”

“You know that’s not true.”

For the first time, she stopped crying.

“You know I went through hell.”

He looked away.

“I don’t tell. I don’t speak of it. The kicking I got from him while sleeping after coming home from work. You know I gave him my dreams. My blood. And still he treated me like I’m nothing.”

Her hands were shaking.

“I said nothing because I didn’t want him to come off as the evil guy. I didn’t want his reputation tarnished. You know what he put me through.”

She looked directly at him.

“The hitting with brooms for doing my upper lips. Hitting me with a chair for putting on lipstick. You know what he did.”

Her voice became strangely steady.

“I put up with everything without saying anything because I didn’t want him to be the evil guy.”

“Shut up, you dumb bitch.”

He stepped closer.

“I know what you are worth. He knew what you deserved and now I know it too.”

She looked at him.

“That’s not nice.”

There was something different in her face now.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

She breathed in.

“And I don’t deserve this.”

She said it with calm, full attention, like everything had suddenly clicked into place.

He noticed the change.

“What?”

She looked at him.

“What are you going to do about it?”

He laughed.

“You lame-ass fuck.”

She smiled.

“Oh.”

She wiped her face.

“So you enjoy playing games?”

She stood.

“Let’s play then.”

He stared at her.

“I will be poisoning you.”

Her smile disappeared.

“And you won’t know how.”

She took one step toward him.

“And you won’t know when.”

—

Author’s Note

Part One.

This is the beginning of a longer story about love, hurt, obsession, and what happens when something broken finally decides it has nothing left to lose.

This story is not entirely true. Some feelings and things I have known or witnessed, but the story itself is fiction.

More to come.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

Leave your thoughts and comments below. I would love to hear what you guys thought — what you liked, what you didn’t like, and how the story made you feel.

This is a story of a night covered in black.

I was on vacation from heartbreak, at my love’s beach house.

One night, looking out the glass wall, I saw a white steamboat.

On it, every room lit in sparkling, ebullient colors,

the sound of music so loud that I could clearly hear.

I smiled, laid back, then shut my eyes.

A devilish face popped up, screaming. I alerted my eyes.

Pink couch, white carpet —
even the steamboat had turned black.

I looked all ways. Nothing.

And then, a screeching sound — I hear.

I turned around.

The dark steamboat sat in front of the beach house,

people stared out the windows,
people in golden, glowing colors.

White and sparkling, now dark,
transformed into a bleeding steamboat.

Through my now-broken wall entered the blood of the steamboat.

All my fears danced on the blood.

Then, before my eyes,

everything was losing its creepy, glowing, devilish colors.

Again, all the golden and all the sparkles covered in black.

White snow poured through the ceilings, inside the beach house.

“Did you hear that?”

“Something outlandish is going on,” I hear.

“Let’s just get out of here.”

The devil’s voice, my ears hear.

It seized my wrist
and took me out the front door, into the steamboat.

Into the devil’s hole went my once peaceful beach house.

I saw every last edge of it bury into fire with my own eyes.

Begging, screaming — nothing helped,
only reproduced black.

Alone there I stood in a small room,
no glowing people in colors.

The steamboat went lighting fast,
on every turn changing colors.

“You’re just imagining things.”

The sound of his dulcet voice, I hear.

It stopped the steam.

With bloodcurdling eyes turned into black,
innocent eyes, it came through the door
of the now-white steamboat.

But seeing it, seeing it close,
it was a hair-raising sight for my eyes.

Pushing it down, I ran out into the smoke,
wishing to detect my house.

But it had dissolved into the devil’s hole.

And I was appropriated to the devil’s house.

I ran!

Hoping to escape the flaming, elusive, glowing devil’s eerie colors.

A face of yellow scales with demonic horns
emerged in front of my eyes.

I screamed.

Paining roar of every ghoulish, menacing sound, I hear.

It dragged me, ignoring my pleas,
and threw me in the steamboat.

“Don’t go out there!”

“Don’t leave!”

A melodious sound from the lord of black.

This place, full of black,
the devil’s horrendous house was my future.

The steamboat with ebullient colors was my horrific nightmare,

with sounds I could clearly hear,

pictures I saw with my eyes open.

—

Author’s Note

I wrote this poem in college, during a time when I was drawn to darker, dreamlike imagery. It came from a place of heartbreak, fear, and the strange way our minds can turn even beautiful places into something haunting.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, come back tomorrow for another piece.

I wonder if you are
an angel in disguise.

You bring a smile to my face
when I’m feeling sad.

You bring a glow to my eyes
when my eyes are filled with tears.

You give me new reasons to live
when I’m giving up on life.

You give me wings to fly
when I can’t walk.

You pull me up
when I’m down.

You hold me tight
when I’m scared.

You show me the light
when all I see is darkness.

You make me happy.
You are the reason I’m still here.

I wonder if you will be mine,
mine forever —

my angel in disguise.

—

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, come back tomorrow for another piece.

That day in Spring.

Beautiful Spring day.

I sat alone

On a bench,

Under a tree.

Small breeze blowing.

People walking by;

Some couples.

Some families.

Some with pets.

Some alone.

A green leaf falls

In my lap.

I pick it up.

I look up.

There it was,

A tree.

Amazing.

Well-formed.

A tree holding

Millions of leaves.

I wondered to myself,

Did it feel the loss

Of this one leaf?

The leaf was so green.

Looked as if still alive,

Remarkably soft,

So beautiful.

I stood up.

Turned to the tree.

Held the leaf up to it.

“Why did you let it

Fall?” I yelled

At the tree.

“Maybe the tree tried to stop it,

but the leaf just let go.”

I looked at him,

A man in his 40s.

He smiled,

Said, “Good day,”

and started

towards the swings.

I watched him.

I watched him.

And I watched him

playing with his kids.

Having some conversation

With his wife.

I assumed she was his wife.

He was giving her a kiss

every now and then.

I watched him

Enjoy,

Appreciate,

And make the most

Out of every moment.

Time passed.

How much?

I can’t say.

But

Time passed.

He, now with his family,

Walked by me.

I, still under the tree,

Sitting on the bench,

Detached.

He smiled again

At me.

That’s when it hit me

Like a paintball.

I didn’t know why

I let go.

All my friends and family

Tried to hold on to me.

Well, not all.

There were those

Who were pushing me off,

And those are the ones

I paid attention to.

But I should have held on

To the ones who cared.

If no one cared,

I should have cared for myself.

I should care for myself.

I do care for myself.

I knew it was too late

For that beautiful

Green leaf.

But I was still here.

And I could come back.

So, I did.

I still hold on to that

Leaf.

To remind me of that

Beautiful Spring day.

The day when

A green leaf

And

A man’s smile

Turned my life

Back onto the right path.

That breezy Spring day.

—

Author’s Note

I wrote this piece during a time when I was learning that letting go doesn’t always mean the end. Often we lose ourselves by listening to the people who tell us to give up, while forgetting those who are trying to hold on to us. The leaf became a reminder that it is never too late to choose yourself and begin again.

A Note to Readers

Because I have so many pieces collected over the years, I’ll be sharing a new poem every day. And every Monday I’ll share a short story or a piece of flash fiction.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, come back tomorrow for another piece.

My mirror told me a story
Story of the past
Past that was so beautiful
Beautiful like red roses
Red roses on sunny spring days
Days that have gone
Gone away to where I can’t go
Go to be with the beautiful
Beautiful past of mine.

My mirror tells me a story
Story of my present
Present that is so ugly
Ugly like brown, dried leaves
Leaves on cold winter days
Days that are here now
Now that I can’t run away from
From now to the beautiful
Beautiful past of mine.

—

Author’s Note

I wrote this thinking about how differently we can see ourselves depending on where we are in life. Sometimes the past becomes more beautiful simply because we can’t go back to it, while the present feels harsher because we have no choice but to live in it.

Maybe the past really was that beautiful.

Or maybe the mirror is a liar.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, come back next week for a flash fiction about loss ‘Peter’.

I have successfully completed another trip around the sun without falling off the planet, joining a cult, or becoming the hero in someone’s story.

So, in honor of this achievement, I thought I would tell you a little about myself.

You already know I write. You probably know I have an unhealthy affection for darkness and terrible jokes.

Today, I wanted to tell you who I am and why I am.

Which, of course, is a great question to ask.

I was born in a small village in Pakistan, into a world that had already decided basically everything about me before I was old enough to decide anything about myself.

Then I moved to America. Yeah! USA!

And somewhere between those two worlds, I became very good at observing people.

I won’t get into details, but let me just say: I notice things. Too many things.

Which is inconvenient for living but rather useful for writing.

I also learned that belonging is strange, I thought belonging was supposed to be a place: a country, a house, or a community. Somewhere you could point to and say, There, those are my people.

Well, it isn’t.

For me, belonging has always been people. The ones around whom I don’t have to calculate myself. You know, the ones who let me be ridiculous one minute and unbearably serious the next and don’t require an explanation for every strange nostril flare of mine.

I realized this in eighth grade. So, have I surrounded myself with such people?

No. Please stop asking questions.

I do believe in God deeply, but I ask questions.

People are cool, but people exhaust me.

I can find something funny in almost anything, including things that probably shouldn’t be funny. Especially those things.

I might be a horrible person, after all.

I am sentimental enough to keep memories alive long after they have stopped being useful and practical enough to know when something is dead. Unfortunately, these two departments rarely communicate.

So that works out great for me.

I am also a hopeless romantic with the survival instincts of someone who absolutely should know better by now.

Yes. Make of that what you will.

Now on to my writing.

I love writing. I used to get extra credit in school because teachers loved the extra mile I would go on essays and creative stories.

Yes, I was that good! English was my second language, so that’s a big deal. Okay.?!

However, somehow over the years, my first language has become my second. That’s crazy…

Anyways, I enjoy writing poems, short stories, making monsters, and writing things that disguise themselves as fiction and hope nobody asks too many questions.

I don’t think I became who I was supposed to be. She definitely exists.

I’m still every version of myself: the village girl, the immigrant kid, the mother, the believer, the skeptic, the writer, and the idiot making jokes on the internet.

I haven’t figured life out, I have just gotten better at asking why and laughing at the absurdity.

So here I am. I woke up today, discovered I had somehow survived another entire trip around a giant flaming ball of gas and thought:

Well. That seems worth mentioning.

Happy birthday to me.

Against all available evidence, I remain here. Yay, Me!

Here’s a Picture of my five little Rugrats. {I know you thinking it’s AI, it’s not} 😼

Shattering glass has woken the sleeping beast
Roaring of which destroyed the innocent dreams
Years of hunger, so now it must feast

It tore through the ground, first went south, then east
To stop it, the scanty lit the hamlet with high beams
Shattering glass has woken the sleeping beast

Vicious, with large yellow eyes and twenty-five feet at least
To execute its hideous face, the petty attacked it in teams
Years of hunger, so now it must feast

It opened its mouth of pincer-like teeth and released
The stench of rotting fish in green streams
Shattering glass has woken the sleeping beast

Giant claws, then, took each soul of the deceased
Taking each soul with it to hell, so it seems
Years of hunger, so now it must feast

Joyful colors of the lively hamlet have ceased
Lectures of adults, children’s laughter turned to screams
Shattering glass has woken the sleeping beast
Years of hunger, so now it must feast

—

Author’s Note

Some things sleep because they are at peace while others sleep because they have not yet been disturbed.

The beast can remain a beast or it can be whatever has been sleeping beneath the surface for far too long.

Either way, it is hungry.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, come back next week for another one about Now and Then.

On my every tear your name is printed.

I’m deserted on this lengthy journey.

Heartache questions why I’m so committed.

Even my own faith turned its face
and left my hands empty.

Wish you well.
God may take care of me too.

Here, all alone,
I learn the weight of living.

Meager light is fading away.

My prayers to be with you
are ignored.

But that isn’t what keeps us apart.

If I was sure,

I would eat through
the metal chains on my feet
that keep me from being with you.

Only if I was sure

those silly little jokes of yours
would always make me smile.

Only if I was sure

every time you looked at me,
I would always feel
that same pull
running through my chest.

Only if I was sure

that I would love you forever
as much as I love you now.

I will love you
whether your words heal me
or cut deeper than a sword.

My love for you
is pure passion,
not lust.

Bitter or sweet,
I will adjust.

If I was sure.

Only if I was sure.

I would already be with you.

—

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, Come back next week for another one about a Sleeping Beast.

Bottom is heaven.

I’ve never been to the bottom,
but I’ve spent my life on top.

If the top isn’t hell,
then there is no such thing as hell.

I want to see the bottom now.
All I believe in is heaven now.

I can’t go to hell again.
God won’t send me
from one hell
to a second hell.

God loves His people.
Why would He make two hells?

I know He wouldn’t.
I believe He wouldn’t.

He is loving.
He is caring.

Once I reach the bottom,
I’ll be in heaven.

I want to go to heaven.
I want to go now.

I don’t think I can live—
live in this hell.

I don’t want to be on the top.

I came to substack to share my writing but I can’t seem to look away from other people’s pieces and now I feel worse about my writing. I mean I know it’s pretty okay but my brain says it not. So I gotta listen to the brain, the heart is an idiot who is still waiting on true love to save me, so that’s stupid. I mean how the heck is true love suppose to find me with five kids in the way and a husband. 😜 Any whose.

So I am done with the first draft of my book for the 4th time, because I keep changing the story around after I start the editing read. Not like change it a little full on story change, the only thing that has been consistent is the ‘feeling’ or ‘idea’ of it and two characters. Other wise it’s completely changed. Now I’m contemplating whether I should work on editing because I don’t want to, it’s boring— not the book or story, the editing. God! If I ever get this to publish I’m going to be the worst at selling it because I down play everything and use words like it’s ‘boring’.

I like writing in a diary but I can’t much anymore because because my fingers get stiff from holding a pen too. Yeah the joints are still against me. I’m going to go clean my kitchen Because I didn’t do it last night. No not because I was tired, I don’t get tired, who has time for that kind of stuff. I went up to put the baby to sleep and just didn’t want to come back down. I get scared alone in the light too.

My baby is shoo cute, he copies everything the older kids are doing so yeah. I love him he is such a daredevil, he is the only kid of mine that climbs over every thing, he is almost two, next month is his birthday and my eldest birthday. Yeahhh.

K’bye

There is a square room with no windows.

The walls rise three feet in brick.
Above them, they are transparent.
Small openings welcome the wind,
bringing the scent of roses in spring
and salt and snow in winter.

The ceiling is white.
A brown and gold fan hangs overhead.
A green carpet stretches beneath.

Against the outermost wall
rests a black leather couch.

There are three doors.

One, straight ahead,
is made of glass
and leads into the house.

One, to the right,
opens toward the parking space.

The last,
beside the couch,
leads to a green yard.

A white towel rests
on the couch’s right arm,
beside an open laptop.

A flowered pillow leans
against its left arm,
where a girl in pink sits,
her short black hair
pulled tightly back.

Behind her,
a bird clock hangs on the wall.

Two matching candle holders
face one another
from opposite walls.

On the left,
a single picture frame.

In front of the couch,
two black-and-gold bedside tables
stand together
as one coffee table.

An open book
rests upon
a closed pink-and-white notebook.

Beside them,
a green pen,
an open letter,
and a half-full bottle of water.

It was the best place
for thinking.

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

If you enjoyed this poem, I would love to have you back next week for another one about a hopeless romantic.

The estranged brown house next to the leafless tree
again calls them, sometimes through the sorrowful dreams
of theirs and at other times through wistful winds.
The dark clouds over their home express their hostile
intentions towards them. The black Raven, every morning,
warns them of the consequences, at their bedroom window.

—

And with its sharp beak it has cracked the glass window.
At the brown house it would never leave the leafless tree,
where it sang the same song every day and every morning
would wake them from their beautiful dreams.
The creepy house and the black Bird kept them hostile,
they were forever alone, they couldn’t even whisper to the winds.

—

Now, they want them back in the house where even the winds
are afraid to speak. Where all the doors and all the windows
are closed shut, making even their own warm breath hostile.
Where in the spring days the sun doesn’t shine and the trees
don’t flourish leaves. Where even the smallest dreams
are unlived and are destroyed miserably with each morning.

—

They do not wish to go back to the same unwelcoming mornings,
they want to stay here where a new song is sung by winds
every moment. The world conspires to make their dreams
true here. They have no boundaries; they can fly out the windows
if they desire. There are not only leaves, but also flowers on trees,
flowers of many colors. And in this land, no one is hostile.

—

It seems it is inevitable that they must spend their lives in a hostile
place. Another cruel message was sent to them this morning,
they woke up to a wrecked home and trees once colorful
were burned to ashes. And from every direction harsh winds
were singing the song they heard for many years at the window
of their chilly room, the song that destroyed all their dreams.

—

Reluctantly, they have given up on the fight to achieve their dreams,
they have accepted to exist in the rejected, aggressive, and hostile
place with no sunlight and a crazy Bird singing at their window.
But, now, they wake up before the annoying Bird every morning
and wake his craziness up with their own mad noises of wind
then laugh at his madness when with fear it falls off the tree.

—

Thank you for Reading! 💕💕💕

People speak of fatherless daughters

as though absence
is the deepest wound.

They have never met
the daughters
whose fathers stayed.

Stayed long enough
to teach them
that love can live
without tenderness.

That a home
can become a courtroom.

That a man
can sit at the head of the table
and never once
see the child
searching his face
for herself.

She grew up
mistaking fear
for respect.

Mistaking obedience
for love.

Mistaking silence
for peace.

No one notices
the daughters
whose fathers never leave.

They carry invisible abandonments.

There is a scream in her that wants to scream,

but the scream won't scream.

It sleeps behind her ribs.

It claws at her throat.

It has learned
that making a sound
changes nothing.

Now she walks through the world
looking for somewhere
to set down her heart.

Every kindness
feels borrowed.

Every promise
sounds temporary.

Every love
asks the same impossible question:

Will you survive
if I become your father too?

She does not fear
being unloved.

She fears
discovering

that love
has always meant
having to disappear.

-Naaina

About to step out the door
Tripped and fell on the slippery floor

Giving up is not what I do
No matter if the world makes me blue

Got up, to my car I went
Fluid in it was all spent

Still I behold hope in my heart
Find meaningfulness in this art

Started on my feet towards the hill
So such small dream, I can fulfill

I must’ve done something to upset Mighty Lord
For, on me, rain of the century poured

I must be headed on a misguided track
Now, however, I don’t wish to turn back

Looked around to find a shelter
Nothing, under which I could escape the pelter

Turning back must be the right answer
But it will destroy me slowly like ember

Ice cream it was that I desired
Got nothing, ended up soaked and tired

To see how far I had come, turned around
Only few feet I had walked on the ground

I had not departed very far
I headed back before I get any scar

Such a innocent wish, it was
It won’t come true so I must, here, pause

Thank you for Reading, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! Found this master piece in the pile of my long-last poems and loved it. I don’t know what I was thinking back when I wrote this, but I enjoyed reading it now.

-Naaina