If wishes were horses

then I would recede

into nothingness,

a hole in oblivion

into empty-

turn myself outside in,

and forget

and let go.

Alt Ctrl Del,

reboot and rewire,

rewrite you out of my

heart and do away

with whatever it

is that we have 

been and become

and will be.

reclamation is 

a lie we try to believe,

because you cannot

reclaim love, nor

a heart in it. 

I feel her breathe

on you and i

taste kisses that 

are yours or hers or mine-

i can no longer tell,

and i wonder if

you thought of me.

If wishes were horses,

i would be but a speckle 

incapable of 

love and

tears,

of this.

I am so exhausted of thinking. You never understand exactly how much obsession can gnaw away at you until you get caught without an exit strategy. It feels like drowning, like my thoughts will simultaneously cause me to implodeexplode.
I'm tired, and you are selfish. Even in my head. I wish I could exorcise myself.

"love like ours is never fixed"

i crumble and
shatter and fall
to pieces as

you
move away and
move on
and ask me
(quite nicely)
if i am okay

your manners
impeccable-
and i fall
again and
hope against hope
against hope

but never am
i right, nor
do you ever stay
beyond formalities,
beyond placating
your  conscience

while i
cling on to
shreds of what
you will give
(or take from)
me

and

i crumble and
shatter and fall
to pieces

you were always charming
i was always foolish

run

We run from love,

run-

as the vines of fear

and reluctance thrive in

and creep up

our hearts and

cripple and maim love,

coils of hesitance choking

willingness,

because love is cruel and

hearts difficult to mend.

Better then, so much easier

to not love altogether than

go through  excruciating agony

on account of unloving.

Of undoing what was,

dismantling

what-could-have-been,

forgetting maybes

and dousing flames in hearts that

burn and break

with freezing reality

checks that leave

nothing.

They tell us that love

is all conquering,

forgetting the

pillage and pain that

love (or lack thereof)

renders on the soul.

Forgetting

that conquest is never

calm, nor is it ever peaceful.

When victory is proclaimed

there are casualties aplenty.

Out-of-Body

They tell me I am

stepping beyond limits

again-

crossing lines that

I, possessing Womb and

Breasts and Hips and Vagina (!),

have no right loitering close to.

And yet, the audacity.

That I am a woman,

a woman and a Muslim,

 and because

“We don’t do that”

and

“We aren’t like them”

I become 'We'.

Without consent,

without inquiry about

selves that live within me-

Instead, the selves

I must mould myself into

are outside,

suppressing and stifling

my lovingly crafted universe,

preparing it for Propriety

and Culture and Expectations

and Womanhood-

surely, I should know my true place?

What does it mean to be

born the “weaker” sex?

When the adjective sticks

and stubbornly refuses to

washout-

 like that stain on

your favourite white shirt

that never quite disappears,

and you scrub away until

the fabric is worn, until it is torn-

but the stain,

the stain is resilient,

mocking  you.

That my strength,

my will and my

identity inconsequential,

that I am daughter and sister,

then I am wife and  mother,

but I always belong to others-

Because

god forbid I blaspheme

and declare Autonomy,

declare that I am Human,

proclaim my personhood-

equilibrium as ‘we’ know it

will shatter and

the world collapse.

When your moral universe

thrives at the expense of mine,

and I watch as you plunder.

This is what out-of-body feels like-

 asphyxiation and

slowly descent into death.

Turkey Sandwich

You show up in my memory arbitrarily- that being your one constant. You left on a whim, and even thoughts of you are selfish in their disruptions. How can I explain the sudden nostalgia that fills me when the turkey sandwich in front of me reminds me of the near daily ritual we'd go through. Thousands of miles between and a lack of each other's presence giving rise to the strange comfort of knowing your life, your habits, your food. Things I should have, but didn't, take for granted.
And now a sandwich is enough to throw me off, to cause what feels like an invasion of the walls I have so carefully built.

Wisdom from Sloane Crosley

"If you have to ask someone to change, to tell you they love you, to bring wine to dinner, to call you when they land, you can’t afford to be with them"