Assume all TRIGGER WARNINGs. I’ve been trying to write about such issues more often and I hope I do them justice. (secret: you might enjoy the poem more if you google the meaning of some of the names) Let me know if you liked it in the comments.
When my father told me we were the gold pots at the end of the rainbow, I was only ten. He loved rainbows. Every year on his birthday, our house would become a castle made of blue, yellow, and red and my sister and I would draw him a red carpet made out of every color in the 62 rupees color pencil pack. It would start at the door and only last four steps but it made abba smile the widest every year.
About a month ago, news came that a young man had died protecting two women in Sudan. He was shot. His favorite color was blue and that’s where #blueforsudan comes from. They still need our help and that’s only possible through spreading awareness. So this is me, doing that in the way I know how to.
This poem is fictitious but hopeful.
(TW: misery, death)
26, died protecting two women.
Stood like a wall
made of every instance throughout his life that made him
the man we know;
protecting his humanity to the very last breath.
With his finger wrapped around the width
of his mother’s finger
like a burka around the head,
he must’ve said his first proper word when he was 17 months old.
“aas-” giggles “-rakkh” drools.
His mother must’ve told his abbu and cried a little.
Despite living in a conservative household,
his parents probably spoke to him about everything.
He must’ve known about the horrors women had to face
at the hands of men who slaved for liquor,
at the hands of monsters that called themselves human.
While his bedtime stories were of castles,
his dreams must’ve been of being worthy of it.
When Mohamed turned 13,
he cut a black forest cake for the first time.
It must’ve been a gift
because his friend’s mother had called to thank him
for saving her kid from the bullies,
or judging by the type of man he was,
it must’ve been a gift by the bullies to thank him
for making them human.
Some random facts about him that I think
could be true:
His first breakup was mutual.
His favorite food was kofta.
He was always a good man.
His favorite t-shirt had the graphic of a cute doggo.
He loved cats too.
His mother was proud of him.
One fact that is definitely true:
we are proud of him.
Two hours before he became the voice of Sudan, he cut a black forest cake for the last time. He’s gone but his first word has stayed behind, to protect. 26, died protecting two women.
Till the day the world is a safe place to live in, I’ll write about the reasons why it’s not. While I do sugar-coat things very often to give people reasons to smile, I know that being raw is the only option to spread awareness. This post is about marital rape and justice. I hope you like it. 🙂 Let’s talk about it in the comments?
What I know of this is: if someone did something to harm Cain, the damage would come back sevenfold. The same goes for anyone with the mark of Cain. I’ve used that as a prop to give seven hells to the villain of this poem.
(TW: abuse, rape)
When you touched me that night with one hand around my neck and the other on parts of me that still scream, I tried my best to stop you. I hit you across the face and dug my nails deep into your empty skin but nothing seemed to wake you up from the monster that you’d become. Sometimes I wonder if people found out that I’d hit my husband because he was raping me, which part would they be more concerned about? Your hand choked my cries inside my throat, and your lips curled into a smile that still makes mine quiver. My tears were the mark of Cain and for every piece of me you broke, life was going to fuck you up seven times.
The title is also the precaution I’d like you to take before reading the poem. While this post is fictitious, I don’t know where the line stops. So help me out, okay? I wrote this because I know how tough it can be with triggers all around you. This post is not going to help heal you but maybe it’ll let you know we all have triggers. If you don’t know what triggers your friend’s bad memory, ask and try to not hurt them. It’ll mean so much to everyone. I hope you like this poem. Enjoy 🙂
Triggers come in all shapes and sizes. A moving train, a pizza boy, an autumn leaf, 26 alphabets, crop-tops, anger, the chains of a swing. It could be anything.
Comment down below and let me know what you think. It’ll mean a lot.
To you, For every time a woman said no.
I need you to listen.
When I was ten, my mom thought it was important for me to learn two things – one, that tomatoes weren’t vegetables and two, that ‘no’ is a sentence. The former because it was the only mistake I had made in my science exam sheet. The latter because every child should know the chaos not knowing what ‘no’ means has caused. My mother spoke to me about her experiences and told me about things that would make me human, or in her words – ‘ would make me happy’. This conversation became my bed-time story that night and I am really glad it did.
Last night, I read about what you, a thirty-year-old, had done to that eight-year-old girl. You will be punished for that and so, this letter is for you to read in one of these two situations – one, if you ever get a second chance to be better in this lifetime (which I know is unlikely) or two, if this letter finds its way to you in your next life when you’re ten. I really want you to become better – so much so, that I am willing to believe in re-births.
When you heard the word ‘no’ for the first time, what did it mean to you? For me, it was when I asked Baba if I could have two ice creams back to back. I was three. When he said no, I didn’t even think about questioning it. I just bought a chocolate instead. I like to think of myself as a writer when I am alone and so, I am going to give my memory a metaphorical reference for you to become a better human. When a woman says no, do not question it or try to persuade her. If that doesn’t make you happy, then get the chocolate – be genuine, ask her out on a date and see if you connect. If that doesn’t work out either, then just read a good book and fall asleep. This isn’t a metaphor.