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.
The love of my life was named Autumn but she hated her name as much as I loved it. “It reminds me of everyone who has died, of everyone who has turned into gold leaves and stars,” she’d say every time I asked her why.
I don’t think I’ve ever written about first love or high-school crush or anything of that sort. So, here it is! It’s my variation on first love where two girls really like each other and then stuff happens. I do hope you like it! Tell me about your first crush in the comments!
You were a reflection of me.
From the way you walked, to the way you tied your hair. Your footsteps were introverted – soft, silent, careful they didn’t like making too much noise because what if the others didn’t want to listen? Half-buns were your go-to, because your first love liked your hair to be open, and your last love liked them tied, and you wanted to carry both their essence in the folds of your brown hair. You always had a reason for everything you did and that’s what made you most like me. Valentine’s 2014, we got each other the same presents – fake diamond rings wrapped in the gloves that I’d worn on our first date. You’d kept one of the pair, as a memory.
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.