You Ask Me Who I Am.

You ask me who I am. My mind screams the word at me, daring me to let it spill from my lips. A four letter word: liar.

Because that is who I am.

Because that is what I start and end every day with. Lies repeated to myself, sometimes out loud, sometimes just in my mind.

A three word lie, over and over, with each beat of my heart.

I am okay. I am okay. I am okay.

But-

NO. NO. NO.

My mind screams back at me.

That’s a white lie. Sometimes I am not.

Many times.

Not during the day, never during the day. The days are safe- except for golden sunlight, it reminds me of you.

But I don’t go out at all these days, and remind is such a funny word. I don’t even know you.

I don’t even know if you exist.

And the nights. The nights. The nights.

You are my sunshine. But the stars are cold, the moon is cold.

The chill has sunk into my soul.

Where are you, my sunshine?

Will you please come to me?

Why won’t you come to me? I even write you letters, so many of them. They don’t fit in the dusty space under my bed anymore.

Please, just come and hold me. Show me you are real. Show me my happiness can be real too. That it doesn’t have to always be hollow. Just come and hold me. And never leave.

Many people are whole, even on their own. I am not. I was never made to be.

I am waiting. I’ll be waiting for ever. Please, listen to my plea for once.

I don’t want to drown here anymore. Pull me out and let me breathe. You’re the only one who can.

So you ask me who I am. I do not know.

But I can tell you just what I am. Incomplete.

I Should’ve Known Better.

I swore on the grave of all the dreams I had abandoned, I wouldn’t let you get to me. I swore on the sun and I swore on the moon, and I swore on the love that made them chase each other across the heavens- the sadness would never find a home in my ribs again. I promised myself that I would wait for you, I’d wait for as long as I had to because I knew, I knew you were coming and I promised myself I wouldn’t doubt you.

But the sadness is here again now, breaking down my door, and you are not. And I’m left sitting here in resignation, wondering if you ever even really existed, if you weren’t just a figment of my desperation, I’m left sitting here counting down the ticks and tocks of this old dusty clock until the sadness floods in to smother me; I’m left sitting here craving the bitter taste of tobacco and death again, craving the feeling of vengeful pleasure that came with the tar smoke corrupting my lungs with every inhale and every cough; I am left sitting here, craving my own end, and thinking ‘God, I should’ve known better than to let a dream wreck me like this. I should’ve fucking known better.’

 

Someone Else’s Shoes

What a wonderful poem, and for what a wonderful cause! Guys, follow this blog as they delve deeper into the mystery and stigma surrounding the transgender in Pakistan, and try to overcome it at the same time.

The Lost Gender

The plight of the transgender community is one that many fail to understand. The reason being that many cannot envision the perspective of someone who is faced with such hardships. In order to give a little insight into the lives and minds of transgender people, a poem has been contributed by me (a university student at LUMS) which will hopefully get people to view the people of this community in a more sympathetic light.

“Someone Else’s Shoes” by Anzal Amin

When I was little my daddy gave to me
An old pair of dusty brown boots.
A token of his history.
A symbol of his roots.

I smiled, a little confused
About what use they would be to me.
They certainly couldn’t be used
At least not while I was still so tiny.

I slipped my little feet into the giant’s mold.
Tested the water.
I retracted so fast…

View original post 181 more words

Of Nostalgia And The Night Sky.

Even if everything else falls apart, the moon will still be exceptionally beautiful on dark nights. The stars will still glimmer, teasing you, reminding you of the naive dreams you once had to capture the night sky into a glass jar to keep by your bed side- dreams that you have long since labelled ‘impossible’ and discarded. The night will bring with it nostalgia and memories you cannot escape from, memories of the boy who smelt like lemons and winter, frosty to the touch, or the girl with autumn leaves in her hair whose dark eyes showed you light the sun never could. Try all you might, squeezing your eyes close so tightly you see galaxies on the inside of your lids, but you will not be able to rid your mind of images of the people who gave you their all, putting their hearts in the palms of your hands, only to have you throw them all away ruthlessly. It’ll come back to haunt you now, how you broke them into a million pieces, but you’ll still feel no regret, you’ll feel no pain.
So climb onto the roof with your pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and try to smoke away the emptiness in vain, because the worst is yet to come.

Feelings and Colors: Pt. 1

5 stages of grief.

1. I paint the brightest shade of orange all over my lids with messy strokes and multiple coats to block away the deep purple of loss, but it comes back to haunt me in my sleep every night where there is no orange, but only the deepest, darkest purple.

2. I pour black all over my heart and it burns out the red passion I used to hold, turning it into an anger that is insatiable, an anger that does not lessen. I have broken my mother’s best china and smashed the table that held my snow globes. I have not slept for ages now. My eyes burn as I stare at the blank wall, my soul burns away thread by thread as the black swallows the purple.

3. The black fades to a pale, sickly brown, and I pray to whoever and whatever may listen to rewind time and let me hear you laugh one more time. Please, I say. Please, I scream, and I scream until my voice gives out and the neighbors look through flicking curtains to find the banshee, but all that I hear is the taunting silence of the universe.

4. My heart and fingers turn into a velvety cobalt blue, and it slowly travels until I am blue all over, from the tips of my hair to the nails of my feet, and I play with fire to drive it away, and I play with sharp objects to cut it away, but even the scabs that form are blue, and the scars left behind are blue. I don’t think it will ever go away, I’m a girl of blue ice who can never get to fire in time ever again.

5. My heart is the palest shade of copper now, and I know I’m not the first person the universe has thrown off the edge of the world. I know I will not be the last. Life will forever go on as it always has because we’re just tiny ideas occupying borrowed space in the void of the universe, and that’s exactly how it is supposed to be.


Image taken from here.

Dumb Charades.

I wonder darling, some days when you sit beside me as we continue this charade of ours, do you hear my jaws as they grind together hard enough to resemble rusty machinery that cannot be made to function again, no matter how much oil is poured into its ancient joints? Do you look at me from the side of your eye, and see a statue of hollow stone, and can you hear my heart as it beats against its stone prison as hard as ever, begging to be let free? Can you see how the thorns stick into my bloody back from these thrones of ours? Do you feel the heat of the flames that lap at my feet, threatening to melt this girl of ice and snow, or do you admire how they reflect in my black eyes instead?
Do you even see the blood as it drips from where my nails have cut into my palms too deep, do you notice the crimson stains as they grow slowly on the arms of these seats that provide no rest in all their glory?
You used to say you could hear my words before they even left my mouth, but these days, why can’t you feel my screams as they rise from my gut, only to die in my throat?

I wish I had known before, ruling in hell isn’t all it is made out to be.

The Difference Between Saying And Believing.

The worst part about missing you isn’t when I spend all night tossing and turning because your voice is getting hazy now, or when I come across our pictures that I haven’t had the courage to delete yet, it’s when I throw my head down in the middle of class because my eyes are suddenly filled again and my head is hurting, my heart is hurting, and I cannot care what the uses of bleach are because it feels like I’ve been swallowing mouthfuls of it all day when in fact, it was just the boy sitting across from me who twirled his pencil in his hands like you used to.

It’s when I see you in strangers and suddenly I’m a wreck and it’s when I can’t seem to swallow because the words I never yelled as you walked away are still stuck in the lump between my mouth and my heart and they’re in my windpipe now choking me and my mother is looking at me with worry but I can see the pity hidden behind it too as I puke my guts out because the hole in my middle just keeps getting bigger and bigger and some days I can’t even form a proper sentence because all my words come out jumbled and between every word is a you, hidden and twisted like every lie and unanswered question.

The worst part of missing you is the fact that I hate myself for it because you were the one who left me here and I should be forgetting you and lord, I feel so stupid because you probably haven’t even thought about me in past two months maybe but I’m still here hung up on words I didn’t say and god I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and maybe if I repeat it enough I will start to believe it too.

Dancing With Devils.

I needed you more than you ever thought I did, but my love, would knowing ever have made a difference in how you pushed me to the side? Would it have reduced the miles between us?

Or would it have made you proud to see me going on as if you never meant a thing?

These days go by in a haze, and heaven is a place on earth without you, my dear, but I always cared more for fallen angels, remember?

I smile at trees and giggle at cars passing by the roads I walk, lost in the past and uncaring of the present, I dive into daydreams of nostalgia headfirst, giving in to the temptation of listening to you laugh one more time even if it’s all just in my head; how could I not, when it’s all I have left of you now, bits and pieces of rusty memories? Yes, I’ve been living in the past for too long now, but how could I not, when that’s where all my favorite people are, where you are, and all our memories are?

See, you’re not the devil, because he’s the one I’m dancing with, and it might be that all he wants is my soul but at least he has the charm to act like he cares. All you wanted was to rip me apart, and you didn’t even bother trying to hide it, you were so consumed by trying to prove me wrong when I said I saw something good left in you.

So why is it that I’d rather it was you dancing me towards hell?

I Will Not Apologize.

The sun apologizing for burning too bright,
It has never been heard of;
The moon apologizing for days when it must hide away,
It has never been heard of;
The stars apologizing for their incessant twinkling,
It has never been heard of;
The clouds apologizing for veiling the sky’s blue with their cottony embrace,
It has never been heard of;
The mountains apologizing for marring the earth with their magnificence,
It has never been heard of;
The sea apologizing for churning too chaotically;
It has never been heard of;
Why then, my dear,
Must I apologize
For burning as bright as the sun,
And then hiding away like the moon,
For eyes that twinkle like the stars,
But are veiled the very next moment,
For standing tall and magnificent,
With tornadoes raging inside me,
Why must I apologize for my greatness,
When I was born with universes inside of me,
Bursting to be let out?
And if it is too much for you to take in,
I will not apologize for being who I am,
You can go waste your time away
You can go
Find another puppet.


Image taken from here.

Old Times’ Sake.

If you must act so insolently

Just because my blue skies

Are now grey thunderstorms

You cannot bear the sound of,

Please continue,

Only remember that even today,

If you were to hand me a cup of poison,

I would gladly drink it for old times’ sake.


Painting: “Sophonisba Receiving the Poisoned Cup” by Rembrandt.