{Words By Anas Nin, From The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz From Diagnosis,The

{Words by Anaïs Nin, from The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz from diagnosis,The glimmering room}

being lost feels so hollow my anchor's gone. i drove him away sent a piece of my heart in each of the letters its cracked and bruised and forgotten now your words stayed with me forever either casting an ethereal glow or leaving bloodstains that mark me i've hurt and i've bled by your hand but your hand was the one that held mine too no matter how much i try i can't help going back to you got lost and found again, but the scars stayed forever couldn't find myself again, lost in the darkness you held my hand all okay, super spy, crazy together, i love you, so do i burnt from the fire that took the darkness out you don't know it, but you healed me more than the doctors ever could best thing, cool, cool, lost you, not the same, we're friends destroyed the one place i felt safe my happiness will be my own demise disappearance, out of body experience, teenage angst i've experienced it all my life is a parody of icarus' fall your words stayed with me forever mine didn't reach you at all

the el counterpart

the mike counterpart

A rusty almirah may hold

no importance to any,

But it was his favourite.

It belonged to his inamorata.

It stood in the corner

Beside his bed, governing.

The magenta colour blazing

in the dimly lit, dusty room.

Every saree in the almirah,

a colourful page of their life.

He'd run his fingers through

the soft material, gratified.

In his days of strength

He complained, repeatedly

When she stood in front of

The almirah deciding on her attire.

The stickers had decided to

stay longer on the skin of it,

Some scraped and some attached

Each telling about a trend then.

In his claustrophobic life,

The almirah stored contentment.

The key to it too; held a sweet

Monochrome picture of his wife.

He'd sometimes stand still in front

Of the mirror of the almirah

looking deep within as if

He could meet her eyes through.

The rusted handle cold,

much like when he last

held her hand tight with

no absolute warmth or pulse.

Now grey with weakness,

He only wishes the almirah

To stay by his side, making

up for his late wife's presence.

-Umme Ayman.

Nayyirah Waheed, from Nejma

[Text ID: “all the women. / in me. / are tired.”]

I remember the itch to grow up,

To be strong and tall 

like everyone else in their lives.

Shift to the portal of future

that held only bright light and nothing else.

At that time, I didn't believe in tragedy, 

The galaxy in my eyes blinded it away.

For I was just a child aiming at the moon,

With no worry of the past and present 

I only know the moon and it's dreams.

The school days were a breeze,

My childhood, a well lit summer.

I didn't see the hurt in the olders

or the treachery in their shadows.

I just spoke, spoke my heart out.

But the path to the light was so endless,

So long and exhausting with experiences,

With no shade and no arm to lean on.

It hurt, with the realisation of nothingness 

And the dejection of reality.

I, now itch to go back in time,

Steal the deluded, innocent memories 

And orbit them in my mind, until the reel 

is torn and the reality fades,

But my conscious wants to at least let 

the happiness linger with younger me.

If not her, then who else?

Deserving more to keep high the expectations,

to cling onto a deserving future.

Deserving more to feel the warmth in cold tiles

Because I see her and can't help but think I was her.

~ Umme Ayman.