The piece I wrote is very short, it's in the form of a diary entry commenting on the lack of freedom of speech in my country, Bahrain and how although I'd like to work in politics after I graduate next semester, I don't think I can.
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The flowers you gave me withered away — along with your claims of love for me. I widened my eyes to you, asking you to look at me: not just the illustration of my body. Instead, you imagined me away. Putting a shadow over me that darkened the brightness of me.
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Sometimes I lie in bed and fantasize about Death. I know Death must be a woman, her loving caress is much too gentle and controlled to be the heavy hand of a man. If I close my eyes and lay still enough, I can see Death. I wonder when she will come for me, and why it has not been sooner. Like all beautiful things, Death is cruel. Death plays with patience and toys with sorrow. Once I stole my mother's garden shears, and I considered forcing Death's hand. I should have known Death would not be a compassionate lover, but rather a heartbreaker.
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people who love me as long as i’m a good lesbian
people who love me as long as i don’t point out
that it’s a privilege to hold hands in public
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I will never be her, but I am like you: kissed by the sun, darker than night, built with strength and joy.
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This poem is about growing out of an abusive relationship. Moving in stanzas from grief and reliance on the abusive partner, self-blame and questions, but eventually develops into growth, acceptance, and understanding.
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My mother didn’t respond. She simply walked back inside and dead-bolted the door behind her. She stood behind the locked door and looked into my eyes. I could not tell you what she was hoping she would find. I myself searched every inch of her body for some sort of compassion or motherly love, something to give me a reason to still love her. She walked away before I could find what I wanted.
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I wrote this poem after having a good cry about missing my friends and my pre-quarantined life. It has been extra hard on my mental health, but writing out my woes always gives me some solace and comfort.
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“I often regret the anger I harbored for my mother. Yet, I still cannot let it go. I have eaten anger for dinner for so many nights, it is all that's left in my stomach. I have washed my hair with anger for so long, it is now permanently woven into the braids of my hair. I have taken my tea with anger for years now, I am no longer pleased with just sugar. I am not sure how I would live without anger. How could I forgive my mother and give away my anger when I know there will be nothing left of me after?”
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they warned me about growing pains in preteen years
about sore legs and aching breasts
but there were never dos and don’ts for the time i tossed and turned til three
wishing my sexuality was something i could sleep on
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In my second year of university, I lived by myself. I woke up with no one beside me, went to lectures alone with the fear of having to speak, and fell asleep with a mind that never rested. This string of haikus is meant to represent the anxiety and fear I felt every day during my morning, my evening, and my night.
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“This poem means a lot to me because it was written at a time I felt my most vulnerable. I believe this piece will help other people who’ve gone through a similar situation feel less alone. Although it was painful to write, as it is painful to read, I do hope others can find a sense of relief and peace, that they might not have found during their time of grievance.”
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your mind has become plagued, filled with questions
thinking of the endless possibilities of who you are and who you want to be.
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'Where are you from?' she asks
and I hear the accusation in her voice
Today is the first time I realize that English has its own inner translations to be deciphered
Eg: ‘Where are you from?’
-- Translation: Why don't you look like me? --
-- Translation: Why are you here? --
Inspired by Vietnamese-American poet and essayist Ocean Vuong, specifically, his piece Notebook Fragments featured in his poetry collections Night Sky with Exit Wounds.
“Should I become a doctor? No. I don’t want to go to medical school. Maybe I could be a scientist? I hate chemistry. A writer? I don’t think my family would want that. Possibly an accountant? Definitely not.”
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