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beti

Maa makes a salan for each son

because they like different things

 

but the beti needs to learn to make her own food

kyun ki uski age pe shaadi aur bachey hotey hain

 

larka jaan per be jaiy, jaise bi rai

maa ankh band karke osko kabi kuch boley gi nahi

 

beti aik galti kare

uski izzat zaban per aja ti hai

 

the sons can go out and party get a girl pregnant

but they’ll still be able to move on and find a good girl to marry

 

the girl stays out a bit later than 8 pm

might wear a t-shirt,

and the whole mohalla is calling her a slut, saying she’s no longer a virgin

 

truth is

we don’t love our girls as much as our sons

 

truth is

you have failed us girls

 

truth is

us girls are tired of walking on eggshells

of being thrown around, walked all over

and expected to have sabr

 

kehte hain betiyaan sab se bari rehmat hain

toh aaj hum ko kyun torey ho

 

Picture Credit: @thepakistanimarthastewart

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A dance in the dark

Now I find myself dancing
to the frantic beat of my heart
at the threshold of judgment
desperate for a figment of
something positive, warm
but realise that I’m shackled
by cynical negations, galore.
Here demons wear masks
of noblemen and kings
and brandish their swords
Continue reading A dance in the dark

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Rest and Shine

 

She lie on the bed; belly down and naked from head to toe.  An ear to the mattress.  And an ear to the wind from an open window.  Her backside adorned with earned stripes – lightening strikes, winding Redwood roots, umbilical cords etched to her hips.  And to his eyes.  He dared not guess if the sun was setting or rising.  But he knew…that it’s rays were finally learning how to illuminate themselves. Continue reading Rest and Shine

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The Aftermath by Samihah Pargas

I often wondered if you were as sad as I was after you walked away. It pained me to say that perhaps you were not, and one day I had to let my hope dissipate. This is where I walk now, on the road taking me further away from you and any dreams I held onto. I stopped by the ocean for a while and tried to drop your name into the water, but I might as well have drowned myself because you were still inscribed all over me. Continue reading The Aftermath by Samihah Pargas

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Apologies

The world heard your sorrowful apologies
the one with the tears
how you truly meant it wouldn’t happen again

 

I heard the lies
I heard the sorry that really was saying
I really don’t mean any of this crap
I just don’t want to look like the bad guy
I really meant to do all that shit
and I will continue it

 

Because we both know
you hated for anyone to
tell you what to do

 

I heard your plastic words
I heard you slither
I felt the stab with every
pathetic apology of yours

 

I heard your abuse
I heard your ego crush a bit
I heard you fake cry
I heard you lie

 

I heard the true you
through the mask

 

I heard what I was trying to quit

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I am Eternal…for the Time being

The poetry of my life is, in effect,

the rejection I have learned to endure.
(It’s a beautiful thing, coping with tears,
sucking them in, then breathing and living again)
Every hour, at least, I think to myself:
What is next for me to create.
And there’s always a mess, some state,
more or less, of constant re-arranging
and deciding what to keep and what to throw away.
I’ve had luck, close calls, that’s for sure,
things that have swung this way, not that.
I’m still pulsing, still breathing,
got a scar or two for the show,
and I ache but the drink helps with that.
I grizzle and belch, got a miserable frown
sometimes I stare into space and just rest
and empty my thoughts except for this one:
I have no idea what any of this means.
But why must it have meaning, a human construct,
like time, or money, or words.
It is what it is, that’s all it can be
whatever it is, to begin.
Fuck me, I’m flailing, I often intone,
as I snap back to the clunking machine.
There’s work to be done, the wheels need a grease
and the money certainly doesn’t grow on trees.
At night, when my eyes start to shut
and the breeze filters through the dark,
the earth keeps turning and
the fires of home and heart still burn.
I sleep, hope to dream, safe with the thought
that the day always seems to come back around.
I am eternal…for the time being.
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Bitch, Anxiety.

I am tired of being sad. I just want to be fucking awesome. How in the fuck do you do that? I think it just comes to a point, when you are like fuck it. I am doing this. It is happening. If others don’t like it, they can suck it. I am sick of being PC. I legit spent over 20 years being hella proper. Okay, I am still proper. I like to swear though. I think it’s funny. So any fucking way…

I am tired of being sad. I don’t want to apologize for ever feeling sad ever. I think it’s awesome to feel. I think it is outstanding to be so moved that you move yourself into a depression. Only because there is an opportunity for a silver lining. When you’ve dug out of the muck and mire, there is hope. It is a beautiful sunshine minus the troll at the end with gold. You brush off your knees and think, “I made it. “ You went through hell to get to Heaven.

I am a lady with high anxiety. Oddly enough I am letting my fear of virtually everything drive me. So many people think that could be a bad strategy. Well if you have anxiety you totally get it. You get so nervous that you utter, “Fuck it.” That situation was your breaking point. I don’t know what it feels like to not be nervous. I wouldn’t trade my over sensitivity to stimulus for anything. It has literally taken me to Paris, Berlin and Sweden for some strange reason.

My stress self-exploits have recently brought me back to art. Creativity my haven from childhood. I am throwing my 1st exhibition and…

Well you’ll have to wait for the rest.

xoxoxo,

Christina

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Not Perfect

I’m not perfect.
Although that should be clear as water, sometimes I feel the need to state it. For myself and for others. Especially for others. It is probably my fault and in my actions. It’s probably something I do or don’t do. It’s probably because of the way I see the world and how I speak of it.
I am not perfect.
And I get tired.
And I give up too.
There are so many things I have given up and not looked back. There are so many things I have looked back but not regretted. There are so many things I regret too.
It’s entirely human. I believe.
Being a mess of so many things, not only good, not only bad, but everything. Not black or white but fifty shades of blue. And some purple, once you wear those rose colored glasses. On holidays. Or those real good days.
The days you hold on to with everything you got to keep moving forward. To keep moving. Even if only an inch or less. Even if to the sides or back. Just moving. Because life is made of movements, moments, actions and decisions you never really got to think through.
Life happens. But I digress.
I’m not perfect. And that’s fine. It’s entirely human, I believe.
What about you?
© Máh Lima


Photo by Ahmed Ashhaadh on Unsplash

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Road by Jess Saunders

The road between society and I have grown far apart
I’ve gotten lost more than once on my journey
On this path that has hills and trick pathways
Hills too steep for my strength and pathways that have lead me to unknown places
; sometimes good, sometimes bad

Continue reading Road by Jess Saunders

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Neon, Neon by Jessi Harrison

Meet me at the crossroads, he says. Bring ice, & everything that’s holding

you back.  I find myself whispering knots, & anchors, & harmful

transgressions into cubes, & throwing them into oncoming traffic.

The cars run over all the things you need to empty, & scatter them

in new directions. This is how beginnings start.

 

I am hot as a shot of whiskey. The beer flush  on my cheeks like I am not

From a drinking state. Like I have never run barefoot in the snow from the bar

after having one too many tequila shooters on NYE, breast boosted like I could keep

up with the boys. The boys who only ever wanted to see how long, or how much

it took to get the layers off.  There must be a body under there somewhere.

Speculation the only concrete an imagination has in the middle of 40 degrees below

on January nights.

 

This is how we make ourselves, he says,eyes green as jungle jade. We like to sit across

from each other & measure the amount of restraint we carry. I like to play with fire.

He likes to get burned. There is symbiosis in every aspect of fuck.

 

Do not whisper God’s name, he says as his hands hold my throat. I am so bored, I say. No,

you are tragic. He holds his thumb around my esophagus, his digits imprinting their physicality in bruises. I have never felt closer to dying. I have never felt so alive. I choke on all the usual

moans. Don’t be simple, he says. That’s what’s boring. Who fucking wants ordinary? Ordinary,

is for housewives & fuckboys who think their decisions in life are special. Special, is for second

place ribbons. You, are a trophy case. Polish yourself clean in all your glory.

 

There is nothing but distance between words. The flicker of neon. The clack of misguided

boots down a sawdust hall. The clock measures moments we cannot digest. I cannot hold liquor,

or a conversation like I used to. Like I so mistakenly desire.

 

He speaks, soft as morning, of a light I do not see.  Of a beauty I have never known.

The night is blacker than blindness. Watch the sky. Measure how the stars dance. What

does it take to tango? Where do you learn moves like that? Winter closes in with each breath.

I am not ready for the cold,  I tell him with soaked intent. Darling, no one ever fucking is.

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Harvest by Rania D.

O birds of hope
don’t flock to migrate
Winter’s approaching,
a less hurried gait
Let’s pick our crops
soft and mellow
Before joys rust
and turn to yellow
We’ll gather grins,
plum and ripen
No squandered tears,
ample dreams brighten
Our diligent pursuit,
we’re creatures awake
For when life’s frost bites,
survival hibernates
Let’s tap and dance
in a feast of harvest
while the scarlet disc
gives in to darkness
The sun shall tilt
dropping her last golden locks
The mist will fill
to chill empty docks
Perched larks of glee,
chirp for me till dawn
Sweet songs to echo
through a season forlorn.
By Rania D.