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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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Broken bones.

He graced me with a perfect smile upon his face

As he placed the most magical kiss lips can taste

Mending all my broken bones together

His presence couldn’t be detained by any weather

All of the bullet wounds surrounding my heart

Reminding me of the way I fell apart

Love will send your mind spiraling in the dark hours of the night

Reminiscing on all of the times you had to put up a fight

Demanding for him to stay

Yet all they tend to do is begin to run away

That is why our magnificent kiss haunts me in my dreams

Sadly love never is the way it seems

As much as I hoped this time would be different

I know deep in my core that it isn’t

I watch as the spot in my driveway remains empty

As you continue to love on plenty

Leaving them wondering deeply in their souls

Why their minds were left souring from their control

They fell for your same tricks

That you applied just as smoothly as the kiss you placed upon my lips

I knew I should of ran from the start

My mother always told me I was smart

I still am baffled in the way you managed to get under my skin

Why do people like you always have to win?

But I have learned my lesson this time around

As the scars you left on me are no longer profound

I will soon be ready to love again

As I no longer view my broken bones as a sin.

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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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blk woman/holy woman

( photo by graham hunt via unsplash )

blk woman.
holy woman.
more soil than flesh—
hips shaking in the juke joint woman.
sunday morning high notes with
pot liquor and cornbread woman.
mothering woman.
chasing love in a field,
turning more scar than flower—
more, never less than woman.
yet, still seeing god woman.
you are here woman.

—you are holy, black woman

 

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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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Rural by Jessica Hite

dirt roads.
redder than the blood
that spilled to make them.
glistening dark skin
pressed against
rich, white cotton.

sunday picnic baskets.
the finest leisure day clothes,
black bodies drifting
in the summer breeze.

an orange rolled
every morning
by withered black hands.
a sweetness to cast off
the sour of sickness.

too many mouths;
not enough chicken
or eggs or vegetables.
only cents, instead of dollars.
the living not shared—only cropped.

anywhere but here.
pack up and head north.
where nigger is negro,
still bitter and stinging,
but manageable.

long car rides
to grandmother’s house.
ten kids to two rooms,
but we complain about six.

still dirt roads.
strange fruit has
rotted to the ground.
now bullets chase
black bodies
along with the summer breeze.

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Everything Chases the Sun by Chris Eyes

Everything chases the sun

The temptation is towards silence

but the noise always seems to win.

I yearn to empty my days of everything but you.

I’ll be burnt but I accept the scars.

See, morning is nothing without a dream to chase,

but while the waste of a generation fades

and days wait only for the moonlight,

my world illuminates in the dark,

where death is a spark,

a spike to the heart,

when all is unsaid,

and the hunger is fed

I contemplate greed

and the silence becomes nothing but a reason to bleed.

The ink is a seed

and everything chases the sun.

– Chris Eyes

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What poetry is to me by Ayesha Noor

poetry is

the exorcist of my demons

the water that puts out the fire in my mind

the surgeon that stitches the shredded pieces of my soul back together

the angel on my shoulder that keeps the devil from ruining me irrevocably

Continue reading What poetry is to me by Ayesha Noor

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If You Come, Love

Love,
if you come knocking at my door
turn the knob and enter
this time I won’t answer
I’m tired of rushing to greet only to get disappointed.

Love,
I’m sorry for giving up right on your turn
it’s unfair of me to judge you
based on the actions of the ones before
or their lack thereof.

Love,
it’s ok to make yourself at home
get acquainted with the lonely rooms
pay attention to where the shadows form
I’m tired of providing only sun
and blooming when there’s no one to care for.

Love,
if after all this you decide to stay
if despite all this you still want to make home
my heart is yours to tame
my soul is yours to love.

Love,
one last word of advice, though
beware of full moons.
The tides get high
and I’d hate to drown you too.

© Máh Lima


Photo by Albert Dera on Unsplash