Tears pour down my face like Autumn rain, my heart bleeds profusely from the wounds you inflicted within me.
Distraught, thoughts of all the other women that climbed ontop of you spin through my mind like a carousel. All the women who were inbetween the arms I called a home, all the women underneath the body I called a lover.
You scold at me to stop, but I can’t escape what could of been.
Your rebuke does not sting like your dishonesty, but I know I am not insane nor am I paranoid.
I am just sick, sick to death of being hopelessly in love with you.
And just like that I was thrown away and forgotten.
We all sit around the dinner table.
Some placid, some temperamental, some simply lost in thought.
Pessimism smirks at me, ”I told you so”, he spits arrogantly from across the table, peering over at the vulnerable.
Anxiety fidgets at the edge of her seat as she agrees, ”I knew it, he’s always right”. Slowly she slips away into a trance of destructive overthinking and self blame.
Anger’s eyes pierce through me, his silence dangerous.
I sink into my seat as sadness continues to gnaw away at me.
Hope gently places her warm, wrinkled hand on mine as she leans in beside me, ”You did your best beloved”.
Anger and Pessimism erupt into laughter, Anxiety frantically shakes her head ”No you didn’t!”.
Love stares blankly at the plate in front of her, reminiscing on the endless endearments she whispered and fond kisses she gifted generously. She turns to give me a faint smile to reassure me.
Depression quietly picks at her plate, slouched in her chair at the end of the table. Terrified at the sight of her I turn away.
That’s enough for tonight.
I blow out the candle and call it a night.
My lighthouse has guided you through your darkest nights. Even when dim I have always been alight. Yet that has never sufficed, alas my love it is now time to turn off my light.
I hum your favourite lullaby for the final time as I close the gates of our white picket fence. Nostalgia sighs, what wonderful play dates we had during our time, in this secret garden of mine.
Fatigue and I lay side by side reminiscing the nights spent by your side; snoring and conversations to last a lifetime.
I have replenished your scars with my lips and etched fine poetry across your skin with every kiss. An artist who has completed her favourite masterpiece, never moving on to the next.
And if you ever ask yourself ‘who will replace my Sun?’ remind yourself of the days you went by without looking up at the sky, only remembering my importance and yearning for me during the nights.
This piece signifies the end of a chapter, the end of a collection. I have compiled little hints and extracts from all my recent pieces.
I opened my legs for disrespect to slither inbetween them.
I laid on a bed that wasn’t my own, to be spoken to like I have no home.
I gave away my most precious gift to give a man a sense of possession.
But all this did was teach me a lesson; I am a whore, I am a whore.
No matter what I wore or however much I swore to the almighty lord, he thinks I am nothing but a whore.
“Shams”, the arabic word for sun. (Pronounced Sham-ss)
The sun smiles down at me and I frown back. The air is fresh but it feels like my lungs have collapsed as nostalgia firmly wraps around my respiratory tract. I sit by the window and watch the trees sway in the breeze, reminiscing on days like these when it was just you and me.
I wonder if you’re smiling under the sun, the sound of your sweet laughter filling the air. I wonder if you’re squinting at the light, blissful without a care. I sit by the window and watch the trees sway in the breeze, wondering if you miss me on days like these.
My body aches and my bones feel brittle.
My limbs feel weak and my face has shrivelled.
But it was worth every sleepless night to watch you sleep throughout the night.
If you cage a bird that does not belong to you or does not want to stay, even in a locked cage it will find a way to fly away.
If you hold on to someone that is not meant to be yours or does not want to stay, eventually you will have to part ways.
What is meant to be yours will always find its way back to you, no obstacle can prevent a blessing that is meant to stay.
I miss the smell of your cigarette stained finger tips, the way the scent would linger under my nose as you stroked my lip.
I crave your nicotine drenched kiss, I need my fix.
I place a cigarette inbetween my lips, but it doesn’t have the same kick, nicotine tastes better when it’s off your lips.
The curves of my body sink into the springs of the mattress. Before I can close my eyes she starts to tug my hair. I try to nudge her off with my shoulder but she’s persistent. With all her force she pulls for my attention, I can feel each strand of hair latching onto their roots. I cave in. I turn to lay on my back and her whispering starts. Her warm breath tickles my ear as she whispers, filling the canals of my ear with worries and doubts. They make their way inside my skull and carelessly papier-mâché provocative scenarios that evoke nothing but a sense of foreboding and unshakeable angst.
I push her off the bed and nestle under the blanket. She tugs off the blanket with all her force and gently wraps me in a thick blanket of insecurity, I’m suffocating. She’s clasped their bony fingers around my throat and I can feel the air escape my trachea. My chest tightens as her weight pushes down on me and I can feel it slowly crushing me. I plead with her to stop, she rolls off and lays beside me, I gasp for air and I face her.
And there she lays, my anxiety. I try to sooth her but running my fingers gently through her hair doesnt stop her eyes from tearing up with fear. She implores me to try find an answer for every question, every worry, every doubt she has. I cup her face in my hands and try to reassure her the best that I can. But she still asks the same questions and seeks reassurance for the same doubts.
We lay there, both petrified for hours, until the sun starts to rise and she’s done for the night. – S.Alaa
I never love, to be loved.
I love because I love to love.
However, the tragedy strikes when I am told I am loved, because then I expect to always be loved. – S.Alaa