The dinner table

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.

– S.Alaa

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Glass-heart

These ankles are still bruised from the shackles that had held me prisoner to this bed, after you left. My depression and I had lay side by side as hours turned into days, days into nights, sunsets to sunrise.

This hollow chest of mine still echoes out your name, like a wolf howling for the night’s light. My sadness and I had lay side by side caressing each other till these sad, swollen eyes were soothed into another sleepless night.

The chambers of this heart have thickened and scarred, since the day we’ve been apart. I should of been more careful with this glass-heart. – S. Alaa

 

A childish lover

Tantrums were thrown when fed his mistakes.

A restless game of Tag, his ego loved to be chased.

Hid his emotions in fear of looking weak, a daunting play of hide and seek.

Finally, when it was my turn to be chased, he wailed “No, I don’t want to play”.

– S. Alaa

Oppressive Gentleman

How sweet of him to tell me what I can and cannot wear.

How sweet of him to pull down my top when other men stare.

“It’s only because I know what they’re thinking, you know it’s ‘cause I care”.

How sweet of him to blame me despite covered head to toe.

How sweet of him to punish me for any inch of flesh I’ve shown.

How sweet of him to teach me, it’s not oppression, it’s just respect I must show.

How sweet of him to blame these curves that baggy t-shirts cannot conceal.

I am so grateful for this self-loathing he makes me feel.

I hope one day my mother’s love will help me heal. – S. Alaa

This is not love.

The countless times I would pour out my heart to the ones who were dearest to me, only to have my feelings thrown back in my face. Tell me lover, was it worth it? Was it worth the momentarily satisfaction of power?

The countless occasions I spent chasing undeserving lovers who intentionally hurt me and denied every ounce of responsibility. Tell me lover, is your ego well fed now? Was it worth taking my restless effort for granted, to fulfil your childish grudge?

The haikus and poems I wrote comparing your sad, angry eyes to the beautiful constellation of stars that blanket over us are no longer there to decorate the truth: You did not deserve me. No longer oblivious by the infatuation I once had to see you never have known my worth and you never will.

All the kind words and softness you took for granted. All the pleading and apologies you took for granted. Indoctrinated by your anger and bitterness, a pathetic attempt to play a godly role to punish me, instead you lost out on me, lover.

I pity you, for your fear of looking weak by uttering the words “I love you” or “I am sorry”, have done nothing but left you lonely. Weakness is in the inability to express love and honesty in fear of losing the upper hand. There is no shame in telling someone you need them. There is no shame in admitting you were wrong. Let them know that the sound of their voice still lingers in your ear. Let them know that you’re yearning to feel their warmth in your arms. Let go of the stubborn mask that you all hide behind.

Shame on you if you let them go and call it love.

Shame on you if your pride outweighs their importance to you, that is not love.

Shame on you if you desire them yet torment them out of anger and bitterness.

That is not love.

This is not love. – S. Alaa