a poem about you
i don’t want this poem
to be about you but lately
nothing makes sense to me
except for your name
and how it feels like
a psalm on my tongue.
i don’t want this poem
to be about endings
but all i want to talk about
is how much i miss you
and how i still hope
that you’re coming back.
all my friends
are tired of this situation
but i tell them
that there are
alternate universes where
you loved me back,
and maybe this isn’t one of them.
sometimes, it feels like
nothing is ever going to change
so this is a poem, indeed about you,
about when you held me close
about how you bastardized the idea of love,
i despise you.
this is a poem about you.
i wish it wasn’t.
there is no vacancy here. you've come and gone so many times that i've let you turn this home
into a hotel room. i let myself become an overgrown garden of weeds to watch you grow.
there have been days, when i had to pinch myself on the hands until they tingled, just to make
sure i was alive. but you don't know how to keep your hands to yourself.
so today, you'll be in love with this girl from the internet
and tomorrow, you'll be in love with that girl from the internet.
and then you would call me, to say how you would never look me in the eye but two seconds
later, you'd be masturbating to one of your girls telling her how this'll be your dirty little secret.
because you've never learnt how to differentiate love from lust.
and so, you'll always keep her right where you can see her.
but never where you could hold her.
6 texts i’m not sending you
1. i don’t have a name for what was happening between us,
but i liked it. it felt real and warm and good.
2. i miss you so much it feels like i’m nauseating.
3. sometimes i still wake up in tears in the middle
of the night because in a dream i remembered
what it felt like when you held me.
4. loving you is the most natural thing i have ever felt.
5. it’s been nearly a year since we met. you
still find new ways to let me down. i think it
impresses me more than it wounds.
6. i’m tired but i’m trying not to be bitter.
i promise i am.
lihaaf (n.) a quilt, comforter, or the feeling of comfort
he holds me more like a promise and less like a grudge
now and again i savor the feeling of having his eyes on me
he makes me believe that the sun only rises because i give it a reason to
i love how i am the best of me when i am with him
even though he makes my heart race at a pace my body can’t keep up with
i love how my breath just feels easier around him
WOMEN OF COLOR
we are the daughters
of ancestors with sculpted cheeks
and brown skin
soft eyes, filled with kindness
but minds sharp enough to slit throats.
sold their bodies to marriage
they were used
yet, they kept their souls
ruthless and unapologetic,
they held sacrifice in their blood
and survival in their veins.
you may try
to steal our voices away
but we come from power
and you cannot
take that away from us.
allow the universe
to help you grieve.
feel the sun, reaching out for your face in the morning
hear the birds sing for you,
the songs of starvation
and those of sacrifice.
learn from the grass
how to grow back again
after being stepped on.
press your feet to the ground
and feel the soil there
it has always loved you.
listen to the wind blowing
it says you will love again.
step out in the rain
and lay your palms open
that even when
you are hurt like this
you belong here.
you have always belonged here
this place needs you.
MEDHA SHARMA: I am a 20 y/o writer, based in India. My art is an extension of my passion for truth, vulnerability, authenticity, and healing.
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Author: Medha Sharma
Editor: Lydia S.
Graphic Design: Shompole, N.L.
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