Red.

Camouflaged confidence and disguised wishes,
Scratched nail paints and sunlit kisses,
Hued lips and blackened eyes,
A battle of infinite tries.


But not once, the perfect color,
Or the right word to utter,
A lipstick, a majestic dress,
In constant attempts to impress,
The world, that differentiates.


In the fear of being tyrannized,
I hesitate, and paint my lips with lies,
Of colors I loathe, abhor,
Pink, sometimes orange, or gold.


Not once, red, do I wear,
Is it, but a fear?
Of labels so appalling,
Grotesque image, oblivious falling.


Someday, I'll knit a poem,
Untangle the hidden rhyme,
And wear, the bold of all reds,
Despite of it, being a crime.

I am sorry. (A letter to martyrs of 16/12/14.)

Dear 141 departed ones,

I'm sorry. I had promised myself to help all the needy ones. I had promised myself that I won't let anyone suffer if I am nearby. I promised that I won't let anyone snatch away someone's smile if I am there. Unfortunately, I wasn't even aware of this massacre when it happened, even though I was in the same city.

Dear loved ones, I'm sorry that I thought about my brother first and shed tears and didn't think about all of you. But there was a reason, he mentioned death before leaving for school and it left me numb for hours. I don't know if this can justify my selfishness. I'm sorry.
During all this heinous bloodshed, when everyone of you were going through excruciating pain, both mentally and physically, I was calling my loved ones to ask them if they were okay. But I swear, I had no detail about all of this, I was stuck somewhere in the middle, with no access to media. If I knew, I might have at least prayed for you at that very hour when I came to know about this brutality. I am sorry.

Little ones, I cannot sleep at nights thinking about what you went through. I cannot imagine the fear you faced when the called your friends, your teachers and your bench-mates over to shoot them right in the head. We both know how nervous we get when we are called over for a quiz. But none of us knew how it feels to be called over for death. I think you do know now. I still don't know and I would never want to know.

When I am here, packed in these warm clothes, the first thing that clicks my mind is, "Are they warm enough?". I know all of you have anticipated this winter. I know APSACS looks magnificent when all of those bushes, trees and playgrounds are covered in fog. You surely would've seen that beauty in the morning, whilst holding the hand of your very dear friend, wearing your majestic green blazers and sweaters, maybe caps too. But was it cozy in there in that auditorium? Oh no, I cannot imagine how cold the floor would've been. I am really sorry, I am not brave enough like all of you. I hope you're awarded with a prize for this bravery, for this courage. But would that matter?

They say that your mothers have been crying because you didn't take your breakfast. I can imagine your mischievous smiles when mama would be running after you with your socks in one hand and a sandwich(or maybe paratha?) in other hand just to feed you. But you, as usual, went to school without having breakfast because the samosa and french fries taste better in the recess. Did you even make it to recess? Did your friends in auditorium tell you that they were hungry? Did you have peanuts in the hidden pocket of your blazer? I think you had those, but did it satisfy the hunger? Or did all the hunger die when you saw those men in black boots? I am sorry, I cannot eat anything imagining that you all didn't eat anything.

I am sorry, I couldn't even manage to light a candle because my father saw 150 dead bodies and he cannot afford to see us like that. Because my mother saw those ambulances carrying your friends to hospital. And all I am made to do is to stick to TV screens and pray for your friends who are injured.

But I swear I will light that hope up. Dear kids of my city, I won't let this sacrifice go in vain. I'll bring the swords down. I'll bring the guns down. I'll try to eradicate hate. I won't let anyone else be a victim of such sufferance. You all were heroes. Every story is an evidence of the heroism. 15 year old went back in school to save his loved ones. My 14 year old brothers took bullets on their chests. 12 year old asked his friend to play dead. These stories will never be forgotten. I will write them down in history. I will make you heard through my words.
You all are my heroes. I PROMISE, like those other promises, I won't break this one, I'm not going to forget any of you. They will pay for your blood. They will pay for making your mothers cry. They will pay for making you lie on that cold floor in this intense cold of Peshawar. APSACS will rise and shine again. The lost ones won't be forgotten. The sacrifices will be mentioned in every event that takes place. I love you all. And I am sorry. We will send more kids to the school. We will build 141 schools in your name. We will give thousand pens for every gun that is made.
-Sidra

In the name of those martyred on 16/12/14.

We shall rise again.

These candles being burnt in Pakistan are not just in the memories of those who embraced martyrdom. But this is igniting a new hope. We rose up again today. We are not paralyzed. Everyone went out and lit those up. The donation of blood was so much that my mother told me people ran out of those blood bags. My kids, my brothers, who are seriously injured are not scared and are enthusiastic to fight back. Those parents who lost their kids are proud of their kids who didn't give in to these bunch of cowards who attacked CHILDREN of my home. You know, when you burn a home, everyone builds it up and still lives in it? Yes, Peshawar is OUR home. And we will rebuild it with flowers and colors and paint it with our love and bravery. In Sha ALLAH. We'll educate more of our children. People are scared of coming to my city of flowers, people call us terrorists for following our cultural values, we're portrayed as terrorists in every movie. But there's one thing I'd ask. CAN TERRORISTS FIGHT BACK WITH SUCH BRAVERY? No. They do such acts of cowardice that involves defying lives of kids. They play with blood of innocents. They take away smiles of those young roses. US? We do not. We the natives of Peshawar provide our kids with books, we light their eyes up with hopes, we inject them with bravery to fight these inhumane creatures. 

This is a request to everyone who is reading this, DO NOT STOP YOUR KIDS FROM GOING TO SCHOOL. Let's all regather to rise again. Let's bring the "ronaq" of Peshawar back. Let's join our hands so the lives of Sohail, Yasir, Mubeen, Bilal, Yaseen, Aimal and those hundreds of kids and also those courageous teachers including Ms. Afsha and Ma'am Tahira Qazi who were martyred yesterday and were injured don't go in vain. PESHAWAR SHALL RISE AGAIN.

Picture credits: Layla Khattak.

Did we know?

"Amma?" Would she have heard,
When she was making his favorite dish,
Or a pain would she have felt?
When those lips were shot,
With which she was kissed.
Did she see it coming yesterday?
When she washed his uniform,
White and green in her hands,
Now bathed in blood and was torn.
Was it revealed, when he drove him to school,
"Baba, this green blazer isn't warm enough,
Maybe, we should get one of another wool",
Had she felt, when he said "I won't come home"
Because baba didn't give him enough money,
for the DSLR and his new phone.
Did he know, when he came off that bed,
And as usual, put in mama's lap, his head,
And told her how much he loved her,
For one last time, he hugged her.
Did we know, that "Bleed Green",
would soon turn into "Bleeding red",
And the hopes, in the sky, that reign,
would turn into ashes and dust?

Was it all a lie?

Massacre? I don't even know how to spell it.

Angels to take me to heaven? But, I only know about tooth fairies and that I WAS THE ANGEL.

Heaven? But wasn't that beneath mama's feet? 

Bullets? But that was what was yellow and round. Brother used to play with those.

Bombs? Aren't those what we blast on the occasions like Eid? They do not kill. Mama told us they just hurt our hands.

Was it all a lie? 

I won't forget.

"IQRA" written in their school? What God did they follow that they couldn't read "Fabe-ayi-aala-e-rabikuma-Tukazzebaan". What God, I ask? The auditorium that was full of naughty and nerdy kids one week ago was nothing but gun powder and stains of blood which were washed down but still, how many blood stains would you remove? The lawn draped in fog where they took a walk in winters was now having patches of red blood every where. I swear it's hard for me to paint this hell here, but I won't forget. Unlike all of you whose "LIFE GOES ON", mine doesn't. You would've changed your dp from black to colorful. You might be playing "babydoll" in Saddar while roaming around with your little kids, you might get tired of these posts and unfollow/unlike the pages named after martyrs because after one week it will become "A stunt for likes", I won't forget. Because I have seen a mother who had to see hundreds of dead bodies(Mind you! Hundred dead sons) to find her son's dead body. I've seen the teachers cry looking at the debris which was somewhere a school. I have seen those bags that do not belong to anyone. Hundreds of notebooks, pencil boxes, lunch boxes, all remain there. I have seen the notebooks placed on bags in the same way I used to put mine before going out. But the difference is I came back. They didn't. A burnt computer lab, empty classrooms, staff room having no staff but bullets, the whole administrative block burnt, blown up by the bomber, with wooden logs from the wall somewhere to the body parts of the teachers somewhere. I ask all of us, is it not enough to awaken our conscience? Do we forget such easily? Oh and please do not come up with your crappy "We cannot spend our lives just like that" because those families will spend their lives "JUST LIKE THAT".
I'd like to rebuild my APSACS. Yes, mine, no, I was a PMSian and an ISLAMIAN, but still, APSACS is mine, for I owe my life to ARMY. I owe my family's life to army. I would do any possible thing to help those. Maybe not financially because I do not want to spend what my father earns, that is his money, or maybe financially because I will utilize whatever I can to earn money for them(The poor ones), physically by being there for them, making them smile, and psychologically too. I hope I succeed in my mission. I won't forget this. Never.

Scraps.

Idea of love:

We sabotage ourselves in the hopes of something that doesn't truly exist, but is an idea that's more of a delusion, "love".
We merely live the life, that's supposed to be lived, just because we find solace in this idea and hence, we are hollow souls with regrets.


Beauty:

If I am to write about beauty, I'll write about plucked roses, dead butterflies, scratched nail paints and broken hearts. Do you know why? Because that's what beauty was. And we couldn't stand it. We couldn't tolerate it. And thus we killed it. We destroyed it.


Heaven:


Too often she was told that she is a pessimist. That there's so much darkness she plays with and she lets negativity nurture in her bleak world. But was it true? Even a part of it? Maybe the former part was. But not the latter one. After all, her whole life revolved around making heaven out of others' hell, even though her own world was an inferno.
She was told that she should stop existing in the world where others were non existent. But what good did existing in the world where everyone existed bring her apart from trains of sorrows and woes?

Escape:

Yearning,
an escape,
from this cavern,
of woe and misery,
to a place,
where the sky is,
not dark,
but not too bright,
with fog as a periphery,
with no birds chirping,
but also, no gloom.

Cold:

The cold inside me just outdid the cold outside. Now I know what blue is.

Tweets:

You were a part of my existence that I hadn't discovered.
You were a part of my existence I was not supposed to keep.

You could turn nightmares into dream.
But now,
You are my nightmare.

The world wasn't our enemy.
Our love was.

I've lost you only to find myself.

Let's play, like old days.
You be my candle, and I'll be a moth.

I wish I was strong enough to see blood.
Hurting you would have been my favorite game then.

What art thou upto?

Translation of a poem whose poet is not known to me. All the credit of this poem goes to the poet and I am just the translator of this beautiful piece.

Thou perform the religious pilgrimages,
yet suck the life out of people,
And take away what orphans have,
To go to masjid and temple,
Heart of thine needs knitting,
But you wear precious cloth and gem,
Never dost thou question thy conscience,
And in the name of God, sacrifice the cattle,
Mould the purest nooks of hearts,
Into impure alcove of putrescence,
Long forgotten what thine duties are,
Thou succumb to supererogation,
Oh sire, would you utter,
What art thou up to?

"I"

I, considered mysterious by some and deemed an open book by some.
I never write about myself. I cannot. I don't think anyone can measure the nervousness I'm feeling whilst writing this. Even though, my poetry and prose are my only solaces, it scares me to write about myself. That's the only reason all my diaries have white, empty pages. But I'm too tired of enduring this pain within my heart. I've to let it out. I've to breathe, for once. I've to let it out.
Narcissism is my favorite word in English literature, my definition of myself when I talk to people, but I never really got to taste this narcissism in myself. I lie about it. I've never really loved myself. I am selfish, yes, not a narcissist. I'm sorry for lying, I'm sorry to myself, I've believed in mirages for 19 years. I'd like to be a narcissist today. I'll write about myself. I will love myself for what I am, for once.
I'm going to use this place to vent, to rant and to whine.
Today, sitting in the balcony, looking at the dark winter sky, I realized that the parts of my soul are darker than this wide, bleak, oblivious sky. I've always believed that I'm weak at heart, I've believed that I give up, but I was wrong. Oh, how naive of me, for not even realizing who I am. Each star's fading light reminds me of my triumphs, every cloud sings the story of my victories, but I always chose to listen to this imbecile who told me I was weak. No, I'm not a loser. No one knows of the hardships I've gone through in the past one day, in the past one month, in the past one year, in the past 19 years. No one knows about the sips I took of the bitter life that was brewed in sorrows everyday. "You like the things that represent depression?", someone said this with a very uncertain look on her face, thinking I was a wannabe, trying to be cool with all the dark stuff I carry within myself.
No, I don't like the things that represent depression. I'm depression. Do you have any idea about what I go through everyday? Do you know how hard it is to wake up to the feeling of "nothingness" everyday? Do you know how it feels when you know that you don't have a future? That no one is going to love your existence one day for the abnormalities you were born with? No, you clearly don't. I do. It's been 3 years that I'm living with the bitter realities that no one, but I, know of. It's been 16 years that I first realized what sharing is. I'd to share the love of my life, my only hero with someone I hated. It's been 8 years that I first came to know about how this is a male dominant society. "Ssshh, Sidra you won't utter a word about this, no, or you'll bring shame to us and everyone, no, please, I beg you."
The age, where probably I was going to experience my first heart break like everyone, I'd learnt to get over it. My life's very hasty, the revelation of everything before time and the unwanted surprises proved it. The age where I was to cry about how I lost my dolls, I experienced the worst heartbreak. No, someone didn't ditch me, it was worse than that.
I lost my faith in everyone, men, women, brothers, family.
Then, I came to know about something that changed my life forever, and I'm living with that change, and I've to live with that change. "DO YOU LIKE DEATH? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?", if I share my views on death, I'm showered with this question . Yes, I love death, and it's probably the only thing I love. And I'll answer it for you today. It's easier to die than to live with a curse forever. It's easier to embrace the soil than embracing the shattered pieces of yourself everyday.
3 years back, I was diagnosed with depression. My parents thought it's the hormonal changes, my friends thought someone broke my heart, I thought I was going to die. I thought I was going to die. I think I'm going to die. I am not dying.
I'm not dying, yes. And I've lived this truth everyday. I won't die. There's no good in self harm, it won't bring me peace. There's no good in crying out to everyone, it won't bring me peace. There is, however, one thing that brings me peace, kneeling down to the One who created this confused creature. The stars today remind me of Him. And He reminds me of how strong I've been. I live everyday, gathering all the broken pieces of mine to put it up and complete a puzzle that walks confidently, disguising her sadness with a smile. Yes, I'll laugh in public, I'll laugh in person, I'll laugh when you'll ask me to stop laughing. I'm tired. I cannot take this anymore. Yes, you people can continue to call me weird. Yes, I'm not weird, I'm normal. I'm normal with all my flaws. I'm normal. I'm a narcissist for now. I love myself, and it's taken very long for me to love myself, but I do, I love myself.

Sane and insane.

"Insane", "maniac", "lunatic", her pet names, awarded to her as an unwanted present from society. What were these? Mere alphabets consolidated in a bunch of syllables that formed words? No. They were the reason for her misery. The only things that sabotaged her.
Some times, the words wreck us. We never pay heed to the destruction these alphabets hold. We have no notion how the drizzle of our words can act as a hurricane in someone's life, vandalizing it.
She was a part of this destruction as well. Crippling slowly, rotting with every passing second by the judgement she faced everyday, resulting in the dearth of her faith in fantasies. The fantasies, which were the reason of her sanity in this mad world, yet she was accused of being different. "Schizophrenic? No, you're an attention seeker". Even her command over psychedelic art couldn't earn her what she deserved. She was an innocent angel dressed in a white attire in this dark and bleak world. Unaware of everything around, with no hunch of the monstrous-cum-judgmental society.
Today, she was ridiculed again, amidst the crowded streets, among the sane people for committing the crime of dreaming. She dreamt of the other worlds and people who were just like her. She fantasized a place with no woe. She painted a valley, that she claimed, exists somewhere, far away, where we can touch the horizons and they turn into bits of glitters. A place she yearns to go because there' a downpour of stars.
"What kind of a sane person would think it rains stars?"

A journey.

2003:
I was 8 years old, 11 years back, and the memory is still fresh like yesterday, even after so many years. My family took us to this exhibition right next to the place we used to lived in. I was wearing my casual jeans and shirt with the bob haircut I'd always adored. The moment I entered the exhibition, I noticed every eye focused on me. Men of every age, young boys, old men, the mullahs and the so called modern people. That was the last day I ever wore jeans and a short shirt. I wasn't forced to wear kameez shalwar but my sensitivity imposed the traditional dress on me. I was judged by my friends for wearing those clothes and eventually they left me, but I couldn't compromise my self respect.
2006:
I went to Murree on a vacation with my family. I was wearing my mother's dupatta, which was twice as long as my height. I couldn't carry it, but I wore it anyway because of the fear of being stared, like it'd happened in the past two years. But people stared at me anyway. I thought it was me, who was wrong, I thought it was my fault and eventually it led me to a promise that I made to myself, "I won't go to a bazaar no matter what happens." Also, I decided to cover my head in the public places. My Pukhtoon father didn't make me cover my head, I did.
2012: 
For the past 7 years, I couldn't go to a bazaar, if I did, it was to the malls with very few people around. I was having zero fashion sense, I was conscious when I was in public. Even though I was a debater, I couldn't face people. And then a sudden transformation happened. I learned to be myself among everyone. It took a lot of courage to go to weddings, public places, bazaars. But this time too, I wasn't spared. The thirsty eyes of the inhumane men stared. And I started wearing a white chaadar, thinking, it'll make them realize my modesty. No, no one oppressed me, it was my choice.
2013:
The time had come when I was to step into professional life. Too bad, it was completely different from what I'd imagined it to be. I was chased by lusty eyes even in one of the prestigious institutes of my country. The dream was shattered. All of my freedom was gone. I couldn't express. I couldn't communicate. An extrovert that I was, a winner, all of it faded away. I became a shy, introvert and self conscious person. I started to prefer toe length clothes and humongous dupattas over everything. My days started with arguments like "MAMA, I AM NOT WEARING THIS, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING" and ended with anti-depressants. But I was still bullied. I started wearing abaya in public places like bazaars.
2014:
Today, I was in the famous bazaar, Saddar, with every kind of people around me. My love for traditional ornaments, bangles and ear rings, took me there. The fear of being looked at by strangers made me wear a niqab. I was happy when I wore a niqab over my abaya because I used to think that people don't stare at modest women. But what I faced today broke me. The eyes filled with lust and filth followed me again today. No, I am not oppressed. I was awarded with every kind of freedom by my parents. Nothing was imposed on me. It was my choice. It was my way of rescuing myself from people.
Am I still not a good woman? Should I cover the two eyes that were left uncovered as well? Should I stop going out? The dilemma is savaging me brutally.

Mirrors.

I hesitate looking into mirrors,

and can't peek into my eyes,
When I do, I face appalling terror,
That prevails and engulfs,
My shattered heart and soul,
and knits a picture of,
A defeated person,
Exhausted, weary and crippled,
By standing tall for decades,
Eyes dark purplish and black,

For not sleeping for days
and standing up for long,

The person in the mirror
wants to stumble and slump,
The insides have already collapsed,
The outsides want to plunge,
Into an ocean of tears,

The mirror forecasts realities,
like a fortune teller,
And depicts a picture of me,
which is hard to accept,
I am not a star,
I want a shooting star,
I'm not a hawk,
I yearn to be one,
I'm not a beautiful rose,
I'm an ugly dandelion,
That dances around to spread smiles,
The person in the mirror is me,
With all the facades off,
With no glitters and cloaks.

Vulnerable.

Perplexed, tangled thoughts,
Bits, words and phrases,
Shutting everyone out at once,
Concealing all the traces,
Sufferance, castigation, chastisement,
Agonizing herself with these fragments,
Smothering in eerie oasis,
Lightning the inferno of anguish,
The white dress turns crimson,
Crying all night making her tiresome,
She yearns them yet she is scared,
So she harms herself and blares,
The untold story of innumerous  flings,
Some countable unattached strings,
Hidden bruises and cuts,
And people carving them hearts,
It's a burden she can't hold,
It's a fire which has mold,
The brave girl with insecurities,
Into a vulnerable, beautiful, monster.

Words.

Torrents of catastrophic,
Devastating thoughts,
And a downpour of,
Diamond akin alphabets,
Flood all the passages,
Of the past,
Clearing the bleakness
and deciphering
the codes of,
Broken shatters,
Cacophonous shudders,
Into a face,
Behind a veil,
And the silent smirks,
Are followed by voices,
"Words are demons and fiends,
That own a train,
Of every deed, and every greed,
You hide from the world,
The tale of mischief,
Vulnerability and perplexed,
Yet untangled muses,
Melancholy and rejection,
Then unravels this secret,
When you're broken,
And you cannot endure,
The torment and pain,
These words haunt you,
And forever shall you seer in hell."

Child abuse.

Lying in the dark, crying, moaning,
A hurt lone wolf, groaning,
That 10 year old lies in the bed,
which is red and crimson from the blood,
Alleging him for not sleeping at nights,
and they hit him with shovel and give him frights,
Frustration from the day and all those fights,
And he becomes a victim, no that's not right,
He's weird around people, sobs in school,
Thirsty for love he is, for affection he drools,
A scar on forehead, a bruise on eye,
And some cuts with a blade, a sharpening tool,
The blows from everyday kills him inside,'
The kid at the back of his mind hides,
Locks itself in there, never comes out,
He grows up but the kid never dies,
And all the desires, all the wishes bloom,
He finds happiness in the dark and gloom.

A good lady.

She was as cold as icy breeze on a cloudy December evening. All the warmth in this world couldn't cure this coldness of hers. She had completely forgotten how to smirk. How a person who was once a reason for everyone's giggles didn't even know now how to chuckle. Someone as vivacious as a sunny sky in spring mumbled in response to the questions she was asked. The crystal glowing face that took breaths away was nothing more than a weary old face with desires in the eyes patched with dark circles. No, not a "60 year old" old but a "16 wearing 60" old.
Clarissa, a 16 year old, who just got into a high school was excited about her homecoming just as much as every girl of this age is for this extravagant event. Two coolest guys of the school had already asked her for dance and she'd denied their proposals because she wanted to go with Harry, her best friend and what she used to call him, her soul mate. She wanted to wear the most elegant dress and was out this rainy evening with her father's oldest and most loyal driver for shopping who'd just given resignation and it was last day of his service.
Since Clarissa's father was in home ministry, he used to come back home only on weekends while Clarissa's mother worked in one of the largest publications of Seattle and was usually away. Hence Clarissa lived with 3 maids and a nanny. Whenever Clarissa complained about this ignorance to her mother, she would shut her up and tell her that "Ladies never complain. Be a good lady. Don't you ever complain my child. Endure." And slowly did Clarissa stop complaining.
This evening, she was again asked not to complain and hence she was sent for shopping on her own with Dave, the driver. Clarissa stepped out of that large lime coloured BMW and stepped inside Mario, one of the lush shops of this posh area. It was the only shop Clarissa fancied in Seattle . As the attendant saw her coming, she ran towards Clarissa and helped her out with the most expensive and breath taking dress of this lavish boutique which went perfectly with those straight golden hair and moon like face in just no time. Clarissa was one of the most charming girls of her school, she carried her beauty like a queen would carry her tiara. And this black dress she had just bought dominated her looks even more. After buying the dress and high heels from Jimmy Choo, she hurried towards the car but the drizzle already had dampened all her clothes. She asked the driver to drive fast so she wouldn't catch the flu and he did. But it took so long for this journey to end. Poor Clarissa, who was unfamiliar with the routes of this city and also with the realities of this world did not know that she'd jumped into an abyss with no exit.
Dave parked the car in a strange place and with his lust that had driven him insane attacked the poor little girl, not just this, he also taped it. Clarissa rebelled, shouted for help, but there was no sign of mankind who would prove himself an angel and Dave killed her soul with his wild intentions.
It was dark when she opened her eyes. She was in her car. She checked the time on her gold watch that her father had given her on her 16th birthday, it was 9pm. "Everyone will be thinking I'm still busy shopping", she thought. She tried to sit and Dave, who was sitting relaxed on the driving seat as if nothing has happened, sensed her regaining consciousness, started the car and drove to home. On the way, he blackmailed Clarissa and threatened her that if she utters a word about this incident, he'll put her video on internet. And so she did not. She wasn't going to say anything anyway. Because "ladies never complain", she'd to be a good lady and so she endured.
She was sitting in the balcony, staring at the sky, watching the twilight, when all her friends were going for homecoming. She was not interested in it anymore. She was a good lady now. She'd learned to endure. The setting sun was taking all her warmness with it and she was left alone in the dark again, but it was okay, she was a good lady, she'd learned to endure.

Letters.

Letter 1:

Love,

This is my first day of struggling to get over you. And I have realized at this moment that I am a failure. I can't, I can't.... Come back, please? There's no point of me writing this letter to you, you'll never read it, I know. But I want you back. I don't like it when daddy wakes me up at 9, I want you to call me and wake me up. And I'm scared at night, I don't have anyone by me at 3am, when it's dark. I wear Havoc everyday, love, because you loved the scent of it when we first hugged each other. And I wait for you every night, to have all those beautiful moments back, to have you, back. I made achaar goshth today, and I couldn't eat it, you know I don't eat pickle, but I ate all of it for you, see, your sweetheart is trying to change herself, come back? I really need you. I love you.

Yours,

Someone-who-is-broken.

1/03/2010.

Letter 2:

Hey,

You didn't come back, it has been 18 days, you didn't call. So, this guy next door proposed me, he walks like you, and he reminds me of you. And I said yes, I'm sorry, I don't want to cheat on you, but I need you and he reminds me of you. He saw me crying sitting across the fence last week and he told me I looked like a tomato whilst crying. You used to say the same. Is this you? Are you back? Every time I talk to him, it feels like you. They say, winters are blue, but my spring is blue without you. He likes my eyes, just like you did. And he buys me chocolates, just like you did. He sings me to sleep, just like you did. I just wish, he doesn't betray me, just like you did.

No-more-yours,

Still-not-okay-sweetheart.

18/3/2010.

Letter 3:

Yo!

I am over you, FINALLY. I'm writing this letter just to let you know that I'm fine without you. And your phone call last month, mum told me about it. I didn't respond. I don't want to. I am happy. I got into college and I will have friends in less-than-no time. Everything is so cool. There are a lot of fun people here, the kind of people you used to tell me about. I still miss you at every weekend, when we used to be together. But well, that's how life is, no? And by the way, I ditched the guy I told you about, he was nothing like you, no one's like you. Got to go now, I've this new friend from college who's taking me to the new shopping mall. I.... I love you.

Yours loving,

Happier-than-ever-girl.

8/9/2011.

Letter 4:

Erm, hi,

It's never been hard to write a letter to you, but it is now. I've burnt 50 letters already and I don't have any appropriate thoughts to ink down to you. I'm 17. I AM FREAKING 17 and you did not wish me. It's been so long I've heard that soothing voice of you. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME BACK PLEASE PLEASE. I love you. See, I'm still waiting for you. I saw your relationship status. Your girlfriend is very pretty. And the diamond ring you gave her is beautiful. But it's nothing like that necklace you gave me on that new year's eve, when you were leaving for airport. I still have it. I don't have any friends, I lost them. They think I'm weird. So I took these pills, I'm so dizzy, I might just throw......

I'm sorry for being gross, I can't write another letter.

Sorry.

20/02/2012.

Letter 5:

Hey, 

I am sorry I didn't write to you. My therapist stopped me from writing. I am done with my 1 year sessions. I a going on this trip. It's been 3 years that you broke up with me. I am 18 now, and they say I look pretty and happy. I have friends now. But I miss you. You were my best friend. I can't tell my friends how my parents beat me. Mom thinks I am bringing shame to the family. Please save me.

Yours,

Someone-who-still-is-in-love-with-you.

4/04/2013.

Letter 6:

Hey,

This is probably the last time I am writing to you. I have realized that I've lived in delusions for the last 4 years. I'm 19 today and I have made a pact that I won't write to you. There's this guy, he's a fellow writer. He doesn't know me but we met on this usual meet-ups of a writing workshop and I adore the pain he carries within him. He's my perfect picture of melancholy, I don't want him but I want to be his solace. I hope you won't mind. Take care. Congratulations on graduation. I hope you'll make a good doctor. I will never forget that excruciating pain you sent my way. I will never forget how you abandoned me. And I will never forget our forever promise. I will go to Venice one day and I'll go to that church(The one you had as your phone's wallpaper) and I'll sail those boats. I miss your presence,

With love,

A-free-soul.

17/2/2014.

Letter 1:

Dear love,

 I do not know why I am addressing you like this, when you're not even aware of my existence, but I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU. And I've loved many people, in many ways, and I don't want any of them. And I don't want you. But, for once, just for once, I want to be there for you. They tell me,"HE IS STRONG". But I know, you've put that facade for long enough to make them think so. And I know you're vulnerable. You're fighting so hard to get those demons out of your head, I know, love. And you're the kind of person I'll fight those fiends for. Without even letting you know. I don't want your attention, I swear to GOD, I don't. I want you to smile, wholeheartedly, just once. Sit. Take that cloak off. I want your heart out of that cage engulfing it. THOU ART BEAUTY, take it off. And I'll suck all the sorrows out of that heart, even if it kills me. Because I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU. And I want you to be happy, again. Please? It's been ages and you've probably forgotten what being happy is, but for the sake of that moon we have watched together, and for the sake of that dawn, and for the sake of my love for you, I am here, begging you. Take all my happiness, take my heart, take my soul, but let go of the woe, And I REALLY LOVE YOU.

Yours loving,

Someone-who-doesn't-exist-in-your-world.

25/8/2014.

Midnight love.

Under the starry sky, do they sprawl,
Gazing at consolidation of the stars,
Shimmering, tinkling, twinkling on a par,
Listening to orchestra, from a house not far,
Brooding over the midnight musings,
Holding her hand and the secrets oozing,
And all of a sudden, the agony goes away,
With her by his side, his thoughts never sway,
A shooting star comes down their way,
He closes his eyes, and wishes she stay,
She has white wings, doesn't belong in this clay,
Yet he desires, she stops soaring, be his cray,
But she's an angel, not of this mudane,
Her beach is the sky, and the stars her grains,
She comes to him in dark and fights his demons,
And flies away after she vanquishes those treacherous gamers,
But he falls in love with her every night,
Demons do not torment her as much as her flight,
Their hearts are caged but heartbeats synchronized,
They lie on the turfs waiting for the fiends,
Yet they don't fret, nor they fear,
And then come the monsters, dark and drear,
She takes her sword and scare them off,
But doesn't kill them, and make them scoff,
These eerie creatures are the reason she comes here,
To find her true love in the warmth of his breath,
In his arms, her only solace,
She flies again, and abides on the moon,
To come again at night, to her home, her room,
Which she finds in his affection,
She reckons their will be no rejection,
This is how their love's ought to be,
A sapien and a fairy, dancing in the glee,
And waiting for the hour of separation,
Because, it's worth all salvation.

Blind.

Oh love, I'll lose the power,
To witness the beauty of this world,
But the biggest repent would be,
Not seeing the most beautiful humane,
The glittering, glimmering, star like eyes,
The bits of stardust transformed into a canvas of elegance,
The picturesque dark, black, hair,
The magnificent stature and attire,
I'll rue not being able to see you walk,
Oh dear, we won't be able to fly like a hawk,
But, I'll memorize you, my little dove,
Every part and every curve,
And I'll be with you forever,
Like an eagle is with her love,
I'd take all my time to trace you,
Brush your hair, that makes darkness look beautiful to me,
Then I'll touch those cheeks,
As beautiful as goddess of Greeks,
And stare at the hands you held,
For the first time and I lost my breath,
Sweetheart, I won't be on the best of health,
Your love will be my only wealth.
I'll be blind in just no time,
We won't dance to any symphony or rhyme,
But my love shall always remain the same,
Be it in light, or darkness, we'll conquer this twain.

Parts of me.

Bits and pieces of proses and thoughts, my diary. This will be updated once in a while.

6. What, when, where..?

2006, the first blast that I ever heard, when I was having iftaar with my parents, that killed the beggars under the overhead bridge who had hardly anything for their iftaar. This blast was followed by 100s of blasts. I've seen the destruction that these terrorists caused from half a km away. I've seen people burn and die. I've heard the cacophonies of those who were suffering and I'd to shut my ears because they haunted me. I've seen people cry because they couldn't find the dead bodies of the ones who were just hours ago chatting with them about how the weather was too hot or the tea was cold.
The blast in Moharram that killed the courageous Malik Saad(Shaheed) was very few kms away from my house. It took away the life of a friend's father who was 8 years old at that time. It orphaned her along with hundreds of other kids
The koochi bazar blast, I saw it. I was looking at the beautiful fort balahisar and I saw a yellow light over the fort followed up with a sound that shook the earth and turned many lives into debris.
The Qissa Khwani bazar blast that had burnt many young kids, boys, men, women and my brother had escaped the death in that blast.
When people were killed whilst offering Namaz in Sherpao's hujra in a blast on an Eid morning.
The PC blast that took lives of the people who were innocent and had no idea that it was the last dinner of their life. The PC blast didn't just kill the ones who were in there, but also many others who were near. 500Kg was not a less amount to take away lives of people. The window panes of my house were broken and we were deprived of electricity for days.
The Meena bazar blast, which killed 107 people including women who were shopping for their kids for Eid-ul-Azha, shopkeepers who merely earned 300-500 hardly, kids, infants, everyone who lived there.
The ISI building blast that killed the agents who were serving the country.
Peshawar highcourt blast in which my baba escaped death by inches.
I had heard the firing of bullets after the PC blast, I had heard the sounds of bullets when Sifat ghayyur(Shaheed) was operating against these pricks. And later he was killed too.
The SWAN hotel blast, saddar blasts, innumerable blasts in Imam bargaahs.
My school was threatened and was put to fire at night. We had to stay at home for weeks.
This is just about Peshawar. If I talk about Pakistan, I might run out of all the pages in this world. What did those infants do? What did those women do? Why were they judged? Who judged them? What did those men do whose life started at 6am and revolved around selling clothes and kehwa and ended on taking the famous qissa khwani sweets for their children? The father who was here to buy her little doll a doll for Eid? The brother who had six sisters and was here to earn for their weddings? The mother who wanted to buy his son a kurta for Eid-ul-Azha? Why did Huma's father leave her when she was 8 years old? Why did Rosemary aunty's brothers and daughter died in the church blast? Why did my parents rush to hospital everyday even they were done with their duties? Why I had no one to celebrate with? I WANT THE ANSWERS. But where do I find them? What will end this mystery that caused misery to thousand lives.

5. Shughla and Taqdees:

Four years back, I met two amazing people, a poet, and a counselor. I was known for prediction of personalities among my friends, but I always failed to analyze the mysterious personalities of these two. It took them an year to find out who I actually was, and it took me two months to find out who they are. And the relationship grew. One was the medicine to my misery, the other one was my confidence. The first year of my friendship with them was all about melancholy, failures, sadness, depression, because we lacked understanding, but the 2nd year brought us utter happiness, successes in rows, smiles, beautiful and unforgettable memories, understanding of this world, love, infinite love. The counselor needed counseling herself, the poet needed poetry. One was renowned for being strong and not crying, yet she was the saddest of all, other was known for her laughter and smiles, but she was deprived of happiness, and then there was me, who found solace in both of these beautiful people. It's been 4 years now, and it is very hard to believe, because it's as if we just met yesterday, and there's no single moment, when I don't miss them. I love you Taqdees and Shughla. I'm counting every second these days because I cannot wait to meet both of you. It's been very long and I need to see you two. And I've something very special for both of you. This is the 1am poem that I wrote for Taqdees but it's dedicated to Shughla as well.
"From the first tear,
to an eternal happiness,
the pixie dust of my mine,
adding glitters to the,
dullness I'm dwelling in,
and spreading curves on,
the emotionless face of mine,
someone who salvages,
my feelings into words,
better than anyone,
better than everyone,
who outdoes me in writing myself,
she understands the darkest,
tangled, deepest parts of me,
and makes me fall,
in love with her, every second,
every minute, every day."I can't wait to see you guys on 1st.

4. Will we ever report?

Pakistani women are deemed oppressed all over the world. But we deny it, by clearly saying, "We want to abide our life by the ways of religion". Are we really satisfied with this statement of ours?

The "catcall video" and "Harassment in LUMS" has made me ponder over this bitter reality and it is forcing me to deny this statement of ours. Yes, we are living our life according to the laws of our religion, but are we being treated in the same way our religion wants us to be treated in? Do we own every right that has been awarded to us? 

It's saddening and at the same time appalling that the answer to those questions are "NO". We really are oppressed in many means, and abaya and hijaab are none of those. We're oppressed because we cannot raise our voice against harassment. We're taught to lower our voices down. We are told, "If you take a stand against this, you'll bring shame to our family". And we let these things seer inside our hearts because a Pakistani woman would not want to bring shame to her family.

Being working women and students, our days start with men of every class and culture staring at us, as if we are aliens showcased in a museum and ends with reading messages of people of the very same classes and cultures on social media, asking for friendship, and none of these acts are religious or moral. But we cannot speak against this, and when we choose to ignore these people, they spread rumors of us having affairs with other men, just to take their frustration out. Apart from this, they send us explicit and vulgar stuff to make us feel bad about "studying" and "working in offices". We're labeled "buri auratein" because we study and work with men. And all we do is endure this, because we cannot "bring shame to our families."

This is our idea of freedom. Tolerating every act of the men who ridicule us. Moreover, we do not want anyone to help us and those women, who raise their voices against such people, we, ourselves, label them with the same title, "Buri auratein", for bringing shame to our country. 

The "2010 act against harassment" gives us a right to sue people who harass us everyday, but unfortunately, women belonging to "respectable families" do not make such accusations because at the end of the day, it's the woman who is on the "weaker edge". So the act is not a complete solution to this problem. We need more awareness on these issues. We need to make our society realize that when being harassed, a woman is not on a weaker edge, but a stronger one. This is not an issue which should be only discussed in whispers, this disgusting act should be discussed in louder voices, on bigger platforms, to help every Pakistani woman who suffers this, yet endures it, because she doesn't want to be labelled "Buri aurat".

3. Letting Go:

Some times, the act of letting go is what amends our life. We ought to let go to welcome more love into our life. There comes a time, where all the bonds you'd ever created become weak. I do not appreciate letting go, but what good does a corroded relationship do to you? Can you hold onto a corpse for eternity? No, you cannot. It starts to stink. These broken relationships stink too. And eventually, they become a cause of your sickness and they kill you in the end. Letting go of something can never make us weak, but holding onto an already dead thing can make us weak and weary.

2. Weak:

I've deemed myself a very strong person. I stood against the deadly winds and the gushing water. I outdid my demons and vanquished my enemies. I sustained calm and conquered my realm. But I discern myself losing it. I can't stand against anything anymore. The blows life is giving me is making me numb. I am sagacious person lulled to shallowness by the realities of life. My pen glitches every now and then. Words do not come out of my soul. I am going far away from everything. My existence is fading. And I'm scared. I'm weak and crippled. I need a hand to take me out of this vortex attracting me towards itself like a magnetic field would. I'm too tired of living on my own. My past haunts me like a deadly ghost. I can't seem to live anymore. The oasis looks like a desert to me. I see my kingdom rebelling against me. I can't fight. I can't stand for myself against myself. I've been betrayed by loved ones and I've fought enough battles to get them back, but all I have is scars. A lot of scars. And I am ashamed of it. I am ashamed of myself. I can't look into my own eyes. I can't. I need help. I want to be me, again. I've lost myself in this abyss and I want myself back.

1. Home, my city of flowers:

Almost 17 years back, I stepped into this city, with nothing but my parents and a sister. With no one by our side but just this little family. I, mere 2 years old, was having a hard time accepting this place as home. Who would have anyway? I had to leave my aunts and uncle in Lahore. My family. And my home. I LEFT MY HOME.
There was no 3 o'clock *barfi* or anyone to play with. At day, we had to stay with maids and at night, with mama baba who were tired after serving the mankind whole day.
After 17 years, I'm all grown up. Still having a hard time to deem this place as my home. But I have to. Everything is exquisite about this place and there's no denying the fact. But this is not home. Nothing like my home was, 17 years ago.
But this is my favorite place. Peshawar, also known as The city of flowers. Unfortunately, you won't get to see the flowers everywhere and it's  pretty much like the other cities of Pakistan. Despite the factor, it's still known as THE CITY OF FLOWERS. And the flowers are us, the people. I didn't find home in this place, but I did, in the people. I did, in the unity we have here. I found my refuge in the hearts of people dwelling here. The aura and essence of Peshawar, it's felt when you enter here. You'll find home in the aroma of chapli kabab and the boards of Peshawri icecream. You'll see it in the people who are beautiful inside out. You'll find home in every "Za mara" and every "Pakhair raghlay".
This is the place, where I fell in love for the first time, and then again for hundreds of times thinking
"THIS MUST BE HIM, I KNOW". And it wasn't him. This is the place where I first experienced failure and where I first learnt how being popular feels like. This is the place where I was considered a Bad Girl and an Inspiration at the same time. This is the place where I found a best friend in every person at first and in none when I grew up. Bitter lessons, sweet love, 2am meetings, first chocolate, first hug, first heartbreak. The only place that earned me the most beautiful compliment of my life, "Madam, you're the most sober and decent girl around here and that intrigued me to meet you."-Chair KPK Tourism Dept.

I actually came to know how people were scared of diversity here and yet they never feared to hug a Hazarewal/panjabi and never failed to welcome a mahajir. I came to know how men direspect girls and how at the same time they won't let anyone touch you, because, "GHERAT".
I've found lovely people here, each and everyone of their own kind. And I've adored every one of them.

And that's the reason I can't give up on this place. On my home. On the hearts I dwell in. I have discovered a new life here.  A beautiful one. And I can't and won't plan on leaving this place.
"Peshawar, my home".

Naked.

Tethered by my own insecurities,
Fettered in vulnerability,
My crippled, weary, soul,
Corroded, begs you to undress me,
And see, what has been camouflaged,
Under the glittering jewels,
There lies a wrenched and blemished kid,
Beneath his shimmering shiny starry eyes,
Are wrinkles and dark circles, for crying to sleep at nights,
The kid is existing, but not dwelling,
Residing, but not living,
This humane, wants you to unravel,
The mysteries and the myths,
And yearns you to rip apart,
The cage engulfing my heart,
Discover what you discern is deceit,
Inside the victories lie the story of defeat,
Come, break these shetters,
Of the oblivious mundane,
For I no more can resist this pain,
I am desolate and there's a burden,
So take off my armor,
You'll witness, I'm not a fiend,
I'm Abel in the face of Cain,
Aphrodite in the cloak of Erida,
I'm velvet akin to a deathstar,
Break this wall, that I created,
To shield myself from demons,
I turned myself into candle,
And ignited the moth,
I couldn't bear the lie and fib,
And deceptions throwing me into void,
And drank this intriguing yet deceiving hatred,
But no more can I hate, loathe myself or abhor my love,
So I take this mask down,
Come, undress me, and see,
A vulnerable little girl,
As pure as a pearl from seashell,
I'll be naked tonight, with all the truth and no lies,
Free my soul from me,
Save me, will you?

A drug addict.

Penetrating my skin with the filthy, pre-owned injections,

I yowl, lying down in the heart of mother earth,

Dying with every stroke, never brooding over repercussions,

I swallow the agonizing anguish of no worth.

The world around me is vivacious,

I, on the other hand living the most tragic demise,

Alms they throw, receive a gracias,

I get some pennies for my drugs, 'tis no less than a prize.

The clothes stinking, my hair sticky,

Bathing myself in scorching heat,

With dust and depression making me witty,

and with swear words, they throw me off the street.

It started an year ago, making my obsession grow,

Some weed at a local shop, cigarettes from a friend,

And led me to this never ending dwam and trance,

Pleasant hallucinations at start, terrifying nightmares'd follow.

Times were bad, stars were dull,

My father died, the business sull,

Escape I found, on the darkest of road,

Turned into a living death whilst seeking gold.

No peace I found, no hums to surround,

Long nights of groan, never ending days of wails,

A wish I make with every drug I take,

Not open my eyes again to these deathly trails.

You, my love.

Bit by bit, the air knitted star dust into an enchanting miracle and painted a portrait of yours on the canvas of this universe. Beauty akin to the moon, heart as soft as the vision of velvet like nebulae and eyes, sparkling like the brightest star in a dark hole. You entered my life with a radiance of light like a supernova, lightning every atom of me, shimmering all bits of me, leaving me bewildered. You endeavored to take me out of the dark deep black hole I was dwelling in, with the gravity of your love and saved me from thousand of asteroids of hatred I was sowing for myself that would've resulted in an explosion worse than that of a death star. You, my love, have illuminated my universe more than the sun could.

The seraphic ambience.

Curse flees,
Glory invades,
Hues it white,
The ball so bright,
Cadavers rise,
Praises the Lord,
Discards them thoughts,
Broken and distort,
Slumber approaches,
Lulls them to sleep,
Shallow fellows,
With frail beliefs,
Whilst the pious sings,
The holy psalms,
Ecstasy takes over,
Sprinkling charms,
Enlightens the soul,
Fills the dark holes,
He then grants the ones,
Thorns and guns,
Ignorant who were,
Drinking worldly life's rum,
And honours the ones,
With heavens they yearn,
Loyal and faithful,
Who have been to Him,
They'll now carry,
A wide grin.

Soldier.

Away from my home;
Every second, I feel alone,
I yearn for the embrace of my father's arms;
But I can't let my nation suffer for alms,

I get a flashback of the old times;
Mother croons to me the nursery rhymes,
The nightingales would envy her voice;
Now, all I hear is the painful cries,

When I crawl in these bushy fields;
My elbows howl, my knees shriek,
And yet that light is what I follow;
To save my people from the ones so shallow,

And with bravery that comes from prayers,
I shell the houses of brutal critters,
Extinguishing sanctuaries of barbarous,
Demolishing refuge of torturous,

And the light of victory awaits us,
In hours of pain, does it motivate us,
Thus, I continue and fight,
Be it day or night.

Rain.

Every drop of this downpour is like oil being added to the inferno of my woes. I discern every part of my heart singeing when the drops from the heaven fall on the scars, the scars that life gave me. Rain, this shower from eden, had always been something I had fancied all my life. It was a synonym of happiness to me. But today, it came along a tornado and took away all the euphoria and brought a bundle of sorrows wrapped in blue lightning and played a terrifying music that left me afrightened. A music that is still haunting me and even after all these hours I feel every beat of it thumping in my ears. The rain is searing me, every part of me, leaving me into ashes. Each ash uttering its own story, every flake singing the lyrics of its own melancholy. Oh life, how brutal are your realities. The chaste and pure rain cloaked itself with happiness and the closer I got, it revealed the terrifying face and rebuked each and every atom of mine, melting me, and in no time, I was just like those drops, flowing down, ceasing my existence.

The wise quill.

I pen down my sorrows,
which dwell amidst the burrows,
Slowly and keenly, do I move the quill,
a little ink on the paper does it spill,
And a tale of my life I try to stitch,
but my quill, every time, would glitch,
I enquire, "What's the matter?"
It hesitates, and states, " 'tis the fetter",
Bewildered, I stare at it,
And like a whisper, a secret it'd utter,
"Thy heart thou tryest to put on this sheet;
Hath this act already not left thou with defeat?
A promise thou shalt make to me,
Guard thy heart, or this heart wilt flee,
The fetter shalt protect it,
Off it goes and thou shalt regret it.",
An instant it took to ingest the truth,
better the bitter now, than later to ruth it,
Taken aback, but also bewitched,
I jotted the wisdom of quill,
and drank the rum of my afflict.

Regrets.

I'd discovered myself at the verge of a cliff, at a height unfathomable for a sapien. Never had I found myself frightened of something as much as I was now. I bowed my head down, to peer into that abyss where I'd fall if I let go of that rope of hope akin to a strand of hair. I could see a bleak vision of light , with clouds as a periphery. Looking down made my heart skip a beat. I endeavoured to back off. But I couldn't, as my feet were amidst the fetters. These shackles were put onto my feet with a promise that they would guarantee my glory. But they did not. Those fetters were mere expectations. Yes, they were clots of my own blood around my feet to ensure something, that was only destiny's right to decide. Destiny, they said was a kind of wind that brings you honour as a reward if you outdo it. Or it'll bring you shame if it vanquishes you. And then destiny hit me with a blow, which I survived. The shackles aided in my surveillance. Everyone celebrated my victory and so did I, and later did I realize that it wasn't the victory but a lost battle. A battle that brought darkness into my life. That glory, those shackles wished for, would've only been awarded to me if I'd allowed the fate to thrash me. I still don't know what was down that cliff and I'll remorse it throughout my life. Not breaking the shackles and jumping off that cliff will be my biggest regret.

Demons.

Fidgeting, sitting on that black leather couch, I was gazing at the wall for two hours now. In the growing silence, I could hear the tick tock of the large antique clock from the corridor which was a call from hell. I had been biding my time until I was possessed by that curse with no escape again, that occupied my soul every night. The clock struck 3. The window parallel to me was showing the nightmarish scenery outside like some horror movie on television's screen. The darkness had concealed all the stars as if a black sheet was placed over tiny holes that were the only way to let the rays of light into a cave. It was cognate with a beautiful witch's cloak to camouflage all the glitters she was wearing and all one was left to witness was her dark side. I could feel something scorching my heart, singeing it. They were back. Yes, the demons were back, crawling over my skin, into my heart, piercing it, breaking it down into pieces. It felt like they were infecting my veins with venom, and I had no hunch of how to get the venom in there out, that was tormenting me and killing me. They stung me with those loud voices, like a honey bee would sting. "Hush, hush, shoo" but they won't go away. Sometimes they would play a flashback to me of all those nights, when I was alone, on those empty walls, and sometimes they talked in the same voices of the people who betrayed me and left me amidst the alley of nothingness. I couldn't take that savagery. Those brutal monsters would stop once in a while when they would find me on the verge of death. As I felt the venom reaching my heart, the searing pain grew, withering me, and I panicked, "What do I do? How do I heal myself?" I asked myself. I ran towards the drawer to find a pill to ease it up, to find a razor that would equalize the pain by leaving those filthy scars on my wrists, "No, no where do I go?" A cigarette might help. "Light it up, light it up" but all in vain. "GO AWAY, GO AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE", but no, they found their pleasure in torturing me. A drink, Yes, A drink will surely help, some beer, "Where did I put it? Oh where did I put it, God." I might just go to that guy next door who offered me drugs that day. "Open the door, open up", no one opens the door. It was a folly to think someone will help me out at this hour of night. I'm left to suffer this misery on my own. The appalling pain is slowly increasing, invading my heart, conquering my realm, blackening my blood, killing my soul, "SAVE ME", :SAVE ME", but no one's here to hear me out. And once again, it's just me left here to help myself out from those monsters dwelling in there, up in my head. Because it has always been me and nobody else. Not the cigarettes, not the booze, just me and my no-good-for-something existence that is like a fly in a meadow, negligible.

One summer evening.

She sits on the grass of the lawn with a cup of cold coffee in her hand on a cloudy evening of summer. She's thinking of something, not sure what it is. Because she's continuously gazing at the wide sky above, lost in fathoming the height of the passing clouds, noticing how the moon is bleak that will just be brighter in no time. And she feels a tear rolling down her face that reminiscences those beautiful memories she collected in that jar, which is enclosed in a cage, her heart.

Just one month back, how things were different, how there were tears of joy in her eyes. The beautiful evening when they were together for that little span of time which seemed eternity to her, because all the dimensions had vanished and all there was left was his eyes she could drown into.

When he held her hand for the first time that evening, it wasn't just a mere portrayal of his affection towards her, or some cheesy romance, but it was a promise that they made, without uttering a word. They made that promise of not letting go of each other within those exchange of glances. How he left her eyes shining like a pearl just out of the sea or a full day's moon. She would've never let go of that hand, never, if it wasn't for the society. "Let go of it, let go of the hand, you're not going to let him go, it's just his hand" the mind commanded, but her heart, it was melting in there, it wanted to glue those hands with the wax coming out of the heart in the form of tears, but she didn't let the tears roll down, had she done so, it would've made him upset. She could hear her heart playing notes like an acoustic guitar, and it stopped right there when the grip of those entwined hands loosened and he let go of her hand. But the intimacy had already increased, the love was now stronger than any bond.

Now, right after a month, she's craving for that hand to wipe those tears off, she's broken, the barbaric society, the cruel world is killing her dreams and he doesn't even know, he has no clue, not a hunch of what she's going through, of the hell she's residing in, and his absence makes the things even worse for her. She looks up at the moon and thinks of the nights when she was with him, how the moon looked brighter than it is now, and how the sky cried when they were going to part their ways.

Oh, love is such a torture at times.
One moment, it takes you high above, the other moment, throws you back into this filthy world. She takes the very last sip of her coffee and tries to pen down her love for him in the diary he gave her.

A random girl.

She flies, flies and flies,
So strong she is, she never cries,
a pile of beauty she carries within,
Do you see the beauty of her grin?
Crazy, fun, and what-not?
If you don't like her,
Guess what, you'll rot.
Be kind to her, she'd be gracious,
You mess with her, she'd be contumelious.
Words might end, for she's versatile,
Don't you ridicule her,
Or you'd die in exile.

Happiness.

I read somewhere that nothing could be written more beautifully than a tragedy. And I know it's true. Because when you're happy or when you are in love, you go speechless, words are never just to you. Because when you are happy, you just want to live that moment. You want to breathe every second, you want to drink those memories to save them within you. Happiness is like a rainbow, you just can't take your eyes off it, if you do so, it'll disappear. Oh, grasp it, don't you let it go, because happiness, it's just like those little grains of sands, if your grip is not strong, it might just slip out of those little spaces in between your fingers. So happiness cannot be caged in a piece of writing, it's a bubble, it'll burst the moment it's out of your sight.

Fly high.

A very gentle touch and a kiss she feels,

Daddy embraces her while mama is asleep,

She opens her eyes, and looks around;

All she sees is love keeping no bounds,

Daddy loves her alot, she's mama's doll,

And slowly does she learn to crawl,

They look after her like she's a little larva,

Saves her from even the sunshine, 

Thinking it might burn her like Lava,

and one day she comes out of that cocoon,

To this world full of raccoons,

Her magnificent looks, her enchanting eyes,

the little dreams, she carries inside,

She flutters her wings and learns to fly,

Up, up and she goes high,

But blue is also a colour,
It slowly invades her world,

Snatches her dreams, leaves her bewildered,

Those low lives, they try to bring her down,

and try to take away her only crown,

And it's when she realizes,

how to make sacrifices,

They try their best and she starts to drown,

In a vortex of thoughts that she's supposed to be on ground,

No more she wishes to fly, in a rose she hides,

It's when her mommy and daddy try,

To bring her back to the family's tie,

and teach her again, how to fly,

This time, higher than before, 

And also inculcate her how to roar,

So now she plays with her colours,
In the sky above, like a phoenix she hovers,

Nothing can bring her back,
Since she belongs up there now,

And only to God would she bow,

Those who tried to prostrate her, 

Now they envy her and praise her.

Sufferance.

I deem myself as an epitome of patience. With all the chaos around, I'm at peace. I sustain the calmness.
No sapien would get a hunch of relentless throes I'm suffering. They see me like the blue sky on a sunny, windless day. But in there, inside my head, I'm like an ocean at night, when the storm is coming, with the tides rising and falling every second. I'm like a clock, every tick stabs me and every tock takes the knife out so it could stab me again. It looks like the nature has entrusted me with the task of staying quiet and still. Because if I spit out the grief, it won't stop, like blood flowing down the veins, that never stops. And I might infect this world with my anguish, because now the blood flowing in there is black, poisoned, with the venom of my thoughts. And the living will stop breathing, and the dead will cry out, because it'd be hard for them to take in so much suffering.

Feelings.

You were too busy listening to them, their pain, their grief, their agony, their anguish, their heartbreaks that you forgot to notice mine. And that hurts more than anything. That leaves me in the dimension where I don't live nor I die. And I feel terrible. It scares me.
You gave me so much that it's hard to ingest the minor shots of happiness now.
And what am I left with? For all I had was you. And your love.
Now, I am unarmed, I've lost my armor and my shield. I've lost my sweetness and bitterness. And I'm left with bleakness and darkness. You snatched away my feelings and left me with the emptiness.
What do I do with these fragments? I cannot fathom these bits of words into rhyming poems no more. You deprived me of my feelings. Was my pain not intriguing? My heartaches, weren't they as captivating as theirs? I wish I could get my answer in your eyes like I did before. I so wish!

Love, a murderer.

Love is like a cigarette, that smoulders, burns. You crave it every time, inhale it, let it suffocate your lungs. It is like a drug you inject into yourself. It infects the blood in your veins, turning the red blood into blue, just like your feelings. Love, it is alcohol, so comforting, so soothing, snatching away the consciousness with every sip, poisoning you. Like a razor, which is so small, you cannot even imagine the amount of destruction it will cause if you hand this little killing thing over to someone and let them cut you. Love kills.

Camouflage. *Dedicated to me by a very special friend Mahreen*

Another night, again so blue.
Suffering in pinching darkness,
clutched in the paws of solitude.
These reflexive thoughts are withering my mind.
This loneliness and desolation burns me from inside.
Them barbaric humans are not of my kind,
I find myself oscillating between love and hate,
I am love and they are hate.
It all comes out of my eyes in the form of tears,
And washes away my face,
Yet you ask me why i smile so bright? Why my eyes sparkle?
I tell you that is how.

The daughter of Eve.

I heard mother talk to me,
"Dear love, you mean alot to me",
 She reminded me she was there for, me,
Oh that little telephone she used, just to hear my heartbeat.

I loved the music she listened,.
The dresses she bought that glittered,
Then one day I stepped into this new world.
"Its a girl", the doctor told,
Mother loved me no more,
Daddy didn't hug me, this feeling was so sour,

I was a rose that just blossomed,
And they never loved pink flowers, I reckoned,
I wanted to spread fragrance of love,
But they plucked me,
Was I this shame to you,
That you cut me?
They choke me to death, mommy cried,
To stop daddy, she tried,

I live no more, I am sound asleep,
Son was the one, for what they'd greed.
And I was the Daughter of Eve,
I was the Daughter of Eve.

Woe.

Cigarettes, they help me live when I die,

Sleeping pills, everytime they stop me when I cry,

Its tough, but still it is what I abide,

In this cruel world, we all reside,

My poetry is what gets me high,

The feelings, the world,  its all so dry,

My eyes hurt, the teardrops fall,

On my skin, slowly do they crawl,

I know not of what I write,

The ink comes out, in moments of fright,

I'm stardust, but the sparkle is long gone,

For I was a mere soul in this body, 

That God had thrown.

Shadow.

He is her shadow, that never leaves her side, even in darkness. Yes, it is ironic, but she does have a shadow which is by her side even in the darkest of hours. The shadow, that accompanied an irksome person like her in each and every situation. The person, who is vivacious and has been filling colors in her life for almost 2 years now. From The Big Bang Theory jokes to consoling her when she's down, from teasing her on being fat to admiring her and telling her she looks like a cute fat pie. The shadow, that apologizes for not being around, even though he's there, all the time, every second of her life. He can tell just by a text message of hers that if she's feeling down. The one who would tease her all day long, tell her she sucks, that he hates her, and still adore each and every quirk of her. Someone, who loves everything about her, even the things people detest about her. "Please name one thing you hate about me?" she asks, "But nobody can hate anything about you my love, you're adorable". He notices her smiles, her tears, her emptiness, her emoticons, her feelings, the dress she's wearing, her hairstyle, and admire every single thing about her time and again and he never gets tired of it. The person, who's her pride and who's her arrogance. The one she would never be afraid to trust on. He is HER person. The one who is with her in her best times and can also handle her in her worst times. He has an immaculate brilliance when it comes to telling her how beautiful she is. He is her BESTESTIESTY.

I end here.

What brought happiness to me, now triggers my pain,
The downpour, withers my veins,
The fragrance of the roses in the spring,
The twines of wine tied like a string,
It makes me nostalgic, my heart aches,
I'm fragile, you touch me, I break.
Shattered I am, can't be gathered,
Collecting me you must sustain,
The tortures, cuts and the pain,
I'm a glass, a window pane,
Bleak like December's rain,
A poem you never share,
A mouthful of beer,
Yes, I end here.

Pirouette

She walks on the turfs in the lonely night,
with all her sorrows her soul ignites,
the cold breeze tickles her face,
She sees their silhouette on moon's full phase,
Oh how enchanting it was, when he proposed,
His grin was something she'd die for,
But thy love is not as important,
as to him is his life,
She never had listened,
When her intuition cried,
The night is different she realized,
Unlike other days, this time had flied,
Hours pass, clouds reign over,
covers the sky, the thunder hollers,
She discerns something like a dewdrop on her face,
Unsure she is, maybe its the tears rolling down due to pain,
and then there are more drops, the sky pours rain,
the cold breeze, the raindrops, a perfect twain,
the thunder and wind is like a symphony,
it feels like mother nature is singing a lullaby,
She senses something when she sips the wine,
She could be seen dancing to the rhyme,
she sways to her silence, her madness,
to her pain and to her loneliness,
Atlast herself had she descry,
The only night that didn't make her cry.

Solicitude.

I'm high on my thoughts. The only reservoir I have. My thoughts, they never betray me unlike everyone and everything.They stay by me forever. Yes, Not to mention the battle I have everyday, when the demons take over, when it's dark, when I get all suicidal. But that doesn't count. Because when loneliness reign over, the only weapon that saves me is my thoughts, that comes out as tears, accompanies me, I'm lulled by the very over-thinking, that turns my bed of flowers into bed of thorns, but that's okay, I'd be okay. It would be better than the woe that I experience when I've no one by me amidst of all the people around me.

Destruction.

I'm living and dying at the same time. I die at every interval in between the heartbeats. I die 71 times a minute. But none of this is as mind boggling as it's mentioned in the books. This is terrible, horrific. How does it feel to stab yourself with a knife 71 times a minute, the feeling, it makes you numb, it's stupefying, leaves you befuddled.

My heart was blind.

For infatuation led me to sin,
I'd no idea I'd take away your grin,
A shoulder I'd always desired,
You gave me that and its not denied,
But now when I am back to reality,
The dream doesn't mean anything to me,
You wanted a caged bird,
But I was a butterfly,
Then how would this happen,
That I won't be permitted to fly?
I don't want to be loved no more,
Only wish of mine is to be explored.

Butterfly.

No, I do not belong here, I cannot become one of these people. I'm all love and they'll burn me with their hatred. I'm a butterfly and they won't let me fly. I'm a rose and they appreciate my beauty by plucking me. I do not belong here. Lets fly. Lets run away to our neverland.

Words will silence me.

There are some thoughts, some feelings that provoke you to write, so beautifully, that it feels like the whole universe wants you to write. And then there are those esoteric feelings, those puzzling thoughts, that never allow you to write. Overthinking is what I name it. It kills you. And you cannot express it, not even to that piece of paper.

For I've been fond of your darkness. And I contemplate your esoteric thoughts. Your flawless words, they take my breath away. Every word you utter is enchanting. You're my fantasy. And I'll follow your soul to discover the beauty of your world. I'll meet you in your hell and I'll make it our heaven.