Pronouns: She/her
Warning: Mention of self-harm
I am a South Asian, Muslim, Pakistani, female writer. This is my collection of poetry, an outlet that has always allowed me to express myself and say things that I am typically not ‘allowed’ to say. Writing poetry is my way to reclaim my body and hence my voice in a society that is always trying to regulate and control women.
Just a Body
This is my body, yet it is not mine at all.
Running my hands down the indents of my ribs
The curve of my waist that has shrunk with every meal I stole from it.
Trying to make myself smaller, fit in the narrow box you created
For all the space in the world was yours, and my body
merely an occupant.
This is my body, my sick, diseased body that is not mine at all
Finger shaped bruises from
skin pinched too tight beneath my own fingers
Traces of raised ribs and hollow indents, make me feel better.
Tender loving fingers trace the jagged edges of my amputated body
Shredded skin, cold metal inflicted scars.
Wrongly stitched up by none other than my bleeding fingers
My starved, diseased body that is not mine at all
You claimed my desires as your own,
twisted them so I could no longer lay claim to them
You dressed me up in whatever you wanted
Even though I am suffocating beneath the cloth.
Even though I had made myself small, as small as I possibly could.
My body aches and trembles, already tired of the abuse I have put it through
My legs no longer want to take me anywhere,
for no place welcomes this dismembered body.
Parts of it that I have cut and continue to cut off
I will pay for what I have done to my body
For I did it all because you wanted me to
But that is okay.
For it is just a body, and not mine at all.
Will I be?
One day it will come out of me
And I wonder if it’ll be a slow, disgusting, trickle…
A drooling mouth, slack-jawed and hanging
Dripping, dripping. For an eternity.
Or
If it’ll burst from my mouth
A torrent of vile, green, putrid liquid gushing out
In a single powerful moment
I cough and choke as everything rushes out
And now, perhaps
I am empty,
or will be.
For I was made of nothing more than the
Unsaid, the unfelt, the unseen
My stomach is empty, my womb barren
the poison that festered in it has been released.
But what will I be now?
Aanya
Sitting across from you,
staring at your face.
I have been here forever
the surface is so cold, so hard.
There are lines and cracks all around
Sallow skin, hollowed cheeks, haunted eyes,
The words are all the same.
I am mouthing them as you speak.
The same, tired, true story.
Gaunt eyes, cracked lips.
I am staring at your face
At the disgusting likeness of it.
And I’m thinking:
Did we do anything in our lives apart from being so fucking sad?
The Feast
I imagine I am laid out
On a table.
Like a banquet. Very pretty.
Wearing a flowing dress.
Spread beneath my inert body
Waves of gauzy, ref filmy cloth
tease pale skin
Or maybe it is a black cloth
That drowns me in charcoal
From head to toe
It is thick and black, and you will see nothing through it
Except whatever you wish to see.
I feel a hand somewhere on me
It is my stomach, I think
Or my leg.
I am not sure.
Though I do know, whose hand it is.
Yours.
Or maybe, His.
There is another hand.
Someone else’s.
I think I know whose.
But lets leave it unmentioned,
Like all crimes.
Someone has started eating already.
Sigh.
Why did I think they would wait for Grace?
Flesh is ripped from me
Picked from my bones
Quite easily, actually.
Only some lumps of meat desire to stay stuck with me
But that desire is overcome.
I can hear the tear of flesh
can feel the power of those dirty fingers as they take.
Chewing, swallowing, gulping. Tearing, chewing…
I feel the air kiss the exposed parts of my body.
It is a forbidden feeling.
Can feel the blood as it stains my white dress
And comes to greet my fingertips.
It is liquid passion. Forbidden still the same.
My eyes track the movement of the ceiling fan
The rotations are familiar
The pulse of the three wings,
Slow.
But enough.
To mute the noise of the incessant gluttons,
Still going at it.
Fighting amongst themselves now
For the next piece of me.
You see,
I am running out.
Running out of flesh they can claim
And bones they can break.
And soon it will stop.
I am left with
the scraps of meat that no one wanted.
But I love the most.
With my torn dress and its true color
I will borrow threads
And sew together whatever is left of me.
A hideous, monstrous creation of;
Rejected slabs of meat
Broken bones
Hollow organs
Amputated parts
A wicked smile and knowing eyes.
Watch what you eat…
They Told You Not to Write
I start writing.
In a corner of my room, slow and in secret.
And sometimes, in the dark.
and start to feel that stirring of desire.
My teeth cut into my lips,
As my hand inches down
To shameful depths.
My fingers warring amongst themselves.
Instructing me to stop.
Stop what?
This is why they told you not to write darling.
Because words turn you on.
Your words turn you on.
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
