Written by: Aswathy Dinesh Edited by: Dariya Asma This is the part of the story where I leave my bag on the steps of my childhood home: I don’t run this time It's trivial to notice how I hide in an image unknown to the mirror, it’s who I have always been. You can find me hiding in plain sight, or wandering through the corridors of my mind, too scared to ask for help. Which part of me is healing if I’m scared to be seen? I was 4 or 5, too young to feel the world's wrath on my cheeks, I should’ve danced around or taken a long nap. Will things change if I change? Who would I be if my grief was not this heavy? I don’t wear the traumatised ribbon of a dismantled childhood around my wrist anymore. My shadows have a loose grasp on me. Yet I’m too afraid to walk away from the past. I’m at the mercy of my words again, It’s raining and my empty page and half-filled ink pen is waiting- Waiting for me to spill my demons outside the void. And if not then what saves the artists? Damaged, wobbly homes (ribcage), homes too scared to be seen, If not art then what makes the world whole? This is the part of the story where I leave my bag on the steps of my childhood home This is the part where I believe my words, like yesterday, will guard my demons tonight. Future is fragile, and so are sheets of darkness that cover my skin. If not art then who saves me tonight? — Artwork by Dariya Asma
2 Comments
Anam Turab Amjad Hassan
4/23/2022 03:20:32 am
This gave me chills, I loved it!
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Ganga
4/24/2022 07:39:33 am
Wow that was so beautiful and strangely nostalgic. The writing really exhibits what the subject is going through. It’s like a emotional leak where we as a reader get to explore out the effects of trauma of this subject.(or at least that’s what I thought). Great work!
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