I am the color of the blood of menstruation and of annihilated cities,

ma’s cries of agony that reverberate through the empty walls

of what I was supposed to call home and baba swirling the glass of whisky

while secretly reading a letter written by noor to him.

I am the heirloom of a broken family,

the lump in my throat feels heavier than the empty plate in front of me

and more often than not this house has served as a testimony to my parent’s flaws,

I lost my religion.

I have this terrible desire to seek love,

from relationships I shouldn’t have clung onto,

the horror of being left threatening to devour my existence,

I can’t help but wonder if we only hold on to love for the sake of being heartbroken?

I remember too much, things that I shouldn’t have.

Maa asks me to let go and I can’t help but ask her,

where should I put it all down?

To know me is to memorize a labyrinth of longing,

I am a corpse of all the times someone mistook a funeral pyre for the warmth of hopeful sunshine.

I ask death to make me a cup of tea and come to talk to me,

we’ll sit and discuss about how the sun too is a star

and I wonder if any of us have ever stopped to pray for the love it lost too?