Faiz,Fish and Feminism.

In no particular order,
like stream of consciousness writing,

like the endless afternoons and 2 AM silences,

Shared,as we sprawled ourselves,

under the ceiling fan

laid bare our most intimate ambiguities

 in the summer.

Played a poem on loop,

it rendered out a refrain that stuck with us,

it claimed to promise us a time in the future,

when we'll get to witness the

mountains of injustice that loom over us

blowing away with the wind like cotton wool.

I don't know how revolutions work,

but I've walked with fleecy cotton wool,

floating by my feet on a late summer evening,

lingering on the street,final attempts at shadowing

the seed from losing it's sheath.

I've seen dandelions losing their feathery tufts,

in the pattern that was printed on 

my sociology professor's cotton shirt,

like the plausible cover of a novel.

I realise that all those that are vulnerable 

are endangered because they're frail,but this very

vulnerability will become strength,

letting go of inhibitions,

even if it means letting go of the fleecy 

blanket they wear.

Her lapel has a tiny brooch,she wears a different one

everyday,today,it's a fish,mustard and red,

it's eye staring down at me,

like those fish filled with swirls of Madhubani strokes,

ubiquitous in folk art.

Is it a hilsa,a flying fish?
Is it koi,the fish that symbolize luck,
the ones my roomate yelped with excitement
at,the first fish she ever saw,
 realised the childhood dream she dreamt,
having grown up up in a desert.
Is it one of those tiny river fish,
I swam with in my father's hometown,
wild and free and slimy,they tickled my little feet.
Is it the kind of fish my sister grills

with basil,

its tender flesh dissolving on one's tongue

like a strip

of acid,

at least that's how they show it in the movies.

Look for love,

and you look for love,

but it's not where you're looking for it.

It's not about others

loving you,

or how much you deserve,

for that is just an age old way

of preserving

"who should be loved,how and how much",

pickled with salt,heirarchies and whatnot.
Often,in your confessional mode
you mete out poems
about love that is not a commodity,
about people that aren't commodified.

Saltwater fish swim in doodled seas,

sketched beside annotated texts,

clouds of cotton tumble past time,

what is sublime?

HBD Taylor Swift

 

So,I'm a Swiftie for life.

But that does not mean I don't also like Lana Del Ray.
  Here's a song of hers that's beautiful.

It's been one of those hazy weather days where you can't see anything clearly and your mind feels foggy.Great,I've always sucked at small talk.So,um..yeah,it's really weird how I have all this latent energy inside me in the form of repressed feelings waiting to explode,like a rain cloud too full of vapour or an ice cube that's absorbed too much heat and they need to let go,to evaporate,to melt.Just that,in my case,there is no outlet...no melting point.There's no state of being.There's only sublimation that makes it seem sweet to implode instead of express.

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet and I shrug and think to myself,maybe I don't want to be.Truth is,I'm lost and I don't have words I can find that can justify this void.

It's weird how sometimes I feel more at home in other people's houses.I make my mind a makeshift home of sorts because it's hard for me to find a home where I belong in the physical sense of the word.
It's like other people's parents know more about me than mine do.They get me better.They take me out for dinner,they offer me ketchup in bowls,they read my blog,they tell me I write well and they hug me.How much I wish these people I refer to were what my parents would be a little like.
It's not how it's supposed to be,I guess,but, oh well.

I get the whole idea of appreciating what you've got but those who preach this do not live with my parents. I get that it's always a two way transaction.
But it isn't a transaction,see? See what they've made of me.
When I was younger,it din't matter so much.I never let it get to me bad enough...the older I get,however,the little things get to me more.I've tried showing my parents that I love them and I care,I've tried asking them,outright but none of it seems to work out well.It's not that we don't love each other,it's just tough love.And it hurts.
I understand that people have their own ways of expressing affection,and showing that they care,but sometimes,just sometimes it hurts not to have physical evidence of it.

I'm not asking for too much,all I ask for is a "How was your day,darling?" or a "Are you alright?"
,a hug to know I'm safe,or to feel welcome,or a hug goodbye,a kiss on my forehead,maybe even a simple "goodnight" or a "goodbye",a homemade cake or a handwritten letter on my birthday.Any form of a gift any day.A simple "thank you for doing this".
Maybe I am.

It's all these little things,you know,that make me feel loved.
I've tried and I've failed and I can't stop wanting to feel a sense of belonging,for, everywhere I go,I feel lost.A feeling that I'll never belong anywhere completely.
It hurts to know that those who are supposed to love you the most find it hardly worthy to let you know,because they're too busy to see you need it.If those who made me can't find that kind of unconditional love for me,how would someone else, possibly?

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet,well,it's because if I wouldn't be my malignant heart would make me someone I'm afraid to be.