hayat_

instagram.com/nothinggoldtostay_/

there is no gate, no lock, no bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind ~ V.W.

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  • hayat_ 24w

    This is the LITERAL definition of MOOD


    'tis what 'tis

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    I'm crying
    and I'm craving
    then,
    I'm crying
    because I'm craving
    I don't know is it
    because I was just craving ice-cream
    when you came over
    to send
    a virtual Oreo cornetto, or
    Am I crying
    Because you get to have some icecream
    Maybe the crying is about you
    sending over a picture of the thing
    I was craving for
    This all feels so stupid because
    who the fuck cries over an icecream?
    I, am crying over an ice-cream.
    I swear I'm not jealous,
    I want the best for you,
    it's the hormones, it's the missed period
    it's everything but my irrational self, okay?
    This is so stupid, I'm still crying
    And I hate that I'm crying over a frozen fucking liquid, crystallized cream, nuts and berries, oroes and just a lot more tears,
    hate the fact that I am crying for the craving despite hating it,
    and hate it more despite knowing this milky affair is ridiculous at best,
    and frozen oreo...ovaries, fucking ovaries I mean,
    ovaries at worst.
    I don't know oreos,
    perfect cookies, who?
    It's only zebras that are black and white.
    Pretty creatures, can they taste...oh God
    I still can't believe I'm crying for a craving
    So much so for craving some cream.
    Baby, come we'd rather be back on the bed
    maybe I'd dream of pandas and penguins
    playing chess

  • hayat_ 27w

    This...was a rant? Turned something else. When masking tapes trigger breakdowns and later mask the same. Damn, I'm sure I've unlocked new levels

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    homegrown allergies.

    I knew I had went too far when a piece of masking tape on my index finger almost made me cry. The tape, taupe, the colour of potatoes, reminded me of their taste in
    my forever-loved mom-made father-coerced sabzi with capsicum
    It's so delicious I almost always skip rice with it because I have the reason hidden somewhere in between the fifteenth line of my 3 year old stateboard textbook's chapter named "biomolecules" (also, probably, in the 68th one, which remains invisible right below the box that whispers in purple font a little too gleefully "happy mental health day") and object to my digestive system's capabilities to break down food a lot less efficiently as my own self; I would not even be grossed out if I see her wringing her fingers in the stew, which to be less metaphoric, is to imply that she more than often does. Roti is a good replacement because it's something
    that's whole-wheat(y) and fulfilling except I don't know what the applications of those words would mean to myself. Whole, am I? Wheatish? I am? Fulfilling? I..where do I get that? Roti, right.

    The dip above my hip is the only thing that feels like it can make me happy, and
    while I'm at it, there's too much of skin (no, fat.) below it to remain seated under the so called vogue flag anymore. Love handles devoid of love probably go out the trend the earliest. Or maybe that's the motive? Something that has all of it in the name, or maybe because the inkling 'fake it till you make it' has more potential than your ability, to ever? I have headaches the size of a couple million dollar bungalows but physicians down the small town road are the most scarred species during a god-gifted pandemic and an unhealthy amount of Google searches label me a cyberchondriac right after sympathizing how I'm just missing a home I might never be able to have.

    Eugenics is foul, but what if I'm the fossilized fetish of the collective disgust in my bloodline, each trait, more worse than the other? I'm afraid I might just not be able to reverse it, but then my sister has the same birthmark as me, can someone please tell me the way out I'm still too small to burden me twice the responsibility. My left foot has a scar that I don't hate, which is to say, sometimes I wonder if there's more behind one of my all-time favourite song lyrics being "the trucks always made you worry", I almost made a lyric poster for a future wall in my future home thanks to my obsession with my interpretation of the song but Pinterest has just enough pins to prick me deeper into another paradox of choice, the watercolor background soaks enough water to challenge my skills and my affinity towards pastels, which surprisingly is growing on me a little too rebelliously for me to want to try a lilac sundress with mustard nails, which brings me back to my first reaction in every situation: to cry.

    I might just be able to get away with this with an evening cup of chai that I'll throw more than try to drink; as for some taupe on my nails, the colour of potatoes, will probably take as long a few years as my self-esteem statistics on the -y scale of a graph I drew my cousin last week. Although his word problem was all too easy, unlike my worldly ones; I don't think they've foreseen a crisis for us to run outta masking tapes yet. Or a pair of scissors, with that?


    ©hayat

  • hayat_ 34w

    /sans the salt per my taste

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    Recipe to cook an aphrodisiac

    I pluck an onion
    out of my breast pocket
    and a tomato
    off my thigh
    I wash them off their dirty skins
    and germs
    that plague everyone around them
    in hindsight
    Peel,
    the foreskin
    of the former
    caressing the sting in my faulty eye,
    and chop, the latter
    till it's reduced to nothing
    seen by the naked eye--
    water from the only place is my right.
    Put them in a pan
    greased and hot,
    to burn my tongue enough
    to not want to bite.

    You'd like it with a pinch of
    turmeric,
    something to justify my yellow fever
    in lieu of sixteen attempts at beauty DIYs

    chilli, to flush my cheeks with a youthful colour
    some more,
    as an excuse for my occasional bursts of seasoned anger

    mustard pops as a reminder of my beauty marks,
    maybe gather an onlooker's sigh;

    cumin for the sizzle behind my limp legs
    two pepper balls, for kiester highs

    Sauté my pride,
    till it's all smoke,
    and malted spice, a sprinkle of sugar,
    and everything nice.

    Boiled potatoes
    for the carbs I refuse,
    recycle my talent
    and repurpose themselves to add onto my
    culinary expertise.

    Your taste is the talk of half the town
    mine, is more than the sum of all my ingredients.
    An advert of a human with
    skills of the kitchen,
    a walking bill-board
    y'all could mighty cry.


    I wipe down a plate,
    with an extra hem
    spanning more than the skin I ornate;
    serve the dish like
    a pro in making, and
    feed it to the lady down a few lanes
    She takes a bite,
    chews it all
    and regurgitates
    her most overused sentence -- I'm, ofcourse the favour-ite
    On my way, I leave some
    for the street lovers' love-child, who's fed
    everything but love;
    grief might limit my kindness,
    but not as often my empathy.
    She likes the affirmation
    of her preferred assumption,
    and gleefully stammers, the rest on her own.
    I overhear my praise to the locals, how
    I lay the best platter in town;
    and see her tiptoe to the doctor
    for indigestion
    as soon's the sun down.

    "Are you alright?"
    I ask her the next, before noon

    "Yes, my child."
    replies she, munching on minced chicken pie,
    looks so much like my hair, except a little less dry.

    "You were at the doctor's last night."
    'tis no question because if they think my hips can lie,
    you know, I can atleast believe my eyes.
    "Oh," she smiles. "Ofcourse I was," she further continues,
    without an attempt to reconcile.

    My trifid forehead, fails to cue her any more--
    confusion, fright, fatigue
    one as each divison's connoisseur.
    Until her own curiosity kindles
    to devour her joy, sweaty from the inside
    I have to wait a second more to give up,
    lo! there goes, I recognize my most scrumptious surprise--

    "Oh honey, wouldn't you make for the loveliest wife!"


    ©hayat

  • hayat_ 35w

    Hey y'all. I need a few minutes from anybody who's reading this.

    ~

    What do you guys think of me and Srishti (@thegreymetaphor) starting a page on Instagram?

    There's already lots of pages curating content from Instagram to Instagram; as well as people finding content of well established writers and making it accessible on Instagram. But not really a platform, where they exclusively curate from Mirakee onto an Instagram feature page. (Except for the Official account of Mirakee on Insta, others we're not aware of.)

    We've been seeing a lot of content that is so good here, but it seldom gets appreciated the way it should. Appreciation is never the primary reason for writing ofcourse, but we'll just like to do our part for our selfish love for poetry!
    (Given, the writer has expressed their consent, ofcourse. That'd always be asked.)

    We really need you guys' feedback! Would you like it? Would you be interested and willing to lend support? Please let us know in the comment section below!
    This community means so much to us, and there are also a few reasons why we were considering starting this venture -
    1. Our reading habits have drastically reduced on Mirakee, this might just push us to get us back on track -- be the avid readers we always wanted to be.
    2. We want the time that we spend on Instagram to feel more fruitful.
    3. There is no greater joy than appreciating and sharing poetry that we love just for our own sake!
    4. Lastly, this is not intended to put any individual or platform down. In no way do we want to take the control in our hands. It's just for the sole purpose of appreciating the good poetry that often gets unnoticed due to various reasons.


    The criteria for features:
    Structurally, none at all! Prose, poetry, stories. However long or short. Anything and everything that's creative/fresh/insightful/original/witty/has good imagery etc etc qualifies!
    In no way does it have to be popular enough, or concentrated around hot-topics only. The idea is to give a platform that appreciates quality content, without any other constraints.

    ~

    We're yet to even decide anything. We haven't thought of a name, nothing about the theme, how will we work it out on Mirakee here or on Instagram, or if we'd need a separate account here too. We first wanted to know how the community here feels about it. And if you'd trust me and Srishti enough as the readers.

    Feel free to ask us anything about this, if you have queries. We'd appreciate it so so so much if you let us know. Drop a �� at the very least, we'd take that as validation for our attempt!


    Love and regards,
    Srishti and Hayat.

    •••

    If you can, share this so it reaches more people, will ya? :D

    •••

    If you're reading this post rn, quick head over to @maybeyoushouldreadapoem! It's official, guys!

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    Announcement?

  • hayat_ 37w

    Two things I want to say:

    1. If you've read this, and it offends you, CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER.
    Or un-read it. Buy a time machine, go back in time, to the exact second you stumbled 'round this post, and blindly scroll past through it. Go ahead, and try that. If you can't, just shut up.

    2. I am angry. I am frustrated. And I know exactly who I've written this for. The 'You' in here can be interpreted personally, but that's all about your freedom of mind and perception, don't try to join the dots for any assumptions you might be entertaining about what I've written specifically. I'll come after you equally if you try to disrespect anything/anybody thinking this is an opportunity to add credibility to your unwarranted biases that exist just for the sake of it. I'll tolerate blind hatred of no kind, and against nobody.
    I've written this on the facts that I've experienced and the position where I belong; and utilizing it, is my right. It might not necessarily be yours.

    You're ofcourse very free to add, or share your own positive/negative experiences, those are heartily welcomed.

    ~~

    And to the You, I've written this for; I hope you die soon. I really do. I'm never the one to say this, and will most probably never wish the same on someone ever ever again, but You, You deserve it. The lives you've ruined and continue to do so, I hope you're grilled to your very bones and even the worms refuse to fart you out in the atmosphere. I believe in kindness more than anything in this world, but being kind to You, would mean that I'm cruel to the people that did NOTHING to deserve it. Please die. Let the world breathe in the air without your presence in it. I HONESTLY CAN'T WAIT FOR THAT DAY.


    •••••••••••••••••••••••


    CASE-SENSITIVE

    I sit on the floor
    and You have a problem
    with my leg curving 30° to the right
    just slight enough
    for my knee to fold the rest of it inside
    and my bare ankle
    to be visible enough
    to provoke my cousin sitting besides.
    It's not the silhouette of the meat in my thighs,
    through my overused viscose trousers
    that should make him want to have seekh kebabs
    it's your own wrongful speculation,
    or dare I say desire
    an agonizing one;
    haraam,
    in an otherwise pious fasting bond.

    I, out of habit, correct my posture
    and continue
    to giggle
    at my nephew that drew his elder sister
    a doodle of a teddy bear,
    he's too young to know how to spell teddy bear,
    or the concept of alphabets even
    His kindergarten mother
    is one to complain all the time, of him mispronouncing
    F for S-F-R-O-G, phonic sounds a little too tedious for his toddler mind,
    but according to You,
    very well qualifies the lower-limit to know
    my six-year old sibling's innocent nipple
    accidentally slipping through her petticoat's side hem
    while playing house,
    is a sign of I-M-M-O-D-E-S-T-Y.
    My mother instinctively pushes the sleeve back up,
    and stares at the homely Rapunzel,
    who's always busy beaming with questions about the world beyond the tower's horizon, like her most favourite princess.
    But the longing sight that bestows her sore eyes, is more often something else instead--
    big black beautiful mommy eyes,
    overdosed on lethargy, yet
    unmistakably blazing
    with a tinge of warning and a manual of instructions;
    ofcourse the little lady knows she made a mistake not watching out on how she sits, and moves.
    And ofcourse, the boy doesn't know what it feels like, why it feels
    just knows it's R-O-N-G
    without knowing what it means.
    It hurts, so much
    to see.
    It were never those dewy-eyed babies
    who knew the differentiation, by default
    it's Your filthy vocabulary,
    and disgusting denotations
    that infiltrates innocence and trades 'em for manners instead;
    teaches how to spell, only to
    sell promiscuous words to children.

    (contd.)

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    My other cousin
    is someone I genuinely pitied as a child.
    I didn't know comforting words back then,
    and empathy is still something that comes selectively to me.
    Always the one to get mocked
    because he was exactly 4 inches shorter than me
    in every picture
    as we grew out of our entire childhoods;
    despite being only 4 months younger
    to call for that difference in length.
    I like to think he's forgotten
    the mocking
    from his brothers and aunts alike,
    now that he is exactly an inch taller from
    the length I manage to make myself stand
    throughout the day.
    More than often though,
    a visit to my house
    is greeted by 1 friendly mockery
    and an occasional fight
    to see who's more powerful at wrestling--
    (now stopped, because our mothers and indirect fathers' verdicts
    banned the sport for children that grow past puberty ages for obvious reasons for it might compel brothers and sisters to go beyond the boundaries of brothers and sisters;
    revering the things proposed by You, you dipfuckingshit.)
    I won't lie, he's grown some muscles and it'd become harder to claim more victories than him, day after day.
    Reminiscing,
    I can still, blame my nonexistent workout schedule
    and my junk habits for my immobility--
    (useless to remind how You have already declared jogging an activity illegal for women,
    and men who do the same or are gym freaks,
    can be termed a little materialistic at max but that's all just fine)
    --and sneer as if he would've been dead if it weren't for them.
    Ofcourse he agrees,
    simultaneously aware of the moments he let go easy on me
    because he was scared of mistakingly hurting any "wrong" part of me,
    I know I'm aware that's he's aware that I'm aware, as well
    so he chuckles in his young adult voice
    and boasts me about a new bike
    in the market
    probably, to brush the topic aside
    and I ignorantly pass my judgement solely based on how loud and aesthetically pleasing, it is.
    But first and foremost, the sound, the loudness.
    I hate loud bikes. You pay more, for what?
    The subsequent headaches from the sound?
    Ah, the resulting attention might feel worth it.
    It's not even been a second since I cracked my lame joke
    and my birth-giver stomps in through the passage
    and stops right before entering the door
    She doesn't even need to say anything
    for me to hear,
    her eyes call out my name
    and I almost instantly hear Liability.
    My mother's voice doesn't need to abide by a threshold frequency,
    her words have always been deafening enough.
    And Your consistent validation, dear Prick,
    makes them so, evermore.
    I walk out the door with her,
    she continues eyeing me up & down
    with a few hushed but equally deafening words
    in my ears
    I'm half-irritated,
    half-cursing inside,
    until I walk back in my room with a
    dupatta sprawling on my effiminate chest.
    A 32B non-existent as ever,
    still a mystery how, but it's never questioned
    because You and the pious likes of You,
    always insisted, enforced,
    convinced,
    everyone alike, that
    the man-made "invisibility" of it shall always hide
    the fact of me being a female with two breasts,
    and the possible desires from other male gazes,
    to pounce,
    to touch,
    to devour me whole
    with their helpless eyes
    and lusty minds
    successfully,
    nonetheless.
    Their existence
    was always the ONLY root problem, no?
    Never Your delusioned mind.
    (whilst, Your preferences very strictly.. nah, very RIGHTLY ranging from Spineless to a Spineless Veiled Hoor)

    I'm sick, but it's only noon
    and I still have a long day to complete
    before I crawl back on my sheets to play on loop
    the exact thing
    that You forbid,
    and the exact thing
    that grants me peace.
    My shitty device's almost dead again in an hour, and as always,
    there's only one charger in the entire house
    for both, mother and I.
    No one cares to repair;
    technology is more an unnecessary privilege to religious women than men.
    Or so You'd preach,
    and so the men and women in my house, have been agreeably following.
    Isn't the 7'' phone in your kurta's pocket
    irony enough?
    I wish I could walk up to You
    with my hair open and nails painted pure white
    and smash it
    right in front your popeyed eyes
    and reason You the same.
    Atleast, my rage used right!
    You'd be puzzled,
    and I wouldn't smile even if I wanted to
    because well, two things You didn't see coming:
    1. An 'honourable' woman finally calling out an asshole on his hypocrisy, and
    2. The asshole being You.

    I can't help wondering though
    does modesty really provide enough of a shade,
    for You taint it with blood
    that flows out of our vaginas
    like a tributary that is too shy
    of its mother basin.
    One would think she'd be proud
    to be carrying a selfless
    flow of nutrition
    for a life to nurture, if she wills
    But You've already named it filthy enough
    to not touch em with your dicks
    I bet You've forgotten the time
    in the womb, your entire brain
    was bathed in it.
    No wonder You consider it polluted now,
    your stained bedsheet mind
    must've been provided You with evidences enough
    to believe that theory.
    Your thoughts are the filthiest,
    and I'm disappointed I can not even recommend peroxide to fix it.

    My device's barely surviving,
    but I'd write the shit out of this wannabe poem until my phone gives up on me,
    or my fingers fall numb,
    whichever that happens first.
    The other device on charge, is connected to the socket right behind the bedpost,
    and as usual
    is never at rest.
    This afternoon it's busy
    simultaneously, displaying some rally stills,
    it's only been two seconds
    but the title has offended You enough.
    Some worn-out women in Pakistan decided no longer
    to be used as vessels
    bit by bit, hollowed out off their own lives
    in which the existing men around
    ungratefully eat and wash their hands
    and burp in misogyny
    as if the food was always there,
    and is supposed to be there because part of the reason they got a wife,
    is because You joked to 'em you how they couldn't afford a house-help
    Besides, sex is nice anyways.
    Thanks to You, they didn't think they'd have enough money to pay
    but hey,
    wasn't it You to remind 'em?
    Mehr was always a one-time investment.

    They pleaded to be treated with dignity first
    like humans,
    let alone truly equals
    but You have better plans for them
    for you've always known better.
    You like to shake your head in dismissal upon greetings and admiration
    from others
    in lieu of your self-proclaimed humble self.
    It doesn't take You a minute longer though,
    to shamelessly go ahead, and point
    to a protest slogan
    'Mera jism, mera haq, meri marzi'
    (My Body, My Right, My Choice)
    and drop your eyes in artificially processed sinlessness
    before crawling em up again
    to label them 'behuda'
    and deserving of shame.
    Because a woman's body, ofcourse, You say,
    can never be hers alone, it's the entire family's;
    from her hair, to nails
    from her wrists, to ankles
    from her voice to her goddamn name
    from birth, to fucking even after her death.
    Everything warranting purdah,
    because You can't keep it in your pants,
    at just the thought of women having
    a normal human body.
    I wish I could count You the number of daughters
    you chained with henna on their hands
    and then married the same to dish-soap.
    Half of em, unwanted mothers, now;
    crashing,
    waking up only to feed their babies
    dreaming, believing,
    and wanting for their children,
    the exact opposite of what You told their mothers.

    How does it feel to hide behind a God that
    thinks so lowly about half of the population he created?
    The same one whom You say facilitated modesty as an ornament to women,
    and then asked em to wear it proudly
    as the only form of devotion;
    otherwise someone else might take advantage
    of us being a human, because you never gave us the right
    to say 'no'
    So why would you think,
    anybody would even heed to it,
    if given the choice and chance to use it, in the first place.
    I do not know how my 12th grade textbook
    scares You,
    challenges your faith,
    compels You to discipline me
    what good is your ground if one innocent question makes you scream,
    one extra minute spent on the internet or the books calls for suspicion?
    I'm crying,
    I'm crying
    I'm crying
    and I'm finally praying.
    Praying,
    in front of the same God
    to allow the night to fall as soon as godly possible by him.
    It hurts a little too much to admit,
    it's very often, I
    mourn a lonesome death,
    every time, every time
    I hear that phrase run through speakers
    in my own home.
    I am yet to loathe myself enough to deny myself of an education that makes me capable beyond the sphere of motherly duties
    and a wife that knows more than to always spread her legs open.
    See? I love myself enough already.

    But why would You care about any of that?
    The man-child in you is fed,
    and sucked
    (by two gullible ladies, oblivious to their own inadvertent steadfastness, because they love You and their God a little too much)
    and that's enough
    for the hunger in You
    to go ahead and give the same
    rote speech for a group of another hundred people,
    still joking, about your possession of two more vacancies;
    it's not even funny how You say it tongue in cheek
    implying the ones at home,
    might beat you up
    if they hear this in the speech,
    but the reality
    of both the bedrooms in your house
    is quite the opposite, than your masochistic humour.
    Besides, the internet would prove to be
    too expensive for your home,
    and they both have a Nokia 3310 anyways.


    ©hayat

  • hayat_ 39w

    This was written for a poetry competition, recently, on the prompt 'fragility'.



    It takes a fierce heart
    to wither a storm;
    it takes twice a fragile one
    to watch your Love
    do that to themselves
    dilapidate,
    crumble,
    leaving behind a heap
    of eyes and dust,
    maroon.
    It might take a handful of rubble
    to affirm yourself
    of the red powdery fumes,
    stinging like sawdust in your eyes
    the ruins of once a forever home
    on the ground, lifeless
    but
    one can never be so eager
    to fathom, how
    it takes another hurtful
    of a thousand more
    different shards,
    over the same wound--
    to watch,
    to substantiate, for yourself,
    the damage done, irreversible
    in its own magnanimity
    preserved in a cultural ether
    of a marked fragility.

    You, a determined trespasser
    on your own loving belongings
    to see
    a part of you, wrecked
    lying in shambles;
    gaze unwavering off the show
    not for the thrill or the drama
    or milder yet, sympathy
    but out of sheer helplessness
    desperation that leads one nowhere;
    with eyes
    that look older with every tear,
    every grimace,
    and an unmistakable laugh
    born out of a love
    for an unrequited attempt
    at an uncertain hope.
    Uncertainty ceases to be the scariest,
    when one's never taught
    backhanded ways how Hope could've been spelt.

    It's comically tragic to imagine
    what a lone man with a fortune to expend,
    and a heart, full of giving
    ends up doing.
    He holds it dear, but spends lavishly
    almost as recklessly as a gambler
    loving the entertainment,
    though, all-knowing in his heart,
    how short-lived fortunes
    leave more lasting miseries.
    Fragility is only a curse
    when you're forced to learn
    it likewise, with courage.
    That's exactly what's called
    when
    you bend down, and sit
    besides the mud
    to cup it in your palms
    bring your face to kiss it,
    rest your forehead along;
    a patriotic devotion of the miserable kind.
    Most often the most unsaid,
    most often the most felt;
    as the Love
    staying as lifeless;
    corpse veins, with a capped canine
    still as much in crumbles.
    There's no one to inherit,
    and no one to comfort.
    So what does a lone man has to offer again, you ask?
    Perhaps, only a father's devotion
    to an already orphaned fortune.

    Read More

    ©hayat

  • hayat_ 49w

    Low, a part of me now
    A palm to my mouth
    I said it, almost.

    Snow, brother I'll bet it all gold
    Shudder with blood in my nose
    I had it, almost.
    ~ Repeat Until Death, Novo Amor.

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    Victims of my m(use).

    I'm not hungry tonight.
    Mother, my misery has me full.

    I love the drumstick curry you make
    but
    the sweetness,
    never enough to palate the words under my tongue;
    the bitterness,
    never enough to accustom your acerbic abstraction of me.

    Mother, I'm not hungry tonight.
    But I shall still wash my hands,
    and sit
    besides you,
    on the dinner mat.

    I love the rice you make,
    but
    the stickiness,
    always enough to persist betwixt my uprooted molars;
    the stiffness,
    always enough to morsel my whole being into bite-sized pieces for else's convenience.

    Mother, I'm not hungry tonight.
    I shall not eat,
    for I can not bring myself, to burp a digestible reason
    let alone, an approved revolution.

    Mother, I'm not hungry tonight.
    Mother, my misery has me full.

    Pardon my barred teeth, and
    their incapacity to chew your good-willing intentions;
    likewise, my denial
    to plate the offered alimentation.

    Tonight, it's neither,
    my empty stomach, nor any nauseous appetite
    'Tis you rather,
    Mother, you make me want to die.


    ©hayat

  • hayat_ 52w

    It's that time of the evening again
    when you express your dislike, for the same thing
    sneer as if
    the watchman let an astray dog
    piss at your door
    again,
    without your permission
    and I have to hear your disapproval
    between my invisible sighs
    and an obvious display of dismay
    and a not-too-obvious attempt at sarcasm
    Pardon me,
    I'm yet to grow as much,
    to take it
    to continue
    smoothly,
    with the next question
    about your preferred pizza toppings
    the very second second,
    and answer it.
    But I'm old enough, to realize
    that I should be wise enough, to do so
    and hence
    I do so,
    with an apparent, and
    abrupt preciseness
    that as well you know,
    you conveniently chose to ignore.
    I could only wish for it
    and the things you say you don't believe in
    to be a non-existent word.
    I could only wish
    for you to ask me what I mean,
    I could only wish
    for you to enquire about
    why I feel what I feel,
    and with what intensity do I feel whatever it is that I feel
    about my 'lecture'
    on equity,
    and how it baffles me beyond my
    whiny wits, and what rather little
    my mortal brain permits
    to discriminate within human beings
    simply because, they're a certain type of human being.
    I could only wish
    for you to see around
    if not listen to me, once
    when I say How It Defines Me;
    an identity you'd have appreciated, too
    only if you would've
    cared enough
    to not colourblind yourself, with
    the flaming yellow theme of your crush's feed
    but his unfrequented insta account
    keeps both your curiosity
    and heart,
    burning.
    While the red alert goes on and off,
    in this small town
    past the road, your drawing room overlooks
    where another one gets hospitalized in a state of emergency;
    (blue and bruised,
    visible scars to your visible spectrum of eyes)
    the in-laws pleading she fell from the roof,
    in a house with no roof.
    All your green faces muddy with envy,
    seeing your friend flaunt the shorts you'd liked on Instagram first
    but she'd first bought
    because your mum is a progressive teacher
    which always denies,
    and always agrees
    that people around you rightly tie your
    character to your clothes
    and you've to be the best approachable character around.
    Never say no,
    because No is never appreciable,
    and what's not appreciable
    isn't something for a woman to possess.

    I am not salty,
    or maybe I am.
    But salt's always good in the right amount;
    or maybe that's just my taste
    in the food I'd want to eat.
    Trust me, it's quite hard
    to not sound judgemental
    but how'd you even get an idea about people,
    without judging their stern judgements.
    I've tried reasoning;
    an intelligent lady, sympathetic,
    and on most days, kind
    would refuse to acknowledge so?
    Are you just busy enough?
    Maybe it's just the college to be blamed,
    teaching you your management studies poorly.
    Ping.
    But the reply for a lame joke is almost
    always returned, that immediate second
    --a laughing Daisy sticker
    followed by three similar memes,
    (as if laughter is supposed to be the only thing to call for solidarity)--
    awaiting me
    and I'm just left wondering, if you've made your
    peace
    with your sore nostril,
    and with the way your mother got it pierced
    deceivingly,
    in a hopeful thought about marriage
    while still not allowing you
    to love someone
    in the hopes of finding a husband.
    The irony would've almost made me laugh
    had it not been
    for your sorer ears,
    worn out
    from all the shadow-banning
    from your own kin
    when you stay out a few minutes longer
    without your cousin brother to accompany you,
    and the monthly
    'bloody' isolation.
    In the same drawing room corner;
    a primly touch-me-not, with
    a truly exclusive dinner plate.
    Is that the kind of
    privacy you were craving, dearie?

    You come to me on days,
    when your crush doesn't reply,
    he's distant and probably uninterested
    and that's okay.
    I console.
    You come to me on days,
    when your mom's never one for acknowledgement
    she's aged in a household where your
    grandmother's unpaid, unappreciated labour taught her,
    that the provider in the house, was her grandfather alone,
    and that's not okay.
    I shall still console.
    You come to me on days,
    when your beloved, loving father didn't take your side,
    mocked a mockery, at you
    made you feel less of a woman, lesser of a human;
    but darling,
    all I can do is console.
    Because you don't believe in a world,
    that strives to unhinge these shackles,
    back till the very first key;
    because you don't want to believe in a word,
    that stands for this very change, demanding
    respect and individuality,
    to be a universal phenomenon;
    irrespective of whether you carry a gender,
    or don't.
    A world,
    that sets apart disagreement and disrespect;
    a world,
    that encourages, teaches,
    children and adults, alike;
    a world,
    that values autonomy, a human right.
    Where, your favourite burgundy lipstick,
    only relies on choice and a pair of lips.
    Where, your favourite peach polish,
    only requires willingness and a few nails.
    Where your favourite yellow skirt, you'd liked on me
    demands only the confidence to flaunt.
    Exactly the kind of utopia
    that'd make you laugh your prettiest laugh
    and scrunch your nose into a prettier W.
    But it's just another day,
    and you've turned more than colourblind today.
    It's partly sunny through the high-rise's corridor,
    and the weather's too humid for you
    to not wear a sleeveless top.
    It's been 2 days since you last shaved your pits,
    but you still go out the door.
    Your mum's eyes follow you
    you despise that look;
    so much,
    so damn much.
    You make your way to the adjacent door,
    and knock.
    Your neighbour's cat seems to purr just fine.

    ©hayat

    •••

    Me being dramatic af? Maybe. Maybe not.
    This was born outta a random (although solicited) conversation with a schoolmate about a recent bookhaul, her showing some interest and then dismissing the same when she found out it was a "feminist" book. XD
    I was sarcastic, of course. Can't help the habit anymore. But also, gave up on explaining, quite easily. It felt a weird kind of incomplete, not conveying my view; though I know she's not one to listen to my 'pravachan' (as she put it) anyways.
    This feels like enough of a response, and my point is made.
    #ContentKeLiyeKuchBhi lmao XD

    Read More

    Faux Pas

  • hayat_ 53w

    Remembrance
    is a petty excuse
    on a weekday night, for you to drink
    half your fixed vessel
    of turmeric flavoured milk
    & three moist slices
    of bread, on a weekend noon
    while replaying a fresh episode
    showcasing
    a nailpolish collection,
    by one of your favourite internet personas.
    So shifty and multichrome, you think;
    the green, faintly reminding you
    of the forever fertile jackfruit tree
    behind your apartment complex
    now conveniently cut by its man-owner;
    the purple, almost the colour of the dress
    you never fail to swoon over through the glass doors,
    everytime
    you're on your way to visit your orthodontist
    but very well realize, is nothing
    honourable for one like you to wear;
    and alike the faraway view
    down a-decade-ago window, that eve,
    shine the streetlights the same bright ochre,
    when you first visited a foreign land
    with a silver headband
    your mother made you don over a middle parting and two plaits,
    against your tweenage will.
    You drool away at the metallic colours
    but if your nails were to talk
    they'd abuse their powers into gifting you
    an extra hangnail
    in retaliation,
    and then cry a river in a snobby sticky red
    when you compulsively pull it off to relieve your itch.
    They're so sore, so are you
    but nobody says sorry.

    Somebody once told you
    that your hands were a pretty little asset,
    you had laughed, glancing at your tips
    introspecting
    taking 'em a little too seriously.
    Is that why you've been flaunting a prettier ring
    in your middle finger
    lately?
    It makes me happy
    in ways I would not want to share,
    it makes me sadder
    in ways I would not be able to.

    You think, no one has yet acquired
    the exact flavour of helplessness
    that homes in your mouth
    when you keep reiterating
    your inability
    to not be able to concoct the perfect ratio
    of syllables,
    for you've definitely not read
    enough literature
    to earn a talent that suffices to describe the How
    in sentences;
    I cannot help you either, for only you know
    how it feels
    when you hush your nights
    into your lover's embrace,
    warm,
    and warm enough.
    Doesn't it make you want to be hopeful
    of a land bereft of summers?
    Both of you agree on winters that are harsher;
    and at the same time, par intimate.
    You might not know, but honey,
    I've seen you cry
    when he says
    he loves the same poetry you love,
    and it's only evident
    it's another one of the umpteenth times
    you've doubted
    your apparent albeit a stubborn disbelief
    in soulmates.
    He wipes off the tumbling ones, first--
    the dampness, as if something volatile
    under his soft touch,
    swift,
    o'er the leftover, dehydrated cheeks
    with his ever so tender,
    ever so charming, exquisite fingers;
    --and lets the rest,
    flow through his.
    You cry a galore, and don't stop no more
    when he goes ahead to remind you
    how everything
    can be a shared responsibility.

    Sleep isn't a privilege to you
    on most days, but when it is
    you fall dead
    to the lullaby of your own breaths
    and a kaleidoscope of kisses,
    every angle, every kind;
    myriad colours
    and a transient peace, one can only call divine.
    The next morn
    is a gifted groggy head
    and three minutes of awakeness
    is all what it takes
    for you to cue your horses to hold themselves,
    daydreaming is ofcourse pretty,
    but an amateur hand fetish is
    better kept inside the line.


    ©hayat




    Delirious or Delicious? XD

    Read More

    Hand-some

  • hayat_ 53w

    #

    Grief is so fucking weird. What mysterious ways of convincing you that you would want to get over it. More than a trap, it's an unbelievable subconscious conspiracy. One that comes with a bitchy asterisk, and a plethora of policy conditions. Hiding in plain sight, and always costing you more. Grief is harder to share, or so I believed. Turns out, I'm just selfish in my suffering. I like to think that it doesn't make who I am, in parts or in whole. But what I make-believe, is most often untrue. It's a whole mess of confusion, and I'm mostly always tired. Am I just used to the denial it stems; in dire need of the defensive hesitation it has imbibed; or just too attached to let it go? It's so hard to see through it. So hard to reach a conclusion that doesn't sound like what you feel isn't the right way to go about it.
    Am I afraid? That is one scary question to ask myself.

    I'm afraid of an identity that doesn't have my grievances as the prominent background; the salient feature of my insignificant landscape that all my geography lessons loved to talk about and I so hated. I'm afraid of a life that assures me that one day, I can live without it, I will live without it. I think it makes me feel special, the grievance. That's what so weird about it. It's easier to accept the hopelessness and suffering it brings, but what do I reason my worthiness that births from the same womb, fondles the same cradle, as a sibling consequence? The relief that shoos away all eyes that warn of an unwanted healing and disguises as a preemptive piece of cloth, all the while feeding me under its shadow, off its overswollen but always welcoming breasts? The familiarity that comforts me and makes me sleep so warm in a cold lap, convincing me otherwise at the very thought of putting any efforts?

    It's been years, and I have been living a brutal lie. Partly mad at myself, for not thinking this through.
    My head hurts; was a reason enough dismissive.
    We will think about it, only a bit later; was an excuse enough accountable.

    Grief seldom divides, merely displaces. That was my reason for not sobbing my heart out to anyone who felt like a close one. It channels through you; so does it meant to be, and that's probably the only way for it to be; cause most of the times what you feel is even absurd to you, isn't it? Three hours later, I'm a fool that tried to use rationality to explain her fucked up mind and obsession with grief.
    I could very well use the same to wipe off some of my tears, but then I'm a hypocrite that only uses tissues to write really good advice and pass 'em across the table with a smile and a sexy attempt at a failed wink.

    Fuck you Stockholm Syndrome.

    Grief hurts, and it might make the healing hurt too. And I'm still tired.
    I guess it's about time to make myself hurt a different way.