#poetry community

you cannot tell me that time is an arrow, as i stand taller than my mother, 

yet shrink in her shadow like it’s my first day of school and i am 6 years old. 

and often i still am, as i transport worms out of gutters and mourn snails squashed on pavements. 

but sometimes it’s 12 am and i’m 7, dissecting dark corners in my room like it’s a crime scene

and i’m now the investigator searching for ghosts

in place of monsters that once made me the victim. 

other times it’s 6 am and i’m 10, but i’m not stirring from nightmares, 

i’m slipping out of bed and into them, like shackles instead of slippers. 

then i’m 14 with secrets that mark me in scratches, in bruises and insecurities,

but i mask them with lies and schoolwork and sweaters and smiles

that split my face in half to distract from the pit that is my chest. 

suddenly—perhaps finally—i’m 16 in August and every hour is 3 in the afternoon;

the hospital bed feels like the precipice and everything that comes after is the descent

because time is not linear, it is not the arrow or the bullet. 

sometimes it feels like the plunge before the collapse,

like forever pointing the gun, but never pulling the trigger,

or standing with the bow drawn, but never letting go because you’re always pulling back. 

- “time is no arrow”

if turning water into wine

could make a man divine,

you must surely be sublime

the way you turn a February moon

into a waxing gibbous,

and a city sky’s dull stars

into clusters of wishes,

and the way you make

poetry from prosaic sentences,

and backseats and bedrooms

into replicas of heaven.

you change music of any genre

into gospel, of which i sing

in love and in reverence,

“you are divine,

you are divine!”

of this, i’m certain.

should you ever question your sanctity

or—god forbid—my worship,

may these poems be the proof,

the evidence,

the testament.

- “you are divine”

⚠️TW: domestic violence, intimate partner violence⚠️

they left you breathless,

and you swear it’s the kiss 

before the punch,

or the kiss on the bruise

that was left after one

that proves it’s love.

the butterflies have left,

exhaled in every breath 

you cannot catch,

but should chase after

with urgency.

i weep for the ones

still out of breath 

and unable to move;

they mourn for butterflies

as they choke for monsters 

that look like lovers 

they once knew. 

- “still out of breath”

we stood outside in the cold, 

away from the restaurant,

just to take a moment or two alone

to kiss and to sway and to hold hands,

like two people who know how to love,

but not how to dance.

and the thought crossed my mind

in between the kisses and hugs 

that made a crisp night cozy,

that this is love, backstage;

these are the moments others can’t see 

or resent or reduce to a play,

like devotion is only a thing 

that’s faked for accolades.

but the way i’d let myself 

ice over in March

just to melt in your arms 

on an empty sidewalk,

or a vacant parking lot,

must just be scenes they crop out

in films we use like soundtracks,

instead of movies to watch.

- “backstage love”

i couldn’t say their name if i tried,

when there once was a time

i spoke it like a body takes a breath;

i never forgot how to breathe

like i never forgot what a person can mean,

despite how i avoid them by crossing the street.

-“like a body takes a breath”

love has no fixed face, love has many. 

i taste love on the lips of my lover. 

i hear love amidst my family’s laughter. 

i rest my head on love, 

on the shoulders of my mother. 

i feel love in my arms and beneath my palms,

and sometimes it looks like a purring cat 

or a sleepy-eyed dog.

to truly appreciate the essence of love 

is to recognize that it can be as diverse 

as it is abundant—and then suddenly,

love is not merely somewhere.

it can be anywhere and everywhere.

-“Valentine’s Day”

i can’t find heaven on the map,

but i’m too scared to ask for directions

because everyone’s got horns or fangs 

or blood on their hands.

i saw wings on your back 

and i’m still not sure if they’re real

or just feathers and wax.

you could be Icarus

though i’m hardly the sun.

it’s always why he plummets

and never where he sinks;

i sobbed that i’m the ocean,

the aftermath, the burial pit

but you just laughed.

so even if your halo’s plastic,

i’d still wear it like a ring 

if you asked.

- “where Icarus sinks”

growing up feels like missing aspects of ages you left behind 

on playgrounds with bruised knees and scratches,

in front of TV screens that felt like windows to real worlds,

beneath Christmas trees clutching gifts that Santa left,

looking up to people in both height and expression,

reading comic books about heroes while vowing once you’re older, you’ll save the world too

because even as a child you know there’s good things to uphold and bad things to vanquish.

but growing older is walking past playgrounds 

and watching movies without expectations

and setting up Christmas trees because you’ve become Santa

and craning your neck less but understanding people more 

and still wanting to save the world, but you take on days one at a time instead.

-“growing older”

my troubled mind constantly reiterates 

that i do not deserve love and kindness, that i am nothing.

but my aspiration to heal  asserts that i do, 

i do, 

i do.

so the war wages on,  as i realize i am everything: 

the battleground,  the revolutionary and the enemy.

- “psychological warfare”

tell me, do you look at the sky and think about me? 

“if they really care about you, they’ll make an effort.”

i’ve been
pretending
and lying
not only to others
but also to myself

if memories could come alive,
i’d never mind welcoming yours.

November mo(u)rning

We share a common guilt
the fate of the unscathed,
a hard-won bed of roses
exchanged for strife and raid.

Our soil is drenched in blood
some old, some new, some foreign,
We walk this earth untroubled
oblivious to the torrent.

At times we toss and turn,
and pass a silent sentence,
We read of bravery and war crimes,
of mourning wives and mothers.

And then: “it is inhumane”
yet - is war not human, too?
A human error, granted,
in steel and cobalt blue.

// A. Divinatrice

All the reasons why - ishani

1.who can handle someone who can’t handle themselves?

2. i spent nights writing about you, but you were out with a different girl.

3. i can’t promise that i’ll be spontaneous unlike her.

4. i bet she doesn’t pinch her skin between her two fingers. 

5. does she hate everybody because she thinks that they hate her too? me too.

6. i can’t hold a perfect thing without watching it fly away.

7. she looks hot in a bikini. i don’t.

8. sometimes i’m scared that you’ll leave me like the rest of them.

9. you dream about her, nightmare about me.

10. i bet she doesn’t care about what everyone else thinks about her.

11. i got drunk wishing that you’ll message me back.

12. i got too faded enough to message you twice in hope that would message back.

13. i hope you know that i showed you my bruises just to impress you.

14. i loved when you called me an alcoholic – even though it sounded patronizing.

15. i’d be lying when i say it didn’t hurt me when you didn’t like me - even a little.

16. see me write a list about why you can’t love me like how i could love you.

Skin deep with reality - ishani

I wonder when
these fantasies
start living up
to reality …

… but this
is all of the
fatalities faced
by being an
escapist of this
reality too.

Time to heal the broken, it never does - ishani

Hello, and I am not sorry,
this is not a goodbye,
more like a salutation
of a farewell,
this is our little dark age
watch me find light in this
darkness, as I’m sat in the
air conditioned emergency
room, my eyes burning
with mint, wearing a mask
is worse when you chew gum.
Everyone is staring,
it makes me feel intimidated,
I’m used to being the
intimidating one,
the scary one who makes
their skin crawl.
I’m the youngest one here,
well minus that toddler who
has barely been alive for a
minute – he doesn’t count.
This place smells of bleach
and anti bac, and the all too
familiar stench of the oncology
wards all around, I remember you
here, with your
liquorice all sorts that
were disgusting by the way,
but I “liked” them still, only for you,
I hope you know that.
You probably do, you’re my
guardian angel, I believe you
still visit me every now and then,
maybe my clairvoyancy isn’t as
good as it should be, because I
miss you every day.
They say it gets easier as time
passes, but everyday passes
and it never gets easier,
instead it makes my heart
reach out to make me miss you more,
because du er et minne (you are
a memory) it’s time to let you go now,
instead of grasping onto
the smoke of my past,
you need your peace
and all I cause is chaos
all around me.

To the daughters of this generation - ishani

Do you remember when your
mothers would say ‘this
is how girls end up dead’?

That I’ve been trying to
stay alive and not be killed
my whole life.

Maybe it’s time we fuck
the patriarchal society,
this man run world,
because this fucking queen
wants to walk alone at
night, with my hair
pulled back and headphones
in my ear, because
“I’m tired and angry but
somebody should be!”

pana ne vom intalni din nou - ishani

my skin is crawling,
my stomach clammy like
all things anxious,
like I’m about to throw up,
but instead I’m all funny,
maybe like bubbles blowing up,
in the epitome of my abdomen,
I’m not sure why,
this shit is vexing me,
it’s 11pm too,
seems like my new favourite time,
just to lie awake and do nothing,
close my eyes and try to drift away,
can’t think of nothing new,
so instead I wrote a poem;
It doesn’t have to be good,
but is poetry ever perfect?

More like a stream of
consciousness strung
together in sentence that
sound pretty, add in a rhyme or
two, like my story of
the old man who refused
to sell his lime to a boy
called dan; dan
didn’t have money,
well only two dimes,
but it seems I’m only
on a tangent now,
I’ll take this as my cue to go,
not forever,
it’s only a goodbye for now;
until we meet again, my friend.

maybe i’m a hypocrite that i want you to remember me when i forget you - ishani

Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, in my bra and
pajama bottoms, hair down?

Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, drunk and
alone, wine in my blood causing
a little bit of trouble?

Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, high and I
kind of wanna cry, because
I’m so fucking alone?

Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying in my bed, and my head down
in the pillow, but I’m pretending it’s you?

Do you even think about me?
Do you even dream about me?
Do you even say my name in the back
of your mind, wishing that you hadn’t pin
pricked my heart with your finger before
licking the blood of the tips with a smile?