Wasted Youth
by Simra Sadaf
at the raw age of 21,
tragedy crawls
towards me like
a bare-assed baby
caked with dirt,
throws its hands
up in the air
asking to be held,
and I do.
at the hazy age of 23,
wanting to get rid
of the dirt stain
on my arms and
my T-shirt,
I go to the
nearest mosque
wash my hands
and do my ablution,
but the “faithful ones”
are triggered,
said I am leaving
blemishes on the
prayer mat.
at the dire age of 25,
my Adam’s apple
is slowly being
sucked in,
my spine steadily
disappearing as
I roam around
this godless town
in search of a
whorehouse,
barefoot.
at the crippling age of 28,
my tragedies and aches
find a home,
it is shiny and warm,
I have since been
learning God’s language,
and the night’s mouth
does not engulf
me anymore,
it kisses me,
gently.
at the brittle age of 30,
my cocaine infused
arteries now host
a venomous
snake bite,
and as the dawn
falls far away
from my sight,
I scream under the
bubbling bath tub,
“annihilate me, God,
I love every second of it.”
My Lover's Nest
by Simra Sadaf
Oh to lay in a sunflower field on summer evenings picturing what color your room is, your bed and the bed spread, silk or cashmere or cotton and the women who sat there folding their
arms and then unfolding them as they watched you tiptoe your way to the bathroom, as they watched you forget your god, as you ran your fingers along their pelvis.
They didn’t drape you in velvet. Let me.
Do you become holier each time you drag your nails into everything you touch, shoulders, spine, thighs, foggy evenings, into everything you love, my ribs, your cat’s pink paws, my grave? Do you stop loving once your nails sink into them? There are red marks all over my chest but you never touched me.
You burned me.
Class is too subjective of a matter to take into account when my obsession meets your unmalleable weak bones. And my wounds open wide enough sucking me into an abyss that looks like a coffin or at least smells like it, like wood, mud, like rotting flesh, like camphor, where we sit across each other and you still don’t see me.
Why?
You know when you read Andrea Gibson’s poems and you can’t help but cry because it’s so beautiful? That’s how it is when you talk, that’s how I want to paint you in these poems, fiercely, in violent screams, in first heartbreaks, in the fall of Icarus, in the first burn of alcohol, yet you would still be the gentlest person to ever walk on the face of this earth.
Now summer is gone. Bring death to me.
About the Author
Simra Sadaf has finished her Masters in English Literature from University Of Madras. She writes short stories and poems for magazines. She pursued her bachelors in Sociology and has an abundant knowledge about the workings of a society which she incorporates in most of her writings. She reads books of all genres and likes to review them on Goodreads and other social media platforms. She loves the art of storytelling and someday hopes to write something that will leave a lasting impact on the readers. Literature drives her spirit and words churn her soul.