silent screaming yellowredhot rage curling
inside from intestines intertwining with
reason rationale morality sanity
everything is lost
in a burning fire that rips
me to shreds i
don't know who i am is this
how burn victims feel when
they see trauma, nightmares of
burning houses screams and
no water no relief no one
to save them?
i want to scream
and scream
and scream i feel like i left
a child in the house that
burned down
(the child was me)
i'm
knee deep in ashes, quicksand i
cannot get up, cannot get out, cannot
do not cave
in, still and frozen, Medusa's
wrath i am goddess
victim, slain and
spared
which do i be grateful for?
what (who) do i mourn?
.....................................................................................
someone please light out the fire
it's consumed me.
-Eeda
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
Monday, April 2, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
Rollercoaster rides
Empty parking lots at 2am, panicked drives down main roads and voices voices voices
Voices from a dream voices whispering relief.
.......
A distraught father blocks my car, peers through my window. 2 am. "I'm sorry, I thought you were my daughters friend. I was going to call 911 on you, I'm so sorry"
Wandering souls in empty spaces, destroyed by selfish love, blood.
We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.
........
Words. Easier to imagine there's no face behind the voice, no beating heart beating in tune to yours. Easier to disconnect disassociate, than to cave in and surrender. Restraint becomes harder, cooks up misguided vitriol, spewed in guilt and shame. Yes I like this. Yes I need this. Yes. But not you.
........
Straining restraining bonds of leather love cut equally deep in soft skin. "How are your fingers so soft?" Some fresh bruises, raw, scab hard, some scab soft.
............
Vodka kisses, this
Is familiar, unwanted and
Wanted (when sober). Have
Your way with me, my life
How much of this is grief how
Much
An agenda for self
Annihilation
............
Neck shoulder back whispers whimpers spirals.
My lips are raw I bite
Down hard to keep this inside. Where to begin
Unravel
Ling.
............
There's so much more I want to write but I can't make sense of it amidst the noise in my head turmoil in heart guiltily remembering words that make my happy and yet break me apart. Senselessly spinning in circles, I'm always dizzy all the time but
Keeping perfectly still.
.........
-f
Voices from a dream voices whispering relief.
.......
A distraught father blocks my car, peers through my window. 2 am. "I'm sorry, I thought you were my daughters friend. I was going to call 911 on you, I'm so sorry"
Wandering souls in empty spaces, destroyed by selfish love, blood.
We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.
........
Words. Easier to imagine there's no face behind the voice, no beating heart beating in tune to yours. Easier to disconnect disassociate, than to cave in and surrender. Restraint becomes harder, cooks up misguided vitriol, spewed in guilt and shame. Yes I like this. Yes I need this. Yes. But not you.
........
Straining restraining bonds of leather love cut equally deep in soft skin. "How are your fingers so soft?" Some fresh bruises, raw, scab hard, some scab soft.
............
Vodka kisses, this
Is familiar, unwanted and
Wanted (when sober). Have
Your way with me, my life
How much of this is grief how
Much
An agenda for self
Annihilation
............
Neck shoulder back whispers whimpers spirals.
My lips are raw I bite
Down hard to keep this inside. Where to begin
Unravel
Ling.
............
There's so much more I want to write but I can't make sense of it amidst the noise in my head turmoil in heart guiltily remembering words that make my happy and yet break me apart. Senselessly spinning in circles, I'm always dizzy all the time but
Keeping perfectly still.
.........
-f
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Monday, March 26, 2018
the most difficult thing is disentangling reality from fantastical romance.
there's been no roses. there was no proposal on one knee.
things are not how u imagine them in romance movies...the love is there, but in ways you wouldn't expect, and ways you can't see.
the difficulty is letting go of grudges about expectations, and to learn to love the other in the way they love you, not in the way you love them....which quite often are very distinct from each other.
a lesson in time.
there's been no roses. there was no proposal on one knee.
things are not how u imagine them in romance movies...the love is there, but in ways you wouldn't expect, and ways you can't see.
the difficulty is letting go of grudges about expectations, and to learn to love the other in the way they love you, not in the way you love them....which quite often are very distinct from each other.
a lesson in time.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Monday, March 19, 2018
longing
aspirations.
voice over the shoulder, breeze below the wrist, touch on the arm, face next to cheek.
dreams.
i smell the sea salt in the shaker, the sea salt in the turquoise of the sea. i am gulping breaths of seaweed and salt and the sky and the golden sun, on the green hill, rolling towards the sand. the scene is imprinted behind my eyelids, alternate universes tattooed in the crevices we don't see but can't unsee. spaces between the fingers, pink under the nails, the flesh inside the elbow, the yellow of the inner arm.
hiraeth.
i am in longing for somethingsomeone of which i know not. running in my sleep, weary when awake, question marks in my soul.
poetic torment always inspired by a want so powerful it becomes need, wrings your soul and leaves you wanting, like sex, like food, like air. gasp,
fill your lungs and your toes with salt.
salt in my tears, salt in my tea, salt on my tongue, salt of the sea.
voice over the shoulder, breeze below the wrist, touch on the arm, face next to cheek.
dreams.
i smell the sea salt in the shaker, the sea salt in the turquoise of the sea. i am gulping breaths of seaweed and salt and the sky and the golden sun, on the green hill, rolling towards the sand. the scene is imprinted behind my eyelids, alternate universes tattooed in the crevices we don't see but can't unsee. spaces between the fingers, pink under the nails, the flesh inside the elbow, the yellow of the inner arm.
hiraeth.
i am in longing for somethingsomeone of which i know not. running in my sleep, weary when awake, question marks in my soul.
poetic torment always inspired by a want so powerful it becomes need, wrings your soul and leaves you wanting, like sex, like food, like air. gasp,
fill your lungs and your toes with salt.
salt in my tears, salt in my tea, salt on my tongue, salt of the sea.
Friday, March 16, 2018
he was sitting on the edge of the white headboard and as i leaned against it, my head nuzzled his left knee. his hand toyed with loose tendrils behind my right ear as i typed into my laptop, fresh white sunlight gently grazing through the window.
.....................
the scene shifts. we are walking on the pavement near the Mediterranean in Regatta. His hand is in the small of my back, guiding me down. I blink and I'm at the hospital corridor in LI. Mom's in the ICU. Blink and again by the sea.
His hand rubs my back, grabs my right arm preventing me from collapsing.
About my height, maybe an inch taller. messy black hair. round face with a pointed sharp jawline. goofy side smile usually but now, pursed lips.
......................
he shows me a black car. is it red? hazy, i can't recall. it's his car, his ex is selling. his eyes are red.
.....................
Blink
........................
A few months ago, he had waited by the dark stormy sea in his black leather jacket.
Grinning, smugly. Private joke he had made of me. All i knew was I had to get to him and I couldn't.
Hands in the pockets of the jeans, swaying with the breeze. Alone by the edge of the rock. Smiling.
.......................
Why am I having these dreams?
.....................
the scene shifts. we are walking on the pavement near the Mediterranean in Regatta. His hand is in the small of my back, guiding me down. I blink and I'm at the hospital corridor in LI. Mom's in the ICU. Blink and again by the sea.
His hand rubs my back, grabs my right arm preventing me from collapsing.
About my height, maybe an inch taller. messy black hair. round face with a pointed sharp jawline. goofy side smile usually but now, pursed lips.
......................
he shows me a black car. is it red? hazy, i can't recall. it's his car, his ex is selling. his eyes are red.
.....................
Blink
........................
A few months ago, he had waited by the dark stormy sea in his black leather jacket.
Grinning, smugly. Private joke he had made of me. All i knew was I had to get to him and I couldn't.
Hands in the pockets of the jeans, swaying with the breeze. Alone by the edge of the rock. Smiling.
.......................
Why am I having these dreams?
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
we think we are mountains of strength, moving with self-assurance between office corridors, head held up high on the street, conviction with which our feet pound the gravel, urban warriors, war-painted, shoulders back and pride in every step.
hold your fingers up to the sun and see your fingertips glow pink. nailbeds orange. our very fibers so translucent, a burning star millions of light-years away can illuminate right through the fragile tissues that make up, you.
so fragile, and yet so self-assured.
does it not make you fearful?
have you no fear?
what makes up your mountain that makes you so?
mountain my heart,
rocks where my soul used to be
hold your fingers up to the sun and see your fingertips glow pink. nailbeds orange. our very fibers so translucent, a burning star millions of light-years away can illuminate right through the fragile tissues that make up, you.
so fragile, and yet so self-assured.
does it not make you fearful?
have you no fear?
what makes up your mountain that makes you so?
mountain my heart,
rocks where my soul used to be
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
#thingstonotforget
AD:
you've got a gift. don't
lose it
in fact
don't lose that part of
you
eeda:
it gets buried down after
days and days of shi*. its been a lot of those kinda days.
i dont even know where to
start now
AD:
no matter how much shitty
days and how many days, there's always the person in you inside crying to be
free. i just dont want that person to be silenced like that. i do believe that
bringing back that eeda will help a lot
eeda:
ur right. i thought it
was easier to silence her entirely than to listen to anything she had to say.
it made things more
manageable when you have one less voice to cater to.
AD:
in my opinion, there are
other voices you can silence instead of her voice. like the voice that tells
you this is all neverending, or the one that tells you nothing's going to get
better, or the one that stops you from traveling or shopping or doing other
things you like
eeda:
ive honestly never
thought about it like that
Monday, February 26, 2018
Ode to my saas.
Ma.
i've been wanting to write this one for a while but everytime i felt close to, i would unravel in pieces of heart and mess of tears and the pain in knowing this was real.
so here's to you Mom. here's to knowing you for 5 and a half very short years. i will miss everything about you. i will regret everything about not having you here. i will regret that your grandchildren will never know the love, so much love, you had to give. i want to write every thing i remember about you, as clear as I can, so they never forget...so I never forget.
i'll miss the way, the very last time i hugged you and said 'kaha suna maaf?', as I always did, you looked at me pretend angry and scoffed. you couldn't be mad at me. and you gave me a long long hug.
you always had the best hugs. i wouuld bend at the knees to get to your shoulders, but you were warm, and soft, and you would draw me back in for a longer hug everytime i pulled away.
i will miss kissing your forehead at night before saying goodnight.
i will miss your small, size-6, feet. your anne klein peep toes with the platform heels in 3 shades. the only close heel shoe you ever wore. the fact you hated socks, and wouldn't let me touch your feet.
'humaray haan betiyan pair nahee chooti'
i will miss 'kidday juli aen?' my first 3 word punjabi sentence that would have you in fits of proud laughter whenevre i said it.
i will miss you griding your hand on your palm, saying 'chut chorsan', everytime you were mad at S forgetting to throw the garbage out. (and promptly forgetting evrything and hugging him the minute he walked in through the door)
i will miss you wanting challi (corn), your absolute favorite, and us driving around in Suffolk in winter looking for farms. butter and steamed, or red mirch and salt and pepper.
Chowkandar gosht (which you hated to peel), arvi (which gave you a rash), rajma (which you loved), ultay taway per roti and gol loyee wale parathay (your small beautiful white hands) lo mein (your absolute favourite) Chinese from Fatima's (beef on a stick), getting me hooked onto creme brulee (i will never be able to have again without thinking of you), wings (everytime, all the time, any kind), veggie pizza (must have broccoli), lal mirch flakes, lassi (only for days you couldn't get the food down), bubble tea (so many late nights looking for it..always the taro) coffee (only french vanilla), paan (meetha), chaat (papri and samosa, both..but not really a fan of gol guppe), falooda (tooso wala was best), kulfi (eik munh men eik hath men for later), mashed potatoes, butter pecan ice cream (protected it with your life, more pecan the better), bananas (the green kind only), kala namak, chai (doodh wali, 30 minutes ubal ke, two tea bags), tobbaco (''meri purya kahan rakh gayee ho''), no chicken, no tomatoes (''yeh larki har cheez mein timatar dalti hai''), and of course, 'kabhi koi sabzi phal kha leya karo'.
i will spend my life regretting i didn't do more when i could have, and lord knows i did the most i could have.
lilies. pink blossoming ones.
all kinds of fake flowers. small ones usually.
planting cacti in glass bowls and small planters (the multicolored one that sat on your windowsill)
pastel colors. lights blue. baby pink. cream and white.
no brown (dark brown, light brown, mustard, yes, even mustard) or dark colors. occasionally black.
linens and lawn. no georgette, maybe some chiffon. never band gala (collar neck), always dupatta. never trousers, and though she would joke about wearing jeans and being a modern saas, always shalwars.
people watching. for HOURS ('mujhay is banday se achi read nahee arahee hai') eye of the detective and literally, being a witness to a crime witnessed out from the kitchen window, a man being beaten by a baseball bat. watching out the small window that looked to the backroad and the car park and the garage, the first thing i used to look at as we pulled in, to see you waiting for us. intuitiveness. curiosity. courage. a poetic heart. verses for every moment. songs (noor jahan) lat uljhi your favourite, and kaghaz ki kishti. nusrat fateh ali's mai ni mai and saddan chiriyan da chamba (the original) always made you cry, and heave in pain (haey babula, itna pyar kiun kitta?) the pain your kids heave with now.
('tum hamesha aisa ganay kiun lagati ho mujhe eik doosri duniya men lejate hain')
late night walks on the boardwalk. holding my hand and resisting, but walking into the water with me, pretend angry as always while i laughed. S took a picture of us, holding hands and our shalwars/jeans, feet in water, summer night sky and the smile plastered on my face.
kahan kahan nahee yaad karungi apko Ma.
'paidi shakal' (my cat). Beds-toyee-vesant boulevard in New York (S and you had laughed for a long long time on that one). telling us stories. so many many stories. Tui ne kameez kha li. falling off a canoe in Minnesota. the dastarkhwan of your baday Taya. Pappu, your first love. your laugh.
you are not just a person. you were so much much more than that. there is so much we have lost, are are losing.
your duas. sitting with you by your jaanemaz as your prayed. on your bed with my head in your lap watching tv. taking you to doctor's appointments. having you check my blood sugar (which I hated. the needle prick), checking S's and saying 'haey bubby! itna meetha na khaya kar'. promptly having meetha yourself.
phone calls. late night phone calls to vent to you when in a fix. your consel. your duas. your green janemaaz. your namaz ka dupatta (one of which my prized possession now). your tasbeeh clicker, always on your right hand pinky.
gardening. your plants. raat ki rani and the rose bush. tulips that came every year. the persimmon tree two houses down (you loved them,both flower and fruit)
pride. your fierce pride for who you were, your family, and your kids. your overwhelming, enveloping love. even your ghussa was like you, contained, at worst, silence, at best, a quick loving word and you would melt.
firoza. your favourite stone. your many rings. your hands. you loved it when i grew my nails, you held my hands and told me to keep it that way. you said Pappu liked girls hands to be well-kept, and nails to be painted. your insistence i wear chuddiyan (of course, gold) and your happiness when I did.
your hair. always a little unruly and tied into a small bun at the back of your head, put up by two or three black hair pins. we would take turns tucking the loose strands from your face behind your ears. filling in your eyebrows, doing your eyeshadow (pale golds), light pink lipstick.
selfies. more with me than with any of your kids. not knowing how to smile and looking grumpy in all your pictures. then not liking your pictures. the massomiyat on your face. doe eyes. hasmi kajal, or surma.
telling sheerin that i was like a daughter, and had been more than a daughter to you. how much you loved me. the hordes of people at your funeral, telling me how much i was loved, how much you complimented me, how lucky i was.
Mohs's 'there's a special place in heaven for you bhabhi, for everything you did for her'. No, there's a special place in heaven for her, for all she did for me.
i cannot imagine. absorb. understand. comprehend. in any way fully grasp, i will never see your face again. the thought if it pierces my heart, searing like an arrow. nothing had prepared us for this. no version of alternate reality in which we imagined for a slight second you wouldn't be here. every permutation of my reality held a vision of you, with us, reading to your children, making chai and hugging me goodnight, and good morning, like we did.
nothing prepared me for the abyss. for the void we are wallowing in.
i miss you so much, in between the slivers of my heart i hold you close. i cannot say a word lest he breaks. i cannot say it to anyone because saas? who cries for them. i do. everytime i think of you and my loss. i do. i cry and i pray for you and for Allah swt to give you the mercy and love you showed me when I was young and vulnerable.
Ameen.
So much more to say and not enough words to fully grasp what has happened.
Rest in peace Ma.
I miss you.
i've been wanting to write this one for a while but everytime i felt close to, i would unravel in pieces of heart and mess of tears and the pain in knowing this was real.
so here's to you Mom. here's to knowing you for 5 and a half very short years. i will miss everything about you. i will regret everything about not having you here. i will regret that your grandchildren will never know the love, so much love, you had to give. i want to write every thing i remember about you, as clear as I can, so they never forget...so I never forget.
i'll miss the way, the very last time i hugged you and said 'kaha suna maaf?', as I always did, you looked at me pretend angry and scoffed. you couldn't be mad at me. and you gave me a long long hug.
you always had the best hugs. i wouuld bend at the knees to get to your shoulders, but you were warm, and soft, and you would draw me back in for a longer hug everytime i pulled away.
i will miss kissing your forehead at night before saying goodnight.
i will miss your small, size-6, feet. your anne klein peep toes with the platform heels in 3 shades. the only close heel shoe you ever wore. the fact you hated socks, and wouldn't let me touch your feet.
'humaray haan betiyan pair nahee chooti'
i will miss 'kidday juli aen?' my first 3 word punjabi sentence that would have you in fits of proud laughter whenevre i said it.
i will miss you griding your hand on your palm, saying 'chut chorsan', everytime you were mad at S forgetting to throw the garbage out. (and promptly forgetting evrything and hugging him the minute he walked in through the door)
i will miss you wanting challi (corn), your absolute favorite, and us driving around in Suffolk in winter looking for farms. butter and steamed, or red mirch and salt and pepper.
Chowkandar gosht (which you hated to peel), arvi (which gave you a rash), rajma (which you loved), ultay taway per roti and gol loyee wale parathay (your small beautiful white hands) lo mein (your absolute favourite) Chinese from Fatima's (beef on a stick), getting me hooked onto creme brulee (i will never be able to have again without thinking of you), wings (everytime, all the time, any kind), veggie pizza (must have broccoli), lal mirch flakes, lassi (only for days you couldn't get the food down), bubble tea (so many late nights looking for it..always the taro) coffee (only french vanilla), paan (meetha), chaat (papri and samosa, both..but not really a fan of gol guppe), falooda (tooso wala was best), kulfi (eik munh men eik hath men for later), mashed potatoes, butter pecan ice cream (protected it with your life, more pecan the better), bananas (the green kind only), kala namak, chai (doodh wali, 30 minutes ubal ke, two tea bags), tobbaco (''meri purya kahan rakh gayee ho''), no chicken, no tomatoes (''yeh larki har cheez mein timatar dalti hai''), and of course, 'kabhi koi sabzi phal kha leya karo'.
i will spend my life regretting i didn't do more when i could have, and lord knows i did the most i could have.
lilies. pink blossoming ones.
all kinds of fake flowers. small ones usually.
planting cacti in glass bowls and small planters (the multicolored one that sat on your windowsill)
pastel colors. lights blue. baby pink. cream and white.
no brown (dark brown, light brown, mustard, yes, even mustard) or dark colors. occasionally black.
linens and lawn. no georgette, maybe some chiffon. never band gala (collar neck), always dupatta. never trousers, and though she would joke about wearing jeans and being a modern saas, always shalwars.
people watching. for HOURS ('mujhay is banday se achi read nahee arahee hai') eye of the detective and literally, being a witness to a crime witnessed out from the kitchen window, a man being beaten by a baseball bat. watching out the small window that looked to the backroad and the car park and the garage, the first thing i used to look at as we pulled in, to see you waiting for us. intuitiveness. curiosity. courage. a poetic heart. verses for every moment. songs (noor jahan) lat uljhi your favourite, and kaghaz ki kishti. nusrat fateh ali's mai ni mai and saddan chiriyan da chamba (the original) always made you cry, and heave in pain (haey babula, itna pyar kiun kitta?) the pain your kids heave with now.
('tum hamesha aisa ganay kiun lagati ho mujhe eik doosri duniya men lejate hain')
late night walks on the boardwalk. holding my hand and resisting, but walking into the water with me, pretend angry as always while i laughed. S took a picture of us, holding hands and our shalwars/jeans, feet in water, summer night sky and the smile plastered on my face.
kahan kahan nahee yaad karungi apko Ma.
'paidi shakal' (my cat). Beds-toyee-vesant boulevard in New York (S and you had laughed for a long long time on that one). telling us stories. so many many stories. Tui ne kameez kha li. falling off a canoe in Minnesota. the dastarkhwan of your baday Taya. Pappu, your first love. your laugh.
you are not just a person. you were so much much more than that. there is so much we have lost, are are losing.
your duas. sitting with you by your jaanemaz as your prayed. on your bed with my head in your lap watching tv. taking you to doctor's appointments. having you check my blood sugar (which I hated. the needle prick), checking S's and saying 'haey bubby! itna meetha na khaya kar'. promptly having meetha yourself.
phone calls. late night phone calls to vent to you when in a fix. your consel. your duas. your green janemaaz. your namaz ka dupatta (one of which my prized possession now). your tasbeeh clicker, always on your right hand pinky.
gardening. your plants. raat ki rani and the rose bush. tulips that came every year. the persimmon tree two houses down (you loved them,both flower and fruit)
pride. your fierce pride for who you were, your family, and your kids. your overwhelming, enveloping love. even your ghussa was like you, contained, at worst, silence, at best, a quick loving word and you would melt.
firoza. your favourite stone. your many rings. your hands. you loved it when i grew my nails, you held my hands and told me to keep it that way. you said Pappu liked girls hands to be well-kept, and nails to be painted. your insistence i wear chuddiyan (of course, gold) and your happiness when I did.
your hair. always a little unruly and tied into a small bun at the back of your head, put up by two or three black hair pins. we would take turns tucking the loose strands from your face behind your ears. filling in your eyebrows, doing your eyeshadow (pale golds), light pink lipstick.
selfies. more with me than with any of your kids. not knowing how to smile and looking grumpy in all your pictures. then not liking your pictures. the massomiyat on your face. doe eyes. hasmi kajal, or surma.
telling sheerin that i was like a daughter, and had been more than a daughter to you. how much you loved me. the hordes of people at your funeral, telling me how much i was loved, how much you complimented me, how lucky i was.
Mohs's 'there's a special place in heaven for you bhabhi, for everything you did for her'. No, there's a special place in heaven for her, for all she did for me.
i cannot imagine. absorb. understand. comprehend. in any way fully grasp, i will never see your face again. the thought if it pierces my heart, searing like an arrow. nothing had prepared us for this. no version of alternate reality in which we imagined for a slight second you wouldn't be here. every permutation of my reality held a vision of you, with us, reading to your children, making chai and hugging me goodnight, and good morning, like we did.
nothing prepared me for the abyss. for the void we are wallowing in.
i miss you so much, in between the slivers of my heart i hold you close. i cannot say a word lest he breaks. i cannot say it to anyone because saas? who cries for them. i do. everytime i think of you and my loss. i do. i cry and i pray for you and for Allah swt to give you the mercy and love you showed me when I was young and vulnerable.
Ameen.
So much more to say and not enough words to fully grasp what has happened.
Rest in peace Ma.
I miss you.
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