Hunger

We were starving, but not for food. Never for food.

We hungered for experience;
for that addictive rush of adrenaline that fulfilled our need for everything extraordinary.
That temporary shock of restlessness
and unfathomable mess it brought with it.
That goosebump-inducing desire to touch the sky;
the one that disregarded the pain of the fall that was inevitably bound to follow.

We were thirsty, but not for water. Never for water.

We felt our throats dry up to match the desert ground
and we longed for the rain.
For the day it would wash away
the grains of sand that disrupted our growth;
those tiny pebbles of empty-mindedness that stood firm on the feet of our foundation and disabled our movements.
For the day that heavenly water
would pull up colors from our roots and out-shine their blinding black.

We couldn’t breathe, but we didn’t need air.

Our lungs longed for genuine emotion instead.
They longed to finally feel
a beating in their ribbed cages.
To find a reason for that beat
and to hold on to that one passion
that kept a steady rhythm pumping through our blood.
To find a substitute for the oxygen our world is killing
and replace it with something
from within ourselves;
something that would keep us going without inhaling.

No one knows us like we do.

Our desires have no place in their books and their religions. We were not fashioned from the same cloth; our eyes are not like their eyes. They don’t see what we see.

But one day we’re gonna shine a light so bright; that thick layer of hate cloaking their pupils will disappear.

And when we soar, they will have no other choice but to bask in the happiness that we will radiate.

Gun

I understand where you’re coming from.

I get it, believe me. I know it’s not black and white, I know you’re coming from a shade of grey I still haven’t familiarized myself with. And you should know that greyness of yours is burning into my skin and turning me blue with discontent.

I get it. Believe me.

I’m all for open-mindedness. I know you think your gun isn’t loaded. I know it goes off only at times when your mind is asleep and your hands are thinking on their own. I know you just don’t think it through, but the bullet has already lodged itself into my chest.

But I’m keeping an open mind.

So when the blood cries itself out of me, I’m only trying to look into your eyes that you’ve kept shut. I don’t want the reasons, I just want the apology. I don’t want your please, I just want your I’m sorry. I want your sincere I’m so sorry, please forgive me because only that can breathe the life back into me.

Just give me the fucking gun. I’ll put it back on your dresser. Again. There’s no point in unloading it, you’ll only reload it the moment I turn my back to leave that infamous trail of blood on the carpet of your bedroom.

I know you never meant for it to go off.

But how many times can you shoot me down before I can no longer stand up?

The World by 7ala Abdullah

Look.

Don’t leave an inch unpondered.

Stare at it all; stare at your bumps and bruises. Stare at your flaws and imperfections; your scars and your voids. Stare at your worn-out hands; those hands you used to build and break – to hold and to push. Look at your cuts, look at how they bleed bright blue with indifference – and your back; all straight and proud and defying humanity.

Look at yourself, look at where the world filled syringes of poisonous hate and injected them into your skin. Look at your body; covered in needle-marks from where apathy, distrust, and jealousy were forced into your blood.

Here you stand; remnants of yourself.

You typical human, you peaked at 6 years old and ever since then, your life’s gone downhill. You were then taught that love has a name. You were told that there’s right and there’s wrong and there’s us and there’s them. You were taught about shame and you hid in dark corners to protect yourself from it.

You were fed war and racism; you drank religion and you spat out the parts of it you disliked. You were told it made you better; so you believed it and you looked down upon anything that was different. Anything that brought along any kind of change with it.

You never learned self-satisfaction; instead you were taught how to rob others of it. You suffered and cried for an award only you can give yourself. You wept when you faced the mirror; the possibility that you might have been beautiful was seemingly galaxies away.

You were like a gluttonous Eve with an appetite for apples; you picked the ripest ones despite the forewarnings you received. And they were delicious and fulfilling, but you fell from your heaven into pain each time.

And the thing about pain is that it falls hard on us like rain in a storm, covers us in damages for as long as it can and eventually; it dries off and we’re left with the aftermath. For you, the damage was to your soul; your spirit. You were killed by your own kind, told you’d never amount to anything – told that you were less of a human because of a chromosome and told you were more of a chosen one because of a belief.

You died a little every time you were robbed a human right in the name of holiness.

How did you get here? How did you end up this way?

Pain is no longer your biggest problem. Your biggest problem is that you’ve learned to enjoy the solace and the beauty of the pain thrust upon you. You no longer try to extirpate it from under your skin.

But get yourself off the ground. Let go of the hurt. Find satisfaction from within yourself. Make a change.