It is March again
with drowsy Dahlias on my terrace swaying to the tune of the gentle zephyr
as I hide my face under my thick blanket
I realize that the piercing winter is departing
with wistful eyes that are moist with tears
ruminating on what you put me through years ago
this act of being a champion in forgiving and forgetting
is slowly becoming difficult to continue
how long can one hide? there is a limit to everything
how can I conceal what is inside my heart: a fusion of brokenness and light
this light has been suppressed for so long that it has started doubting its potency
how can I hide that which has made my countenance perpetually grim?
my mother brings some butter croissants
with a large jar of Nutella
for she believes these little goodies make me happy;
they do help me put my feet on the ground
what have you done to me? I have started spreading chocolate on everything
as if to tell the world I have moved on
how can a man who has embraced bitterness as his best friend
love anything sweet?
how has this repugnance changed into an addiction?
as I lick the chocolate again, my mother tells me:
heal and move on
how can I move on, mother?
how can I forget the words that made my heart scream
until the voice inside it turned raspy
when all it wanted was to smile
how can I forget how my seemingly colourful childhood wasn't colourful at all?
I do not remember anything about smiling except that
it had something to do with the movement of my lips and cheeks
how can I forget how a junior had the power to ruin my personality?
I am twenty-two years old with a skull resembling scalding tea
do not touch me, you will only burn yourself.
About the Author
Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, and artist. Based in Saudi Arabia, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared Blue Minaret, Her Hearth, Melbourne Culture Corner, Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Broken Spine.