This tongue will never force words from a body that wants to remain shut. But I am packing in things you will need for the journey. I feel the heaviness of your secrets. Pin in strength and ask if this is what people want to help you carry. No, it’ll kill them, I say. It’s better you don’t say it. Some parts of me still believe you deserve saving. You deserve any ear that wants to listen, so I cut in. (And this is painful.)

I find you crying, and this is almost like a home I’ve lived in before. I find familiar paintings I left on the wall—stretches of red colours, begging me to stop, begging me to leave, begging me to wait. When it hurts to share, it hurts to even find solace in the eyes of people who will genuinely help ease the pain. When it hurts to share, we do not know if we want to share or not. We do not know when you have to leave because some parts of us will want you to stay.

I’ve been here before. Exactly what the others tell you. But when I tell you this is not a good place to rent, trust me, I do not say this to comfort you. I say this to tell you that there will only be a burial after a burial, a funeral with no song, and on days when you can’t let go of what is to be left gone, you will run back digging to reach the corpse of everything that burns your nose, of everything that will make you close your mouth shut while you want to vomit. (And this is painful.)

And that’s too much heaviness for you to carry. That is too much pain. That is too much for your eyes to hold in. When these words find a place close to you, I hope you hand them an axe to cut through your doors. I hope it breaks through your windows. I hope it gives you sunshine, air, and all the feels to stay open. (And this won’t be painful.)

Something New

Whatever happens in the womb of a woman is a time capsule, and I am told it’s the man who puts everything there.

He tills the grounds, ploughs, wets each side and plants the seeds. Every sweat that breaks loose from his face is water to quench his thirst for the hard work he does.

The woman holds everything in until a labour is due, and I’m told this is done with pain. Pain is the only belt one wears to create something new. They do all this with their hands and hold on until the time of harvest.

I want to ask them why they do this—I won’t say they do this for pleasure. I want to know how long they intend to love their fruits—I won’t say forever; it depends. I want to ask them if they think only about themselves when they argue. I want to know if they feel the pain they cause to other lands when they set theirs on fire. I won’t call the shots. I won’t say the children; the fruits and the farmlands have a lot to say, a lot to ask, and a lot to know about what happens during the farming season.

I’ll be quiet. I’ll have my peace. I’ll let them wonder what their pain does to us.

I Am Nothing But Rust

People perceive I have the strength of a wall, and anytime they want to build trust, they use me as a pillar. In their conversations, they mention my name as a verb. A sure ticket to get the work done. An assurance. A soothing tap on the shoulder, the blues in their skies. The star that waits beside the moon.

The wind comes knocking, and I’m supposed to hold still, bleed where I am cut, and break the mouth that wants to shout this pain away into smiles because I can’t afford to let anyone down. And imagine if we wore our intentions like handbags. I bet people would really see how often I give up.

How often I tire of being a punching bag that sleeps over and over every night for another round of training because it needs to be there for others and not itself.

I’m that thing that will fit in every bag. Like a comb or a perfume, or anything that stays to be used.

And they say the value of a thing is in its usefulness, but what they don’t say is that every useful thing must be treated with compassion for it not to lose its colour. And here, I’ve lost my colours, and I am nothing but a rust writing you a poem. I am nothing but rust, reminding you to give me back my shine.