Born in a windstorm

” I feel like I was born in a windstorm and the dust has only begun to settle” – C’estMIRA

windstorm

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Home is where your heart is

I know that the stars do not shift when  we are together.Nor does the moon strengthen its pull on the tide, For we are nothing and no matter how much we acquire much of what we do shall be without consequence

But when I am with you, I feel that I am doing more than just existing

In the hollows of your chest I have found peace.How is it you are so thoughtful, even while sleeping your body sings to me as you inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale

Maybe this is the meaning of home

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Session 2: Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I could never show this to you because I love you and I don’t want to hurt you. I sometimes think that if I were to be honest that you would stop believing that. Still, there’s a lot between us that hasn’t been said, that needs to be said.

The main thing is mummy. I just want to know why you did that to her, why you treated her that way. I get it, your relationship with her and your relationship with me are two different things. And to a certain extent I understand that when you look at her you don’t see what I see.

For me, she is this celestial being who no matter how much I upset, disrespect and mistreats, forgives. She has shown me that it is okay to cry and that it is okay to feel vulnerable. I took for granted how easily I can express my emotions to her until I met other children who couldn’t. And maybe you never had that, maybe that’s why you treated her like that.

You got with her, got her pregnant and when my brother got sick you left her and you left him. Your relationship with him has never been the same. He tells me that he has come to terms with not having a dad.

And then you got back with her, and because she was so desperate for a sense of family, and because she had always grown up with parents who stayed together and because you were from the same country and maybe you reminded her of home she returned to the one she had made with you.

But then you married someone else, and had my sister, and a few months later I was born. You went back with my mother, beat her and somewhere in the midst of all of this you made Jannat and you made Faith. In a way you made a beautiful mess because the love I have for them is insurmountable. For that I am grateful.

Most days I find myself making a concerted effort to avoid thinking about what transpired between you and her. No matter what you’re my dad and I want to stay daddy’s little girl. That being said, I can’t avoid thinking about it, the older I become the more I can see it has moulded me.

It’s not so much what was done, but its more how it makes me feel. Something will trigger a feeling and then the thoughts will race and I’ll be stuck in that place. I’ll remember you coming to our house and mummy looking the door- you trapped outside, or it will be the knife she slept with under the pillow, the police officers escorting you out of the house.

I can’t blame everything on you, but you need to take some. Who else can carry it? Still, even if you don’t I’ll always love you.

XX

Cestmira

Elizabeth Kubler Ross

The truth is she is not dead. That’s how I cope “so well”. That’s the reason that I’m not able to cry because I still don’t think she’s dead

Yes I saw her wax like face painted with false expressions, yes I heard the catholic sermon, saw the relatives who could only spare enough time to visit as she lay in the casket

And I was there when we drove to the graveyard

And I was there when they dug the hole

And I was there when they lowered her in, but still…

You don’t get it do you, as long as I’ve been alive, she’s always been there. Her voice and face are stitched into my brain. And now you want to undo the seams. Well I can’t.

I’ve decided that its safer for me to stay here,

You can’t grieve what you have not lost

Tonight I am getting over you

Tonight I am getting over you

I will step into the shower and wash you out of my hair

But this time I will be thorough, I will clean behind the ears where our conversations still linger

Undelivered promises, wishful thinking at its best

By the sink I shall rinse the mouth that I wanted you to share, gargle and spit out the words that  have only been heard by you

This time when I dress it will be for me,

I will no longer dress with your attention in mind

For no combination of garments ever made you see me

The mascara I put on will be for me,p

And the blemishes that I paint over will be for me

For no amount of makeup ever convinced you that I was beautiful

Finally when I am done, I will inspect myself in the mirror as always

The outfit chosen for me now I have accepted that you are not for me

Setbacks: A letter to myself

With this blog, I aim to make a concerted effort for it to be an honest representation of how I feel at any given time. I want to stress the word honest, because for me, the moment it ceases to be honest, is the moment it loses its purpose.

I started off this semester very well intentioned, but life got in the way as I like to say. Having to go home several times during the start of term, plus suffering from a few illnesses has meant that I have not been able to do all the things I had planned.

Now the rational thing to do would be to focus on what’s important and not beat myself up for not being able to tick every little task off. I literally only just realised that as I wrote the former sentence. The intention of this post was for it to be an apology  for my inability to post weekly. However even that defeats the purpose of this blog. This is my escape, my hobby, my little project. It reflects my truth. If sometimes I am too busy to post then my absence demonstrates that. As they say life happens.

The one that got away

I like this boy, he doesn’t know, we’re just friends. I wrote this a few days ago

And somehow we have become friends, the ones who talk with meaning

We talk about our parents, how their culture dictated their choices, and how those choices impacted our lives

We are old enough for that to mean something, the statement “our lives”

Do we stick to the path already formed by the feet of our mothers, or do we assert the same dominance of our fathers whose iron rod was literal, who lead the path for his kinsmen to follow

Why do I feel that I have always known you whilst yearning to devour whatever else there is to know

I have never felt this way about anyone before, neither have you

But as we talk you reveal greater layers of you and perhaps I do not know you

You feel the same as me, but the feelings are not for me

Conversations turn to HER, and you do not know it but I feel ashamed

We talk as if nothing has changed, I even ask about HER sometimes

I can tell you feel comfortable around me, yet you do not know it but i have changed

Somehow we have become friends, I accept that this is how things shall remain