Scrubbing the graphite trails on the low wall/ whitewashing the crooked lines making/ reminiscing old days when I used to raise my toes and then mark my height/ wiping the lipstick marks on my closet writing ' Sam 2010'/ scratching the Disney stickers from my bookshelf, which used to be my mount Everest/ commencing the hiking from the 1st row to the top which was all my joy even after hurting myself.

Swimming race in the bathtub / making fishes out of bubbles puddles of water and splashing playing/now I am wiping the floor and cleaning the tub

Playing on the wild swing and feeling the air press hard on my face, pushing my sister on cycle to gain the momentum, putting my little sister on my lap and all thrill was in our bag/ now I am hanging out pictures on my new wall.

Wrapping myself in a blanket to stay away from evil/ playing games on the plate with leftover curry/ 

Wearing mum's cloth and dress up like her/ now our shoulders are equal

Sneaking into the kitchen and having snacks on early weekends when mum is asleep/ climbing on the chair to reach the cabinets, hitting my head on the top, now I am embracing those scars

Those days when Disney had magic and tooth fairy, Santa was true, Innocence was all that I knew.

Sick leaves from school, watching Disney and discovery channel/ mum feeding me oiled paratha/ sipping soup from my own designer bowl/ now I am picking up the bits of the shattered bowl of memories.

Running around the park/sand in our shoes/ mouth waiting for ice creams vans on Saturday afternoons/ now I don’t find any vans

Scrapping off the old calendar hung on the wall/ fading dates and similarly vivid fading childhood days.

1. Take a break from it.

Counter-intuitive, yes, but the problem for me was that I had done so many reading assignments by the end of my college career that reading anything felt like an assignment, even if it was something I really wanted to read. Reading had become something where I read as little of the material as possible to glean as much information as possible, forcing myself to focus on the words, and then moving on to the next item on a seemingly endless list of resources so that I could crank out three 10-page essays by the end of the week. For me, taking a break from reading gave my mind the rest that it needed in order to break away from that mental space and start the work of getting back into it. There is no set amount of time for this step; it just takes as long as it takes. Taking this step doesn't mean that you no longer get to call yourself a reader or bibliophile, and you don't have to force yourself to read when you don't want to. Remember, the whole point of this journey is to re-claim your love of reading. In order to do this, however, we have our work cut out for us, as we will have to break old habits as well as form new ones.

2. Take it slow.

When I first began trying to reclaim this part of myself, I started by trying to re-read The Lord of the Rings trilogy. It took an embarrasingly long time to get to chapter three of the first book before I finally gave up. The thing about setting goals for yourself is that when you set the bar too high you are setting yourself up for failure and dissapointment. I found myself frustrated, becuase I love the whole Tolkien universe. When I was in high school, I could read a whole novel in less than a week. Now, I have to force myself not to skim, which makes me a very slow reader by comparison. Just like getting back into working out, you will be tempted to compare yourself to what you used to be able to do, just as I have done. I may have been able to force myself to finish it, but just finishing a book is not the point; the point is to enjoy reading again.

3.Change it up.

One of the most helpful things that I have done while on this journey is to "read" in different ways. I started listening to them on audiobooks or podcasts, and watching miniseries based on novels (my personal favorite is Alias Grace on Netflix). Listening to books, instead of visually reading them, forced me to absorb every word instead of skimming, as my brain was wont to do. I then began reading with genres that I either had not read before or did not read in college; this excluded Classic Literature, History, Fantasy, SciFi, and even magazine articles to name a few. The genres that I explored included Memoirs, True Crime, Mystery, and collections of Poetry. By branching out to new genres, I discovered some great works (i.e. The Broken Circle by Enjeela Ahmadi - Miller) that I otherwise might not have even considered.

This process will most likely not be linear. You may have to take a few breaks instead of just one. You may find that you have an easier time visually reading with things you are familiar with rather than new things. You may find succes by forcing yourself to read.The most important thing to remember is that this process will take lots of trial - and - error, as well as patience for yourself. Listen to your body and mind, and eventually you can re-claim this part of yourself.

To be a loose woman is to walk through lonely alleyways, afterparties I leave behind, with my skirt more than 3 inches above my fingertips. Do I tempt you, sir? And if the answer is yes, then where lay your gaze?

To be a loose woman is to be outspoken. It is to use the voice that I have seen quelled, and to be undemure. It is to sit not like a lady, your adorned feet are wide, wide apart. And you couldn’t care less.

It is to ignore the disapproving glares and constant, effervescent betrayal. It is to cross out “him” and replace it with “her” and “them” in your biology textbook as you listen to them drone on and on and on about equality, knowing that they ask you to “tone it down”, you attention-seeking feminist. Maybe the system could never change, but god forbid if you didn’t at least try, language can be altered, even if these ingrained mindsets can’t.

It is to be angry. Angry at the world, at the parents, but at yourself. At you for agreeing to your aunt’s scoldings as you watched her rip your womanhood in half. At your father as he rails and abuses. At your mother for pulling strands of your hair into her grasp, while you yell and shriek.

To be a loose woman is to look at other women, wait, watch, observe their elegance, their dignity. As they fend off hurled threats, empty promises of better worlds and fleeting whispers of changed actions, buried in the past.

To be a loose woman is to sit in hatred, as you spill your injustices onto the page and write, write, write away your fear as they watch fascists instill fear. It reeks of death and false hope, doesn’t it?

You don’t know what lies in the future, but you are ready.

You.

Yes you.

Reading this now.

I am nothing but a stranger to you,

And you are nothing but a stranger to me.

But I know a few things about you...

You're reading this right now and I can tell at least one of your thoughts....

"How do they know anything about me?"

That's one thing I know about you.

The second is that you have taken the time to read this far.

Stop reading now, it's boring...

You don't listen, I said stop reading...

You dare devil! That's number 3, that you don't follow directions,

Not all the time anyway... But that's good.

Sometimes the rules prevent us from doing something right.

Four: You, like I, have had hardships in life.

Am I correct? Of course I am.

Are you even alive if you haven't had hardships?

This is five. You want to feel peace.

May I tell you a secret stranger, my new friend?

If you want to feel peace, let go of your grudges and forgive.

Lastly, You've made it this far in life and you can make it farther.

I know you can. You're stronger than you know, even when you feel weak and alone.

So forgive those who've wronged you, let those who love you in, and smile.

Thank you for not listening and reading all the way through.

Sitting on Micheal’s bed was comfortable and his room was warm enough that I didn’t need to have my jacket on. Mr. Lambert had assigned us an essay on the use of figurative language in writing. I was just finishing up with it and I sighed as I began writing the final sentence. Micheal was downstairs talking to his parents. We had come by after school to do homework, but we hadn’t been here for five minutes when his parents called him down to talk to him.

I was putting the paper away in my bag when he came in. He handed me a warm coffee mug. I breathed in the sweet scent of hot chocolate and took a sip. It was almost hot enough to burn my tongue but not quite.

Micheal sat on the bed next to me, his legs crossed under him. I turned to him. “So what did they want to talk to you about?”

Micheal shrugged. “I have a doctor’s appointment next week because my heart has been acting weird and my feet were a little swollen yesterday.”

I scooted slightly away, spilling a little of the hot drink on my shirt. I hissed as it hit my skin.

Micheal rolled his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Hades.”

I tilted my head and looked at him. “And you know that how?”

“Because this happens occasionally. It’s just because of the heart attack that I had when I was younger.”

“The swelling?” I asked, only slightly less relaxed.

Micheal nodded. “And my heartbeat often beats a little irregularly. It’s not really too much to worry about but we get it checked out whenever it happens.”

I sighed and took another drink of cocoa. “It still might be my fault. This time it could be serious.”

Micheal nodded. “Maybe it will be serious, and that’s why I get it checked out but you can’t blame this on yourself.”

I stuck out my tongue. “You underestimate my ability to blame myself.”

Micheal rolled his eyes up to his ceiling and shook his head. “Fine. Let’s just leave it at “I’m going to an appointment next week” and then move on to the next topic.”

I took another sip. It was really good and warm. “Fine. What’s the next topic?”

Micheal shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you read any good books lately?”

I glared. “I don’t like reading, Mr. Perfect McPerfection.”

He laughed. “Is that my new nickname? Mr. Perfect McPerfection?”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s temporary. Only Miracle Boy is your permanent nickname.”

Micheal wiped a hand across his forehead, wiping away imaginary perspiration. “Well that’s a relief,” he said with exaggerated actions. “I thought you were going to call me that forever.”

“Oh my gosh!” I said, laughing. “You’re a horrible actor and not funny at all.”

Micheal sat straight up, serious as a painting in our history books. “Then why are you laughing?”

I sat up like him, the laughter hidden behind a badly constructed mask of seriousness. “I’m not laughing at all. I don’t know what made you ever think I was.”

We both smiled, unable to keep up the performance. Then Micheal fell back on the bed, his hands holding his head as he looked at the ceiling. Then he looked over at me. “Truth or dare?”

I knew of the game, although no one had ever asked me to play. Truth: you get asked a question that you have to answer. Dare: you had to do whatever the person told you to do. I bit my lip. “Don’t you still have homework to do?” I asked Micheal, hoping to distract him so I could remember if there were any other rules I was forgetting.

Micheal just smiled and repeated himself. “Truth or dare.”

I groaned. “Truth, I guess.” I was trying to remember which was better to pick.

Micheal smiled thoughtfully. “Do you… have a crush on anyone?”

I stared at Micheal. “What? Of course not. How dangerous would that be, idiot? That’s a feeling that I don’t really need.”

He shrugged. “Fine. Your turn.”

I scowled. “Okay. Truth or dare?”

Micheal thought about it for a minute. Then: “Dare.”

I bit my lip. What the heck could I dare him to do? “Um…” Dang it. I couldn’t think of anything. I told Micheal as much.

“Okay, well, truth then.”

Not that that was much easier. “Okay… why do you like taking my backpack?”

Micheal huffed a laugh. “Because it’s fun and because it makes you annoyed and, finally, because you always come back for the backpack.”

“Well, it does have very important things in it.”

“As long as it keeps working for me.”

“Micheal,” I scolded, but I was smiling. “That’s mean.”

“Says the girl who scowls at everyone.”

I crossed my arms. “At least I don’t steal from people like someone I know. But I won’t mention any names, Micheal.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, not going to name names at all.”

There was silence for a minute as I finished my cocoa. I set the cup on the dresser next to the bed and lied down to stare up at the ceiling. The warm room was making me drowsy and my eyes were kind of heavy. I laid my hands on my stomach and let out a breath.

“You know,” Micheal said, “You were really laughing today. Laughing happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

I closed my eyes. “You’re a bad influence, Miracle Boy.”

I heard him laugh but even that faded out as I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the lights were off and the sky was mostly dark. I could just barely see. I was on Micheal’s bed and my feet were extremely cold. Someone had taken off my shoes. Micheal was gone and I looked out the window, trying to figure out what time it was. There was a clock on the dresser and the red numbered glared at me. 4:43. But it had been almost five the last time I checked. Had I really slept through till morning?

Why hadn’t Micheal woken me up? Where was Micheal anyway?

I climbed out of the bed and walked over to the door, opening it carefully. I crept down the stairs, some of them creaking loudly. There was no one in the kitchen and the house seemed eerily quiet. I walked to the living room keeping my hands out in front of me to protect from unseen objects. There was a lamp at the entrance of the living room and I turned it on. There on the couch in front of the bay window, was Micheal, sleeping. His hands were tucked under his cheek and he was lying on his side.

I smiled, not sure if I should wake him or not. I decided against it. It was still early and he would be up in a few hours anyway. I could ask why he didn’t wake me up then. For now… I yawned. For now, I was going back to sleep.

i am roadkill; there lies liquid

asphalt beneath my nails.

exhale carbon monoxide and car

exhaust between my parted lips, and i will tell you that

i am carrion; i am the disenfranchised lover.

the vultures know my taste. the jackals nip at the

pulse of my wrist and laugh and laugh and

laugh.

yellow painted lines stretch into hallucinogenics across

dried tar and potholes and intersections and

did you not see me? i think

you did—at least as you drove by. as you drove past.

if you pressed a kiss to my knuckles, i wonder if you would still map out

the speed bumps and laugh, startled. laugh and laugh and

laugh.

there is streetlight red in my ledger that rotted its way between my gums and

i still want to ask you: there were so many signs that told you to stop.

why didn’t you?

so now i’ve become the roadkill, the villain living off vasoline but

i wish upon speed limits, you know.

and i hope that you find heaven on the highway.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of violence, PTSD, self-harm, and depression

Raise your fists boys and girls, children of the Earth, 

let me hear your roars as you scream desperately 

fighting for what you know is just, in that tiny voice of your heart 

And let me see that burning fire that rages inside you 

that single flare that erupts from a passion of hope

Clinging to the couch pillow, 

TV remote in hand, as the news flashed before her very eyes 

her lip trembling from the fear that gnawed at her heart 

eyes clenching closed as she flinched at harsh words

and she couldn’t help but think of that kind man 

who offered his seat on the bus for her 

or that old woman with the blue coat and cherried mask 

that stood outside the store, smiling at all who went inside 

And slowly, she felt at ease on that same couch 

with the news flashing at her from the TV

Holding his quivering hands over his ears 

a boy watched in fear as his father was held at gunpoint 

for a crime he didn’t commit, a crime he was accused of 

/for the color of his skin/

/for the life that was laid out for him because of past mistakes/

/for the thoughts that if it wasn’t him now, then it’d be him later/ 

and tears streaked the boy’s face, 

as his father held his hands up behind his head

backing away towards a police car

and the boy cried tears of the stars, choking on the sounds of screaming sirens 

until someone walked up, to the center of the little crowd formed, 

where the father stood, hands up, a gun pointed at his head 

and said.

“It wasn’t him.” 

Foggy handprints imprinted the window, 

the cold biting at the warmth of her hand, as her breath swirled in front of her 

and slowly her handprints faded away, as if they had never been there 

like the scars that she carried with her, scars that only she could see 

/because if no one else can see them, then they’re not real/

but she could never forget the feel of hands around her neck 

or the feel of eyes on her, silently watching from the shadows

/waiting to strike, ready to take her as their prey/ 

/even as she cried oceans of pain that were littered with the carcasses of dreams/ 

and she could never not flinch when someone approached her 

or walk around alone without calculating an exit route

for they robbed her of her smile, killed the innocent girl in her, and left her for dead 

until someone found her from the depths of her despair, 

saving her before she was too far gone 

and it wasn’t until then, that she realized 

“It’s going to be alright.” 

Flailing arms, sinking smiles, his last breath was stolen 

as he sunk lower and lower into the abyss that threatened to swallow him whole 

his scars shooting across his wrists like shooting stars 

the weight of the world taped onto his back, threatening to sink him farther into the void 

a pain so great it chewed him from the inside out, taking everything with it 

as the abyss reached for him, luring him in with the dreams of freedom 

/free of shackles/free of a pain so great/free of the soundless screams/

and he let himself sink, chains dragging him farther underwater, 

thinking that if he let go, the world would be better off 

as he sunk in his ocean of fallen tears that nobody cared about 

and just as he let go, someone dove in and grabbed him 

wrapping their arms around him and telling him all the things he needed to hear 

/that they knew the world sucked/but that didn’t mean he had to go/ 

/that people were awful/but that didn’t mean he needed to prove them right/

and finally there was someone who could cry with him, 

and for the first time, he started to float, his chains becoming lighter 

So let me hear your cries children of mother Earth, 

and let’s break our heart together tonight 

We had our fun.

I know we did.

I wouldn’t have stayed in it for so long,

if we hadn’t.

But why can’t I remember

the good times.

The times you made me laugh,

smile,

feel happy.

I must have been happy,

right?

Even a little...

To have stayed so many years.

Why can’t I remember the good times?