By Hiba Nasir
Forsaking the home I crafted myself,
Missed my soul, locked on the shelf,
Turned my back to my dreary dwell,
I dreamt the garden would have me swell.
Turned the keys to the back doors,
No dead shall walk in through today.
Nailing the doors shut, I weep
The day has come when I take leave.
Closing curtains with dreams affront,
I stand alone behind the gate,
A final turn of knob awaits,
Hands shiver with crippling fear
Would it be the same if I ever return?
I turned around to say goodbye
A broken home, and faucet running,
Tables adorned with fruits sundry,
A bed calling for a final sleep.
I gather myself to hammer out the terms:
The bed is done made; do not lay in it.
The warm embrace will turn cold, I must warn,
And dance if you gave it another chance.
I decide on a morsel of bread instead, and then
Work on the spread I smeared. The frame on the wall
Catches my eyes; I thought my eyes had run dry.
Mistakes I made, burdens I ignored
The book of accounts lay in the dust.
I question my attire, take off my coat,
Lamenting the times I broke my trust.
The haunting laughter echoes across,
I fear it would not let me depart.
As I play the songs of fear and chaos,
The mirth, short-lived, dwindles apart.
This moment mirrors all others before
I sprint to the shelf and grieve.
As weariness and ignorance fall,
I surrender, not eager to leave.
Every word of this poetry felt like a mirror to my soul. I didn’t just read it—I lived it. The emotions, the silence between the lines, the quiet ache… it all reminded me of my own journey. Thank you for putting into words what my heart has long felt but never expressed. This was more than poetry—it was healing.