Look at these birds
with their freedom and all their hunger.
The world is their tablespread.

-

I called you, Ma. But the phone kept ringing. Someone was whistling and it soon turned into a loud winding sound. It was pouring heavily. The pair of sparrows under the eaves had folded their wings over their young ones like humans do when they pray. I wanted to embrace them, but I knew it would kill them. That's what insensible love does. But when is love ever sensible? A love like that is murderous and I'm no killer. So I held back.
I looked up at the sky and it was already wearing a shroud. I usually swear by the rain and all the wet surprises it brings. However, this time around, it made me feel dizzy and simply sad. I had no specific reason. It was a starless sky, yet somehow the earth below offered compensation. It was glistening with tiny heads of white jasmine. Their sweet smell wafted into the balcony demanding an audience. I glanced at them and swiftly shifted my gaze, deciding I knew better.
I remembered how Mom would take me to my grandma's place, where these flowers would bloom. When the same fragrance hit my olfactory lobes, a cascade of memories flooded my mind. I looked up again at the sky. Everything seemed the same from afar until I saw a star.

-

It is these oscillations, the vague cycles between trusting too much, too quickly, and having the ability to forgive that often drain a soul like mine. If you ever meet someone who loves solitude, they'd tell you why they do so. It is not their predisposition to lurk on lonesome paths, but their experience with the world that drove them away from it.
A rose blooms amid thorns, and it is adored by the world for its beauty. But the cactus is rarely appreciated for its uniqueness. The desert is dry and unfriendly. The fingers point and the cactus pricks just like a rose would. Yet the rose garners love and attention. Why? The beauty and softness surpass the harm it does.
As for the cactus, it is rarely appreciated though it does bloom momentarily. None speaks of the environment it has to withstand. We judge in a fraction of a second and label things by first impressions. We hug our own perspectives and expect the world to do the same. We smile on a sunny day and curse the clouds when rains foil our plans. We say we embrace but what exactly is it? Is it our shortcomings, our inhibitions, our differences, or our individuality?

-

You'll catch glimpses of me in these little snippets I release. But if you truly wish to know me, you'll find me in the depths of those one-sided conversations I leave for you to read. There's a kind of madness I need to address within me. Something challenges me inherently. They say it is the nafs, the inner self, the ego. I don't want to give it a single name because of its diverse nature.
A horse races, yet it doesn't seem to meet its destiny. But this horse is without blinders. Maybe it is not exactly distraction-free. So that can be the primary cause of its waywardness. And, if you look closely, it has no horseshoes on too. What does that tell you about the horse? What does that tell you about its background? Who owns it? What ties it down? Is it free? Why then, is it racing? Was it meant to race at all?

-

before you break
and reform,
you must go
through a huge storm.

-

How much of it is known? The question is sharp. Unabashed. I leave it clean in front of you. Throat caught fibbing, the veins throb in repulse. I check and cross-check twice. Someone has given way to the entire army of the horned evil. The apple of Eden was so sweet to ignore. Their nakedness was made apparent to the pair once they tasted it. But they were shown Mercy.
We were all cast out of paradise, you see. We have been born out of a displeasure. Our entire misery is hinged on this fact, if you do consider it a fact at all. I mean then again, it's a matter of belief. If not, evolution has a role to play. What a theory, I must say! By the time we learned the truth, we were running on our fours, though we had stopped making use of our tails. The brains came much later.
The sun was a ball worshipped for the sake of its fire until they noticed it kept slipping away now and then for its winter retreat. It wasn't Omnipresent. How could something that is limited by time and space be deemed fit to worship, then? The Divine is infinite. None of us could claim to truly know it. Yet we keep judging as if we can weigh sins. Aren't we all sinners? Aren't we always shown Mercy?

-

my mother's lullabies,
thinning out like her grays,
no matter how hard I tried
to make her stay.
August ended,
gently chafing my soul
as I settled in the corner
and watched her leave.

-

Hair. Dripping wet, soaked in lavender, linalool, and ten other artificial things. The ear canals are filled with water—the aftermath of being rescued from drowning. White noise, the pixels cutting miniature scenes in front of my eyes. I plunge, defeated into the couch. Jannat presses a towel softly against my head. Her hands, furtive yet wise enough to judge the regions of my locks sopped in liquid. She says I must be brave, sit straight, and dry my hair instead of ruining the couch cushions.
An hour ago, I had forgotten to breathe in the bathtub. When I awoke I was cold and shivering because I had passed out. She says hot cocoa always helps. I suggest my hatred of sweet things. "I don't like cocoa, Jannat." Then she gently touches my forehead. I reconfigure and tell her I can have some cocoa, but only if she shares it with me. She says one must never share their cocoa. It is not a thing to be shared. It is to be devoured alone but in good company. She laughs as if enjoying the taste of her own statements. I keep watching groggily. This little sparrow that fell from a broken nest. This chirpy soul, full of life that landed under my broken wings. I hug her and call it a day.

-

You arrive, rose in hand,
I surrender.
We fall together.

-

These days hurt. The hues splurge chaos. I tell her how she keeps tying her shoelaces incorrectly. I speak of the tree trunk, the burrow, and the rabbit going around and in. He fails in his attempt as does she. Sometimes, we just give up because a battle can kill. But we forget that it can also grant victory. So she tries again for the 9th time. And she walks out of the door after that, snug but humble in her shoes.
It is cold, so I hug the quilt tighter. I let her lie down next to me. She tells me she misses her mom. I tell her it is okay to remember her. Her tiny hands come together and form a cup. She teaches me how to surrender, how to pray.
Flavus. Yellow. The color of hurt is yellow. I'm transitioning and I don't know which side I'll come out from this. She brings a pack of Skittles and kisses my cheek. I remember I am still alive.
She tells me I must undo my hair and detangle the nest I've disguised as a bun. I do as told. My stomach hurts. But I try my best. A sparrow chirps fervently at my window. She joins her. I listen to them converse and think to myself, "Paradise must be full of creatures like them." I'm glad they kept her name, "Jannat."

-