I’m sitting here again
In this blue-painted room
Why did I choose this shade?
It doesn’t make me not shiver
It does make me feel at bay
It reminds me of who I was
Before I painted my words with ivy.
It feels like those words
Those surreal words
They’ve been drenched out of me
Like my pens got a sore throat
Like my paper’s fed up with the world
Can’t remember
What I last ate
Maybe it was a crumb of confusion
A crumb of abandonment
Because that’s all that’s left
I can’t tell what are my words
And what are someone else’s.
The crying clouds
Maybe they flew my words away
My heart
Maybe my heart scared them away
My words were supposed to stand by
Stick with me like constellations
My words were supposed to love me
Like thorns love their roses
How I dreamt of writing and writing
Till my words became ashes
Ashes of me
Ashes that heal.
Irene Khanum Sherwani is a 14-year-old who’s trying to find her place in the large scheme of things.
Featured image: Alex Padurariu / Unsplash