By Kainat Azhar

Knife in my hand, I fight with the ravens. They

visit me when I am alone, I loathe them for

interrupting my mental painting of yours.


My ribs have been tied by a chain

made of gold. I sing to insomnia and

call it sleep.


A relative of mine messaged me last night

to marry soon. I parceled her a mirror; she may

see her bruises in that.


Stepping over the shards of your

skull, I worship your existence by burning

my roots. Your blood stains

my hands, I love its salty taste in my mouth.

(Why don’t they write every love poem like this?)


*Noha: (Urdu/Arabic) lamentation


Image by Kainat Azhar