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