all the things i could not say.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

Hello, is anyone there?

It has been...quite a while since I’ve found myself here. I have been struggling with my mental health, and feeling like I’m playing catch up on my own timeline. At 21, I find myself at a standstill with school, work, family. And on top of everything else, I’ve been confronting the shittiest descendant of writer’s block.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a little more inspired to create. I realized that I’ve been having difficulty writing because I’m tired of writing about the ‘safe’ things. Things that I’ve talked about a few times already. And not that they aren’t of equal importance, but there are other events/stressors/clusterfucks that I deal with that I don’t address. Partly in fear of what it says about me, but largely in fear of how others will respond to it. 

This is the year of manifestation for me. I am going to stop running from the things that force me to stand my ground. I will not let my anxiety and fear of conflict quiet my beliefs. What kind of writer would that make me?

I am going to keep working on my craft. I will finish a manuscript by the end of the year. I will start the publishing process by next year. And, God willing, I will be louder about the things that need to be said. Ameen. 

[awkwardlykhaotic]

A Letter to My Super Conservative Bengali- Muslim Mom

Mom.

When I get dressed in the morning, the first thing I do is iron out the curve of my spine and remind myself that good posture is the mark of a good character. My shoulders are meant to carry Dad’s respectable reputation and your non-negotiable expectations and while I try my best to wrap my hands around the world that you deserve, I can’t help but worry that they are too small to carry the one that you expect.

Mom.

I know you think that every line of ink on my skin is another mark on my soul, but I promise you that this body is only a canvas for all of the things that could not kill me. But all of these things that could not kill me still made me want to die so instead, I turned each into a piece of art and hoped that by hanging it on myself, I could find something beautiful worth living for.

Mom.

In a world like this, to be a woman is to commit a crime. In a world like this, I am told to apologize for speaking too loud, for loving too hard, for daring to take up space. When I do these things anyway, I know you think it is just because I like breaking the rules. But if loving who I am is a crime in your eyes, then you’ve condemned me to a lifelong commitment of proving my innocence.

Mom.

Some days, I want nothing more than to be everything you want. The daughter who bows her head five times a day to a God she has no qualms with. The one who embraces the culture you carried across the ocean thirty years ago. But this daughter wants to know why her God never seems to write her back. She lives as the hyphen between Bengali and American.

Even after loving the way you taught her to, giving more than she will let herself take, this daughter lives knowing you consider her to be everything you could not get right.

Mom.

Do you know how much that breaks my heart?

[awkwardlykhaotic]

I Remember

*inspired by Joe Brainard’s “I Remember”

I remember how heavy my eyes felt when my mother woke me up for school in the morning. I complained and fussed about wanting to stay home because I hated spending the day without her. 

I remember, during high school, evenings spent perched on a stoop near the B49 bus with my best friend. I watched as one, two and eventually three buses pulled in and then away from the stop. When the sun started to hide behind the horizon, I'd convince myself that maybe home would feel a little more like home tonight. I remember the crunch of chocolate pretzels. It reminded me of the richness of a Hershey's bar, with an added twist to it. There was no problem in the world that couldn't be fixed with a treat. I remember the first time I got my heart broken. I thought a scoop of chocolate ice cream would help to cool the ache in my chest. I ended up finishing the entire tub of Haagen Dazs by myself while watching reruns of Friends and sobbing. I remember a dream of a fairy tale love. My Prince Charming would knock on the door of my Brooklyn apartment and whisk me away on the A train to have a romantic picnic in Central Park. I remember the first time I sat in my therapist's office. It was months after the bruises on my arms had faded, but the boy who left them still haunted my dreams. Alexa, a soft-spoken woman, sat quietly across the room from me and scribbled notes in her large spiral book. I often wondered what she wrote about me, but I never had the courage to ask. Did she write about the way I loved? The people I loved? Or did she think I was just a girl who made the mistake of falling in love? I remember broken bicycles and band aids pulled over skinned knees. Nothing in the world was more painful than trying to fly and falling instead. I remember the last time I fell in love. My friends always used to tell me to expect the unexpected, but him, I really never expected. I finally learned the definition to "head over heels" because Merriam could never give me one. I learned that he was everything home was supposed to be.     I remember the first poem I ever wrote. I titled it "Happiness is Like Gold". Sixth grade me thought it was very profound. I remember the first time I performed at an open mic. My heart raced at a mile a minute and my palms were sweaty from stage fright, but my voice stayed steady and I got through it. I posted it on Facebook expecting nothing from it. Surprisingly, a few old classmates messaged me to tell me that they themselves had been struggling, and that my performance made them feel less alone. I looked for more venues to perform at, with the hopes of making this world a little less lonely. After all, what was a world without a home? And what was a home if you always felt alone?

[awkwardlykhaotic]

an incomplete guide to healing a broken heart. written by a broken-hearted girl.

one of the first things you learn about relationships is that they come with heartbreak. it hangs back in the corner like a jilted lover, waiting for the day that one of you may trip and fall in defeat instead of for the other. sadly, there are no written guidelines as to what you should do when your heart feels emptier than your bed and your bed is just as empty as you.

so, here’s what i’ve managed to put together so far.

one. let it hurt. the waves of sorrow in your chest will inspire the tsunami in your eyes but for now, it is just about keeping your head above water. the storm inside of you will not quiet easily and for a while, you will feel like the tide of the ocean, coming back to meet the sadness you try so often to pull away from.

two. breathe. the first few days, it will be difficult. you will wake up in the mornings and have a rare moment of peace before remembering. and when you remember, oh, it will hurt just like it did the first time. your breath will get caught in that junction between inhaling and exhaling but keep in mind that, in that moment, holding on to something is more painful than letting go.

three. isolate. there is a fine line between loneliness and solitude. you must learn to take the former by its hand before finding comfort in the latter. pick up the pen, dip the brush in color, and rediscover the things that lighten the burden on your soul.

four. fall out of love. this, for me, has proven to be the hardest so far. my days are spent teaching myself to no longer whisper his name as a mantra in the intervals between each heartbeat. the moon does not bear witness to our starlit conversations anymore but rather looks on in concern as i have more talks with mary jane instead.

five. i do not know what five is.

all i know is that every so often, while i’m getting dressed in the morning, my hands come across the shirt i stole to stay warm on my way home once. his scent has long since faded but, i swear, i can press my nose to the fabric and feel my heart break all over again.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

today, i had to break his heart. what i didn’t expect was the echo in my own chest.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

Mismatched Socks, Beards, and Black Sheep

I’m not going to pretend you caught my eye right away.  Not the first time I shook your hand, or the next time I bumped into you in the hallway,  or even the time after that when a whole bunch of us went out to dinner  and you explained the glory of your beard to me.

But you snuck up on me like the vodka I threw back the second time we drank together and I guess you could say the warmth that I felt spreading through my body has kind of stayed with me ever since. (We took shots to celebrate you breaking up with your then-girlfriend, which I think is a little bit of poetic justice on its own, but that’s irrelevant.)

I’ve always been a bit of a black sheep in my family and sometimes I used to wonder if that’s what attracted you to me considering your love for all things sheep.

Here’s how I see it. I’m a Bengali-American woman from a Muslim family with nine tattoos too many, eyeliner sharper than my tongue on some days, and a red lip dark enough to make me feel like sin. I walked with a warning sign right over my heart but somehow, you kind of just looked at the caution tape, decided it was worth the risk, and came knocking on the door anyways.

The first day you asked me what my favorite color was. The next day you asked me what my favorite food was. The day after that you asked me who my favorite person was.

And while your version of a one-sided 21 questions amused me, I didn’t realize until it was too late how easy it was to answer. It made sense to tell you that I grew to love the color blue after years of feeling just that, that my favorite food was anything my mother cooked because it reminded me of my childhood, and that my favorite person in the world…did not exist.

Now, I wonder if this was your plan all along. To teach me that breakfast is an all day meal or that mismatching my socks will make me even sexier or that Batman was the only superhero you’d let me fawn over cause…let’s face it. You’d be right there fawning with me.

I wonder if it was your plan to sneak your way into every hidden corner of myself that I’ve kept tucked away so that the next time you asked me who my favorite person in the world was, I’d only ever answer, you.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

#MeToo

I have decided to stomp on my fear and stand in solidarity with all the women I know who are stepping forward as well.

When I was eighteen, I was assaulted by someone I loved and someone I thought loved me. It took me months of therapy and reflection to recognize it as assault because my mind just could not comprehend that someone who claimed to care about me would ever violate my trust like that. I couldn’t imagine how someone could hear me say no repeatedly, and still feel entitled to take from me what I did not want to offer. It makes me paranoid when people are in my space now. I start to get anxious when someone won’t take “no” for an answer. Survivors of sexual assault almost always have some form of PTSD and this is just a small example of how mine manifests.

Studies show that 1 in every 5 women will face some form of sexual harassment or assault in her lifetime. These are not odds that I can live with. I’m stepping forward to speak out against the notion that unwanted sexual attention can always be justified. I’m speaking out against the destruction of my safe space because “boys will be boys” and “these things happen”.

By joining the army of survivors that started this movement, I am reclaiming the control that was taken from me. The only way we can eradicate rape culture is by setting a better example for future generations. Teach your sons that no always means no. Teach your daughters how to say no with the strength of all the women she comes from.

There is a war raging against women right now and we have a long way to go until victory. But the journey will only begin if we all take the first step together.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

an ode to thick thighs.

when i was younger, my mother used to tell me i was all skin and bones. it was a wild thing to wrap my mind around because, you see, i was never just skin and bones. i was warmth and love and light and magic.

as i grew older, she started to see what i meant in the swell of my hips and the curve of my thighs. she worried that the eyes that followed me down the street would be preceded by cat calls and wolf whistles. evidently, there is nothing humane about the way this society degrades its women, there is nothing humane about the way this society shames its women, there is nothing humane about the way this society fails its women.

on the days that the sun kisses my skin with a little more passion, i am warned not to wear anything too…much. i wanted to smile and scream at my mother that the day i give two fucks about who i am too much for, i will have become too little for myself. i have come to learn that the power in my walk shakes the earth beneath me but the only ones who are afraid are those with unsteady feet. i was raised with the notion that i must look to others for validation when in truth, i have held the universe inside of me since the moment i took my first breath.

i am a woman. and for far too long, i have worn this title like an oversized sweater, trying to shrink both the word and myself to fit what society tells me i should be. i should be seen and not heard, i should speak when spoken to, i should swallow my individuality to protect the fragile ego of the patriarchal dictatorship, i mean “democracy”, we live in.

instead, what i will do is roll up the sleeves of this behemoth sweater, pick up my bull horn and let anyone who gets in my way know that the only way i will be silenced is if my body is laid down in the same earth that it came from but until then, i would wear the word woman over my shoulders with the same pride a warrior would wear their armor.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

de·pres·sion (n.)

When my best friend asked me to define my depression, my first thought was to grab the nearest Webster and read off the given definition.

“A state of feeling sad,” it said.

The meaning had fallen short of the feeling so instead, I told her about the way my lungs would sometimes detest the taste of air, and the strength it took to remind myself that I needed it. There were times when my limbs felt heavy enough to leave me sinking into my mattress, and I’d wonder if the stones that Virginia Woolf carried as she walked towards her last breath somehow found their way into my hands instead.

I used to think that the aroma of my mother’s house was a marriage of spices that she carried as comfort in the pockets of her apron, but the day depression first took my hand in its own, I learned that most marriages end in divorce anyways.

Depression was never just feeling sad. Depression was sometimes not feeling at all. It was sometimes feeling everything at once. It was the monster underneath your bed that found its way into your head, while the people around you stayed adamant that monsters did not exist.

But this monster existed.

When my best friend asked me how it felt to have conquered depression, I told her that conquering it would have meant that it was gone for good. Instead, I locked it safely behind bars just wide enough for it to sneak through on the nights it could be stealthy enough to do so.

My depression does not leave me. It stands by my side on my worst days and follows me as a shadow on my best. She asks if I feel wiser for having gone through it, for continuing to go through it. I tell her, no. I just feel tired.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

Dear Mr. Nice Guy

Who the fuck do you think you are? It’s so easy for you to come to your bro to tell him about how you slid into shawty’s DM and then eventually slid into her.   You could come to me and tell me all about the 36-24-36 curve on her body but apparently, I’m disrespectful for not curving the guy who asked for my number at the last open mic.

You know what I think it is? I think it kills you to see a woman who’s not as scared of herself as you are of her. The woman who glows in her unapologetic confidence, her unbridled intelligence, her unabashed significance.

Let me tell you what we like. We like the men who turn our names into mantras and reverent prayers because they see God in us. The men who strip us down to our very core before they even think about taking off our clothes. We like the men who let us cum first because we come first and it’s never too fast because these men always finish last.

I don’t want your two minutes of love and I definitely don’t need your two seconds of lust. You think I have a problem with a forever type of commitment but baby, I have seven instances of ink on my skin that say otherwise. I wear forever on my hips like my favorite pair of denim jeans, so fuck you for thinking they look better on her than they do on me.

There's no solid end to this piece because there was no proper beginning with you. And somewhere along the middle, I realized this and I think you should too, that maybe, just maybe, you're not a nice guy after all.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

A Letter to My Revolving Door Lover

I wonder if you leave the door open just a crack so it’s easier for you to slip back in without too much noise. I stopped making your side of the bed knowing that there are nights when you stumble your way back to my side. It’s easy to ignore the taste of indifference on your tongue when your hands are insisting that I matter. When you roll me onto my back and let me feel how much you want me, God, how easy it is to believe that you want all of me. You leave landmarks on the valley of my neck, as if you need a roadmap to find your way back to me. I listen for the way my name used to slip past your lips like a prayer and find that your new favorite word is ‘fuck’.

Fuck.

The red you left on my neck fits right in with the black ink in my skin and yet I have to remind myself that it should never be this difficult to find your way back home. It makes me want to write you out of my life so I start with changing the sheets on my bed. When your scent no longer lingers, I think with a clearer head. If heartache is the only thing you bring with you, then I’d rather have dinner alone than set the table for two.

You make me ache in ways that make me feel as though my bones are hollow. How else can this sadness echo in the way that it does? I seek solace in the arms of a friend I know won’t judge. You see, Mary Jane has this profound ability to lift me high when my heart sinks low. She holds my hand while I close the door behind you, and suddenly it becomes easier to breathe when your shortcomings no longer fall on my shoulders. I stand tall in the sun and find myself filling with hope again.

I hope you look for my warmth in the next girl you put your arms around. I hope you see my coffee brown in her eyes when she looks at you with unbounded admiration. I hope you press your nose to the nape of her neck and smell everything but my comfort. When you work to remember the map you left on my skin and find yourself back at my doorstep, searching for the home I wanted to be for you, I hope you find that I’ve long since changed the lock.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

Cup of Tea

Sorrow stood on my doorstep like an uninvited old friend, toeing my welcome mat with the tip of her scuffed boot. Maybe it was the familiarity of the gesture that brought me to take her hands in mine and invite her in for a cup of tea. The blush of her oversized sweater seemed to highlight the lack of color in her cheeks.

And suddenly, I felt too naked in my tank top and shorts. I wondered if she could see that her blue didn’t stain my wrists anymore. I used to keep my door unlocked and the hallway light on, just in case she needed a somewhere safe to spend the night. Somewhere familiar.

These days, I turn the knob on both locks of my door and make sure all the lights have been turned off before climbing into the comfort of my bed.

The first night Sorrow knocked on my door. Loud, abrasive, unapologetic about the late night intrusion. The second night, she knocked once more. Rhythmic, gentle, remorseful of yesterday’s behavior. The third night, she knocked once and then left me alone. Looking at her now with my grandmother’s china warming her hands, I realized that she had long since overstayed her welcome.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

The Morning After

I never thought of sex as anything more than just sex. The open vulnerability scared me and yet somehow, I found solace tucked beneath the covers of my bed with you between my legs. There was nothing sensible about the way you snuck around in the corners of my mind at night. Maybe I liked your smile. Or maybe I liked the way my name tasted on your tongue after you tasted me. Maybe I liked your eyes. Or maybe I liked the way you looked at me right before you claimed me. There was an order in your chaos that took root in me, tilted the axis on my world, but made me feel like everything was finally right side up. --------------------------------------------------------------------- I’m struggling with this piece because I struggle with you. See, it’s not like I fell for you. Falling for someone means tripping over your own feet and landing at theirs. It means giving a new definition to falling head over heels, the one that Merriam or Oxford has never been able to. And while you were definitely a stumble in my road, I didn’t skin my knees for you. But somehow, everything is connected, so when I faltered, it tugged on the strings of my heart just enough for me to feel it. You kissed the rose on my shoulder and the feeling reverberated in my bones like a knock on my heart and opening those doors was the biggest mistake I ever made.

[awkwardlykhaotic]

“I love you.”

You really, really don’t. You love the idea of me and there’s a bit of a difference, my dear. You cannot claim you love me until you understand that on some nights, 4 A.M. is my best friend and that I’d love for you to join us sometime. Maybe you can say you love me when you understand that I write in blue ink because blue is all I ever feel. I’m sure it sounds nice rolling off your tongue, it may even taste sweet enough for you to want to say it more than once. Don’t. It leaves an acrid taste in my mouth. You just won’t get that I prefer words saturated in honesty and that when you talk, all I hear is empty promises.   So please. Don’t say you love me. God forbid I believe you.  

[awkwardlykhaotic]

Fall From Grace

The humid air in the apartment made my skin moist underneath your touch as you traced the curve of my spine. Red rushed up to meet where you touched just a little more. Your fingertips trailed endlessly like sentences that could never be finished. Curving your hand to mold to the shape of my hip, you turned me onto my back so your lips could fall freely onto mine to steal the words so desperate to make themselves heard.   Your tongue danced with mine as your hands found purchase on my chest, trailing downwards to count my ribs. Stain my skin in red to mirror the ink in yours. Usually so quiet, I found no way to silence the voice you invoked. A devious smirk burned into the skin of my inner thigh, when you looked at me with secrets in your eyes, intent on making a sinner out of me.

*Last line inspired by @poetsprologue

[awkwardlykhaotic]

A Letter to My Abusive Ex-Boyfriend

I miss you more than I should. I hate you more than I want to. And I love you still.   I miss how you kissed my forehead and the corner of my mouth when I got too quiet in my sadness. I miss the way you held me close when I could barely hold myself together. I miss how your arms and the scent at the base of your neck started to become home for me.   But somewhere in your loud anxiety to love me in a way you found acceptable, your arms stopped being home and started to become a cage and “I love you” turned into “I will be only one to ever love you.”   You will make loving the next person so much more difficult. I will unintentionally flinch every time he raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. The rising volume of his laughter will have me waiting for the anger afterwards. I’ll always think “I love you” comes after “I’m sorry” which comes after “You stupid bitch”. For that I hate you.   I don’t think you’ll ever understand how badly you fucked me up. I don’t know that you’ll ever mature enough to be horrified at the words you spat at me or the bruises you left on my skin. The black and blue has faded from my arms but I can’t seem to mend the bruises on my soul and yet, there is nothing left to do but thank you. Thank you for showing me how not to be loved.  

[awkwardlykhaotic]

I Never Seem to Learn

Of all the teachers that I’ve had in my life, you would think disappointment would be the most effective in showing me why not to get my hopes up. And yet I do. Every single time.

You see, what happens is I meet people that I discover pieces of myself in and I find it to be one of the most fascinating things ever. I met this wonderful human being in a relatively unexciting setting and we hit it off. There was no ulterior motive beyond good conversation with great company.

Suddenly, the occasional company turned into a constant energy at my side. It was refreshing to talk to someone whose first priority in life was laughter. To indulge in it and spread it wherever he could. But when the laughter ceased, the loud silence of his sadness became deafening. It drowned out the sound of my many worried phone calls. Eventually, my worry started to give way to anger. What an inconsiderate thing to do, to make me frantic rather than tell me you need space. You come back, as though nothing happened at all, and after five seconds of your familiar laughter, I already forgive you because dammit, I missed you. I ask you not to do it again and you promise that you won’t. When I took your word for it, I guess it slipped my mind how natural it was for you to lie to make me feel better because you did do it again.

I’ve stopped texting and I’ve stopped calling. The disappointment this time around has been effective and I know not to get my hopes up about hearing back. It doesn’t stop me from wishing you health and wishing well.

“Happy birthday, kid.”