"My Favorite Summer Shirt" is a poem about my fears and how I live with them every day- How I cover them up and continue to live with them. They said fear does not make you who you are It’s you who makes up your fears But my fears are creepily crippling me from the inside Slowly, quickly trying to wear me down I hide my fears by wearing it like my favorite summer shirt The hint of black and blue and white and gray My fears hide themselves by acting like it’s something I’ve braved upon Something that I can proudly wear, no matter the occasion My fears are my binding bed while I try to eat courage as my breakfast No one will ever know how hard to battle getting up when your legs are shaking down And no one will ever know how harder it is to sleep peacefully when your mind is shouting back It’s scary, eerily scary But my fears are like my favorite summer shirt, like I said Who cares about the freezing cold of winter when you’re dead cold inside? The fall represents my fears of endings, while my springs are my fears of new beginnings And yet, I still wear them whole year round My favorite summer shirt will turn ragged and dirty in the days to come But the thing about this shirt of mine is that it will always hold a lot of memories Maybe not the best of it but the nightmares in my daydreams This shirt is my fears that scarred me for life, may outgrow, but will never be forgotten

Every person has their fears. Fear covers the eyes with a veil, due to which a person ceases to perceive adequately, to see the reality in front of him. The size of the problem- the scale of fear is no longer important. In front of a person, there is only a white veil, a stupor, and a perception distorted for the worse. A person loses his appearance, he becomes a slave to his fears. https://instagram.com/ryl.aana?igshid=ZmZhODViOGI=

We sit frantic and superstitious In the womb of a stormy August night. Our only light is a flicker taken over, A flicker like a perforated star- Or a sun with a manic Mercury. Afraid of ourselves, we stare at a hornet Wishing death upon it Like good believers We tolerate no disruptions of our rituals. Was it a paper wasp or a yellowjacket, We would sleep through it like infants But the hornet, the hornet, With its orange depravities And deviance of a sundew, Acting as something almost familiar, Is not to be absolved. The quietness didn’t arrive with it all Neither did fear nor fury nor frenzy, But right now, it is to blame. Beelzebub himself. We will kill it Like the Sun kills every eclipse Despite knowing another will come nevertheless. And as the storm passes Still silent and trustless In stings and wings up to the necks, We will slowly turn on all of the lights.

Gender stereotypes and the chaos and calamity they subconsciously bring into the lives of individuals are my basic concern. My paintings depict the human body with thick layers of paint, which hide, yet reveal it. It is similar to the trauma and other emotions that manifest over time. Sentences from my research, colors, abstraction, and placement of these paintings go through a well-thought process to depict various emotions, situations, and traumas one experiences in life. "Hyphenated Emotions" Enamel Paint on Canvas 9'X10' "This Is Not a Vagina" Acrylic on Canvas 3'x5' "Her Side" Acrylic on canvas 3’z5’ "Her Lower Torso" Acrylic on canvas 3’-5’ "Her Back" Acrylic on Canvas 3'x5' "Her Bottom" Acrylic on canvas 3’-5’ "Cemented Bodies I" Cement on canvas 6’-7’ "Cemented Bodies II" Cement on canvas 6’-7’ "Him as a Landscape" Cement and Blood on Canvas 3'x8' "Her as a Landscape" Cement and Blood on Canvas 3'x8'

Sarafa Bazaar is the kind of market you'd probably read about in a Khaled Housseni novel- with sunlight slanting through its weather-beaten white canopies that have simultaneously turned to varying hues of rust, brown and off-white. Its narrow, brick-lined roads are coated with mud that sticks to the soles of your shoes. The disturbingly colloquial use of language resonates with its existence in a perpetual, cacophonous blur. As you walk through the tightly packed market, you’d see men with paan-stained teeth in their faded kurta shalwars, mostly brown or sky blue and sometimes, if you’re affluent enough to keep it crisp and fresh, white. You would, more often than not, catch them leering at women like a predator, their prey. Their perfumes are overpowering, albeit barely covering the reek of tobacco and sweat. They’d try to catch your eye so they could woo you into paying a visit to their shops, casually drinking tea despite the blistering heat. Women in black burqas and niqabs thrown over their faces or in multi-colored kameez shalwars with dupattas wrapped around their heads clutch their purses tightly as they move forward in groups. Fully watchful of the pickpockets in that part of the market, they eye the shops with a feign disinterest, making sure not to look too interested as it would risk the vendors increasing the prices. It is the kind of market where you have to go dressed properly covered; it is almost as if the market demands it. The shops are tiny but vibrantly detailed with a plethora of reasonably priced clothes, jhumkay and chooriyaan (the glass ones always more beautiful but less costly than the metals ones)- accentuated with cheap embellishments, glittering like gold in the light of the low hanging yellow bulbs. The air is saturated with the scent of all that exists in the range of sour pickles to the sickeningly saccharine scent of sweets doused in treacle, attracting swarms of flies. So as I meander through the bazaar towards the rather conspicuous glass-doored shops of pure silver, I clutch my purse a little tighter and smile at the young golden-eyed boy clinging to his mother’s cheddar, begging her to get him the embroidered black khussa from the shop nearby.

Reds, Golds, Roses.

I was once sick outside the Glasgow Cathedral Moonlight filters into my mouth I taste stars and talk utter shit Liquid loveliness: all good poets Have a vice, don’t they? ‘The Sunday Scarys’. What was I saying Observe the Sabbath from the duvet, Pray I hope nobody saw that Insta story I shouldn’t mix tequila and Chardonnay When its not long afternoon, I’ll rise And the vertical regret takes on a blur It comes with a hot groan, the ill shakes Loose metronome pulse making its way to your ears Before the purge and the porcelain, The grout and cracked tile make patterns of my skin Reconcile the white with the new bruise Before the letters light-up green: green as prohibition Buchanan green, bile-slick ketamine street green Whose out tonight? Fancy a bev? Say, Union at 9pm? Like Humpty, and his ten green bottles on the wall We’ll fall off the wagon for it all over again

A little piece by a wannabe Todd Anderson, who has too much anxiety and love for poems. I went to a beach a few weeks ago and started writing this from then. My first time writing poetry, you can probably tell. But it was nice to discover an outlet. My biggest realization while writing this was that scritch scratches of pencils are oddly and largely inspiring. The whole work is based on the too-heavy burden of being your parent's vessel of dreams. TW: Self Harm Last month we went to the beach, I saw my parents watching the huge waves, I watched them like an intruder, Their eyes spoke things their mouth didn't, Eyes with wonder & happiness; eyes with pride & dreams. But I fell in love with the small ones, Found solace in them, Entranced, enamored - pretty little things with so much life. The small waves flow in the same path As the larger ones, but they fall short. Never enough in comparison with their peers But they are there, happy & content, they’re alive. Mother speaks with her eyes, Drifting to me from the big waves. But father speaks, his voice reminiscent of thunderstorms, He talks about the bigger waves, never the smaller ones. I used to push my face into my pillow when I was younger, To feel the helplessness of not being able to breathe, To gasp for air seconds later, The exhilaration that came with finding my breath again. His words come with the same suffocation, Only now, I don’t find my breath again anymore. His words make the sea look empty, To go along the waves and let the tide pull me to itself, Let the ocean claim me to her heart. More than that, they make me want to scream. And I do. A silent scream louder than the thunder; It's audible in the way my eyes become the ocean, A chasm filled with water, Water to drown my misery and water that reflects my eyes. It’s silent, it's loud, and it tastes like metal. I’m a mirror to my mother, I’m a reflection of everything my father is. At the glance of their glimmering eyes, the water dries up, And I kill myself every day, The water turns crimson, flowing through my cheeks. The small waves I dream of turn bigger, And I start craving them too, Almost reaching their expectations but not enough, Never enough. Turns me into a shell of who I was once. Their eyes have never looked brighter. But there’s water in the blood, too, and you could fool yourself only for so long. I went to the beach last night alone in my bathroom. A slight sting, a beat, an ocean on the bathroom floor, It rattled me. But it fell quiet for the first time in so long, The way it used to when I pushed my face into the pillow There was suffocation but There was the exhilaration I was craving for. And I knew I flew too close to the sun, I’m falling back with my broken, melted wings and There’s a vast ocean of crimson to welcome me underneath. It was scary, yes, but oh so comforting, To have something to look forward to, To fall back to a morbid safety net. My parents will go to the beach the next time And not realize the ocean they fell in love with Was made by the crimson of their daughter, That the beauty came at the cost of their daughter every night. Water takes the shape of the ocean, My sorrows take the shape of my body. Ten years later, will I stop seeing red if I make it? When will I watch the ocean and not want to suffocate myself again? Does this ever end? Do I want it to end? There’s calm in the eye of the storm too. Mother, I'm scared. Father, I'm terrified. Tuck me to sleep again, Pull the pillow from my face like you used to, Love me like you used to.

Every single day I've been alive, I've carried the curse of getting "looked at" by monsters on the streets. They eat you up as a young child, and then spit you out. As a result, you're changed forever, and in the process of getting "looked at", you become a woman.

There are many lies that will throw us constantly into this world without hesitation or restraint. Lies are everywhere, sprinkled in our sundaes of living, whether or not we notice it without giving the cherry on top. However, one thing that will always be true is something that seems simple, yet disheartening at the same time. Life or anybody else hasn’t prepared us for anything… like school. Correctly or fully. The world has taught us many things about school and what to watch out for, but also what to be wary of. Throughout our entire lives, our primary focuses in school have always been the big three: grades, socializing, and hobbies. To maintain the best grades, to get the education and life we rightfully want and deserve, to socialize and meet new people to connect with, and to discover oneself with many hobbies and extracurriculars around. With these three in our grasp as we hold it with success and pride, school will be nothing but a walk in the park. It’s a walk, yes, but which park are we specifying? At first, we all imagined it to be a park that is filled with the most mesmerizing flowers and trees as the wind blows and sings its way around us. The sun shines brightly, emphasizing the warmth and protection it has for us. The air is filled with nothing but the freshness and, possibly, the happiness of the youth that’s here with us. However, as we stroll down this park, something else has caught our eye at an age where we shouldn’t even see it at all. Not here, not now, not yet. The air within the park grows a bit more hastily. Its scent becomes more acidic as it burns our insides and fills our heads with horrifying scenarios. The sounds ringing in our ears play screams and cries that will haunt us endlessly till our death day. Wonderful scenery of nature begins to wither and decay in front of us as reality shows the image that should’ve been shown on the first day. But at the same time, an image that shouldn’t even be presented at all. Why would it be presented now? Even worse… why did it make the wind sing worries within us, our parents, our loved ones, and our communities? This aroma around the park that we have been walking, not even for three years, is dangerous. The danger that is placed on us, the danger that we weren’t notified of, and the danger that we have never signed up for as the politicians have signed it for us. When the first “code red” blares at our young ears at just the age of five, nothing but confusion arises within. Thinking, “what’s a code red?” As we see our teachers scurry as if their life depends on it, shutting the door, blocking the windows, and turning off the lights, we all rush to a very specific corner of the classroom. We all huddle up, feeling giddy about what this new experience might be. Only to be shushed instantly by someone who is now deemed as our bodyguard. They never signed up to be one though… why should they even act like one? Why should they have this image in their head that they would have to risk their lives in a school, of all places? Because society and regulations had set them up unfairly to be the shield of protection from the danger that the higher-ups should’ve protected us from. However, higher-ups refuse or even dare move a finger to be our shield to end it all. Instead, our shield is the people that shape our brains and who we are today. At a young age, we never noticed it until it all clicked in our heads. At a young age, we never noticed why we have to be silent as if we were evaporating from the room, disappearing from it all. Never noticed the darkness circling around the room like a silent tornado. Never noticed the locked and closed-off doors, avoiding sunlight from even touching the classroom. We never noticed it… Until the tv speaks, no, screeches out to all of us on what really is going on. Of what truly is “code red”. However, they show us in a way that we wish could be erased from our brains. They show us in a way with names and faces that we’ve never seen nor recognized until now. Now it's too late for them to even make a name for themselves because someone stole their name and soul from them with no sorrow. Images and videos played filled with crying parents and angry members of society about the event that had taken place. Words played and circle our brains of what truly had happened. “December 14, 2012…” is just an “average” Friday that has drastically changed this whole young generation’s minds forever. At first, most of us thought it would simply be the end of stories like these to even pop up. It’s too horrific to even happen, so why would anyone else want to repeat history? However… we were incredibly wrong. Stories upon stories upon stories of horrifying pops and bangs echo through the rooms of bodies being dropped in an instant. Of lives being stolen by selfish and malicious people with a weapon that caused it all… Firearms. Bear arms. Guns. Whatever you want to call them, they are a student’s worst nightmare. Not even… they are anyone’s worst nightmare if it gets into the very wrong and harmful hands. What’s even worse, the student can never escape from it as supposedly, it can happen anywhere! Is society really telling us to simply accept it and let it be? If it happens, it happens? We’ve been living in constant fear after hearing hundreds of news stories filled with nothing but loss. Whenever we’re in a public place, we can’t help but start forming an escape plan for anywhere that we go. Go to the nearest exit and run as fast as you possibly can, but quietly. Can’t even risk being another statistic, so all we have to do is sprint like there’s no such thing as tomorrow. If we don’t sprint away, there will be no tomorrow. The worries sing louder and louder as we grow older and older. It’s horrifying to even imagine the possibilities of what would happen if we don’t follow the rules of protection. What’s even worse, these events can be unexpected. How can higher-ups expect us to live safely when we constantly fear what might happen? If we witness the horror or if we become a part of the horror as our spirits fly out and stare below the sorrow that has been caused after that agonizing pain. If we could lose someone very dear to us, thanks to the inanimate objects that apparently have more importance than the people that could’ve made an impact on the future. The people that could simply just live their lives in peace and harmony… but now… would that even be possible in today’s modern age? It truly does hurt to see how life turned out to be this way. I sometimes wish that I could still have the young mentality of a five-year-old, not worry about how to escape school in a snap or to not worry about how to fight back against the perpetrator. However, the more I realize, even five-year-olds these days have thoughts like these. The world has drilled into our heads how in constant danger we all are. It’s sickening. It’s horrible. It’s disheartening. It’s a veritable nightmare. We are all tired of the worries that screech for the entire world to hear. Tired of the people that don’t have a sign of a heart… but decide to make everyone’s lives a living hell. Most importantly, tired of all the people that won’t even dare to even make a true and impactful difference in our lives. They have the ability and the power to actually do something, to let us all listen to the peace of the world one more time! We just want to hear it one more time… If they don’t want to change the songs that the world has been teaching us as the years get worse and worse, then we’ll take stuff into our own hands. To protest, to sign, to govern, to rule over, to truly be the people that will work as hard as they can to let these sickening thoughts and worries vanish. To not let history repeat itself as it pleases! It’ll take years, decades, centuries even… but time won’t be our roadblock to what we truly desire. Time will be a helping hand, going day by day as we let a changing spring through. Time, dedication, and effort will finally have five-year-olds’ walk in the park filled with life as everyone else tries to reenter it once more.