Oh, I wish I was a child again.

I wish with all my heart

that I was a little child again —

small enough to fit into someone’s arms,

light enough to be carried away from pain.

That someone would pat my back

and pull me into a warm hug

without asking what was wrong —

just knowing I needed it.

I wish my mother would take me

into her calm, all-forgiving embrace,

wrap me in her old cotton suit

and place her soft hand on my wounded leg,

balm it not just with ointment,

but with love, with care,

with kisses that reach deeper

than bones or bruises.

I wish she would look at me and say,

"You don’t have to be strong today.

I’ve got you.”

I wish my father would still believe

he could keep the monsters away —

that he could protect me

with his tired but willing hands,

stand between me and the world

like a wall that never crumbles.

I wish he feared the day I’d marry —

not with pride,

but with a sorrowful tenderness.

That he’d lie awake at night thinking,

Will the man who comes next

know what it took to raise her?

Will he love her with the same rage and gentleness

with which I fed her, taught her,

built her from my own blood and flesh?

I wish when I was sent to my aunts,

they loved me like their own —

not out of duty,

but with real, radiant affection.

That they’d whisper to each other,

“She’s going to be something,”

and I’d overhear it and believe.

I wish they saw in me

not an extra task,

but a tiny little girl

who wanted to grow up

to be just like them.

I wish my brother guided my steps —

not from ahead,

but from beside me.

That he told me,

“Sister, I’ll be your shield.

I’ll be your tutor —

and you’ll come first.

Not just in school,

but in life.”

I wish his love came unprovoked,

unconditioned.

I wish when my younger sister looked at me,

she felt reassured.

That in my eyes, she saw her future —

and knew it was safe.

That being a daughter meant being cherished,

not bargained.

That she could grow soft

and still survive.

I wish I had the same resources

my brother had —

not just money,

but permission.

Permission to dream wide,

to fail,

to try again.

I wish he sat beside me and said,

“Let me show you how to build

with what little we have —

because you are good at learning and I am

 your mentor.”

I wish when I matured,

there was a line of suitors —

not hunting for beauty,

but seeking worth.

And I wish my parents chose with care,

not out of pressure,

but pride, because I was the work of their

 life.

Because they only knew how much efforts

they've made to get me what I deserved.

I wish they saw me with the same smile,

they shower on others.

That they looked each one in the eye

and said:

“Handle gently.

This girl was raised like a prayer.

We did not hand her the world

just to watch her fall.

To keep her —

you must match the standard she’s set.

And trust me,

that is no easy task.”

That the guy who got me 

would think on his mind,

" What good I did to deserve such a girl? "

and I would have kissed him gently,

told him - that I am as normal as others,

the only reason which makes him to think 

so highly of me is that —

" I AM A LUCKY GIRL "

Warning! It's total darkness.

I sit in the dark,

not the gentle kind—

the kind that grabs your throat

and doesn’t let go.

My head’s a grenade,

ticking with rage.

Pain pulses like it owns me.

And maybe it does.

I carry a heart

weighed down with commands,

shrugged shoulders,

cold stares,

a thousand tiny betrayals

stacked like bricks on my chest.

They say God listens.

He doesn’t.

I’ve screamed till my throat tore—

nothing.

Either He’s blind,

or He just walked away.

Same difference.

Don’t talk to me about family.

They never looked close enough

to know I was breaking.

Now I look away too.

I’ll love them—sure—

but I won’t speak it.

I’ve run out of faith.

My lover?

He’s busy admiring his reflection.

I sit at the window

like a dog waiting for scraps.

Only I didn’t bite anyone.

I didn’t sin.

I just existed—

and that was enough for punishment.

I don’t care anymore.

Everyone hates with sugar on their tongue.

I’ll hate with fire.

It’s the only language I was ever taught.

Life’s a loop.

Grey.

Lifeless.

A blunt knife that still cuts.

And no—

I won’t pretty it up.

It sucks.

That’s it.

It. Fucking. Sucks.

The Love I Could Still Give

O my Allah—
Let me speak before my soul grows quiet.
Not in defiance, not in pride,
But in the trembling honesty
Of someone who has spent years
Trying to touch Your light
With hands that couldn’t stop shaking.

Yes, my age has ripened,
Yes, I’ve seen what this world does to innocence.
And I know—eventually, we all lose it.
But they lose it within the bounds You designed.
They fall, but fall towards You.

And I?
I only ever wanted You—more than they did,
More than the ones who reached You easily.
I wanted nothing more
Than to stand among those You love.
But I wasn’t allowed.

Not by rebellion.
Not by disbelief.
But by a body that buckled,
A mind that betrayed me,
And a life that unfolded like a locked door
Each time I tried to walk through.

You saw me, didn’t You?
You must have seen
The way others wandered into Your mercy
Without bleeding for it—
But I bled, Ya Allah.

The thorns I never blamed You for.
I read Your Book—I knew You said,
“I will test you.”
So I didn’t cry at the thorns.
I cried at the strength I didn’t have.

My eyes blur when I try to read Your words.
My hands tremble when I reach for them.
My spine folds when I try to bow.
Even when my heart was ablaze with longing—
My body slammed the door shut.

Do You know what that does to a soul?
To want to rise at Fajr
But be held hostage by a brain
That panics at the sound of dawn?

To whisper Bismillah
And feel like I’m lying—
Because every nerve in me
Is at war with my faith.

And still—
Still I tried.

But the sleep terrors,
The paralysis,
The migraines that ripped through my skull
Like thunder splitting the sky—
They broke me.

They didn’t just hurt my body,
They did something far worse:
They made me doubt myself.
They made me wonder
If I would ever be good enough
To be called Your servant.

O Allah—
I stopped trying to follow every rule,
Not because I didn’t want to—
But because every attempt left me shattered.

I don’t bring You a record of great deeds.
I don’t bring long fasts or eloquent duas.
But I bring You this—

I never hurt Your people.
Even when I was hurting,
I didn’t pass that pain forward.

I smiled when I could.
I softened where I was hardening.
That’s how I worshipped You,
When I couldn’t stand on a prayer mat.

Is that something You accept?

I ask not with arrogance,
But with the shattered voice
Of someone who’s loved You in silence
While drowning in weakness.

I wonder—
Will You enter me into Your garden
When I bring no grandeur,
No strength,
Just love?

Because that’s all I ever had left.

I loved You.
Through paralysis.
Through fear.
Through failure.
Through the shame of not being enough
For a faith I believed in more than anything.

Ya Allah—my intentions were holy,
Even when my actions failed.
And though my path never matched the map,
My heart never stopped walking toward You.

Do You take love from those
Who couldn’t follow all the signs?

If You do,
Then I am Yours.

"I Don’t Know Anymore"

I’ve stopped hoping.

Not in everything—

Just in this world,

This fake one.

This knock-off version of something that once had soul.

Plato called it imitation.

He was right.

Whatever’s real is elsewhere.

I still believe in that place.

The one beyond this scripted chaos.

But here?

This world’s a glitch.

I had a rough start—

but I thought adulthood would hand me a plot twist.

Turns out, it’s just

the same storm

with new furniture.

Career?

Crumbling.

Love?

An echo.

Family?

A ghost town.

And my health—

my body’s writing poetry in pain,

every limb a stanza of ache.

I didn’t know I had this much room

to store sorrow.

Now I’m overflowing.

These “lessons,”

these “tests”—

they don’t feel like growth.

They feel like slow erasure.

I’m not okay.

I’m not even pretending well.

Even if happiness shows up,

it’d bounce right off.

It wouldn’t know where to land.

Maybe the universe thought I was tough.

Maybe it bet on my endurance.

But I wanna ask—

Hey, you watching?

Do you see me—

fading out?

My petals?

They’ve lost their blush.

Touch me now,

I’ll fall apart like dry leaves in your hand.

Whatever pushed me here,

dragged me into this version of myself,

hasn’t left a map back.

And all I have left—

is three syllables.

Whispered, broken, real:

I don’t know.

"I Tried to Obey"

When I was a girl with ribbons in my hair,

They taught me: Obey — and life will be fair.

Mother, Father, Aunt in their choir of trust,

Sang obedience as law, as life, as must.

And I — little heart, eager and small —

Believed, because I wanted to believe it all.

I bowed my head, I stitched my soul,

To every word, every heavy toll.

But suffering grew where peace was sown,

Tears became seeds, and I wept alone.

While I bent and broke to meet their call,

No hands reached out to catch my fall.

I tried so hard, I fought so blind,

Obedience carved scars deep in my mind.

Their ways were crooked, their paths were wrong —

I learned it bleeding, I learned it long.

So I rebelled, a storm unchained,

A woman unbowed, battle-stained.

Yet still, the hunger for home remained —

A heart, a harbor, to ease my pain.

I loved a stranger, placed my crown,

At his feet, laid my armor down.

Hoped his voice, unlike theirs, was kind —

Hoped his hands would heal my mind.

But obedience tasted bitter again,

Betrayal wore another man’s name.

And so I rose, fierce and free,

Breaking the chains they forged for me.

Now, I obey no master, no kin —

My law is the fire that burns within.

I don't know what I'll answer my God,

But I will say: I tried, oh Lord, I trod.

I obeyed the wrong, I loved the wrong,

Yet from their ruins, I built my song.

Judge me not by the scars I bear,

But by the battles that taught me care.

I tried to obey, and I tried to trust —

But their promises crumbled into dust.

A Promise to Myself

I have made a promise to myself,

And I am good at keeping promises.

No longer will I pour my soul into empty hands,

No longer will I offer my light to those

Who do not know the cost of its burning.

Every tear I cried found a wounded stranger,

And I thought — they need saving.

So I gave them my arms, my strength, my breath,

But they were weeping for the ruins they built themselves.

And I, faultless in my devotion,

Paid the price for their storms.

I have made a promise to myself,

And I am good at keeping promises.

No longer will my kindness be currency

For the loyalty that never comes.

Every embrace I gave, every wound I mended,

Will now belong to me.

I have seen faces shattered by sorrow,

I have offered them all that I had —

Gentle hands, patient love, a quiet place to heal.

But when they found joy,

They left my hands empty,

As if I were a ghost of their own making.

I have made a promise to myself,

And I am good at keeping promises.

No stranger shall sip from my chalice

While I thirst for a love unreturned.

No unfamiliar sorrow shall steal my tenderness

When my own heart still bleeds.

I know the depth of my own wounds,

I know the history of my own battles.

I will be the embrace I always sought,

The comfort I once scattered like seeds in barren fields.

Every tear I wiped for another,

I will now wipe from my own cheek.

Every heart I kept from breaking,

I will now fiercely guard within my chest.

Every healing touch I gave away,

I will lay, tender and fierce, upon my own soul.

I have made a promise to myself,

And I am good —

So very good —

At keeping promises.

"In the Maze, I Call You"

(A poem dedicated to Allah)

Ya Allah, I am in a maze,

Walls rising high in a sorrowful haze.

This life I lead feels worn and wrong—

Is it illness that hums, or have I strayed too long?

Why don’t You talk to me, O Allah, why?

I know You speak in silence, but still I cry.

These questions burn within my chest,

And in Your stillness, I find unrest.

What happens, my Lord, when a lover yearns,

But silence is the only return?

Am I a servant who’s lost her place?

Still, I ache for even a glimpse of Your grace.

I whisper to You: I still love You,

Though my hands may falter, my heart is true.

Hope has left me in many lands,

But not in You—not in Your hands.

I’ve caused pain though I meant to heal,

Mistook my kindness for wounds too real.

I stand now where I can’t see light,

Yet still I search for You in this night.

When I was a child, Your love was near,

Pure, unshaken, without fear.

Woe to this world that clouds my view,

Of that simple, sacred love I knew.

If I betrayed You, forgive my thought—

I trusted You would save me, no matter what.

Is that wrong? Is that love naive?

Or the trembling hope of one who believes?

I wish I lived in the Prophet’s time,

Where mercy bloomed and hearts could climb.

He would have seen the storm in me,

And calmed it with his empathy.

Now the world is heavy, the people cold,

Even the wise feel worn and old.

They ask for light I cannot give,

For even I forget how to live.

Life and death—their veil so thin,

Each breath a struggle deep within.

When I reach for You, my health pulls back—

A chain, a wound, a shadowed track.

Is it this test that makes me fall?

This fragile body, this mortal wall?

I try, O Allah, I truly try—

But I stumble still, and wonder why.

Am I evil? Or just unwell?

In this silence, it's hard to tell.

What do You see when You see me?

A lost soul, or one who strives quietly?

Do You know me as bad—or good?

Or a girl still learning what she should?

Ya Allah, if You know my heart,

Then let that be where mercy starts.