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.