Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back

In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen

We'll put up feigned politicians / And their fake promises instead

Tell me I am not a house without exits. Leave

The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.

The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.

It’s been so long since we last spoke that I don’t think I can talk to you without confessing something. There you were, standing before me

I see her now, but not in the way I have always seen her—through the lens of service, of duty, of roles—but as a woman whose edges were softened long before I learned her name

He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible

I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth

Raise no alarm, if on a night dimly lit,

That night, the wind howled like the wolves as Shyam and Alameen rowed silently, their boat traversing through the misty air and the water rippling gently beneath them.

Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.

Stay in a group, never in alleyways

In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.

Chaos. More chaos.

“Attention passengers. The next train arriving is a B train traveling westbound towards Boston College.  Please stand clear of the closing doors."

a man walks into a bar but he looks like a little boy

I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed

i quite like the smell of cloves, even more when they're burning/ turning charcoal in front of my eyes