By Maryam Malik
My home spits me out every night when I try to crawl back
And bury myself between her ribs.
–
My home drags me by the hair to the edge of the roof
And dangles me just long enough
To taste fear foaming at my mouth and gripping my throat.
–
My home doesn’t understand why I am the way I am
And tears me apart just to sew me back
Carelessly,
Recklessly,
Faithlessly.
–
Home bloated me with a language of hostility and misery.
The only thing I look for is my home,
One day, opening her eyes softly
Embracing me languidly, caressing me gently
And whispering faintly, “you’re my home too”.
The views of the authors and writers who contribute to Sekka, and the views of the interviewees who are featured in Sekka, do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of Sekka, its parent company, its owners, employees and affiliates.
Maryam Malik is a 21-year-old Bahraini student majoring in English Literature and French. When she’s not passionately writing poetry and doting over fictional characters, she’s almost always listening to music.