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You called me ungrateful-
Told me that you gave me the world, when really all you did was hold me hostage. You called me abused- When you were the only ones abusing me. You called me stupid- When I ran towards my freedom, away from you. You called me selfish- Told me I was a horrible daughter and the worst sister, because I chose me. You told me I abandoned you- But you left me no choice; I was tired of abandoning myself to make you happy. I became exactly what you thought of me- The Monster in your fairytale story, yet the Hero of my own, in my own.
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I wonder what it's like to be asked, "Where are you from?" and the answer be, "Here."  Painting titled "Over The Moon" by my favorite artist, Rob Gonsalves. You left yesterday. Flew back to your country of current residence while I stayed in mine and thought about how ironic it is to be born from you and yet live continents apart.
You left, but you also forgot some things behind, like that T-shirt I got you, which you told me was your favourite. Also, the handwritten card you wrote for my birthday, which is still months away, telling me how proud of me you are (yes, I already read it). And of course, the extra food you cooked, and the watermelon slices you cut, telling me to eat them in these next few days when I'm missing you. When am I not missing you? You left your scent in my bedsheets. You left echoes of your laugher bouncing off my walls. You left trails of your souls walking through my hallways. Your souls are so far away now, and it is so quiet without you. Fragments of you still linger. I miss you. Please come back soon. Dedicated to my Amma and Baba. I've had enough
Life has been too rough. I'm tired of pretending, My misery is never ending. The pain won't go away, I can't keep trying. Stop asing me if I'm okay, I'm just so tired of lying. It wasn't you, it was me; I was the problem, so I'm sorry. No one could have saved me, I had drowned too deep. I have quit now; I didn't think I would do it. Most people feared death, But I prayed for it.
 Photography by me. For more, follow me on Instagram at www.instagram.com/azs.photography Winter
was my favourite season until I moved out of the desert and saw how beautiful autumn can be. Parents in England, one brother with them,
all three with bellies full of my Amma's food. Another brother in Dublin, on a dinner date with his lady. The last brother in Mechanicsburg, celebrating Labor Day complete with a a pool-side BBQ with his new family: his wife, son, and in-laws. Me: Alone, hungry, with cold feet, in an only semi-unpacked apartment. My phone is glued to my ear; I'm on hold with a British Airways representative. He keeps failing at flirting with me. His Desi-British accent is making me laugh and cringe, while I am dreaming about my next getaway. "See you in Islamabad," he eagerly says. "Yup, see you there," I reply, while counting down the days until I can go home. Eyes heavy and closed; Brain light and hyperactive. I'm trying to sleep, But your words keep swimming through my mind.  I am a child of the moon. She watches over me as I sleep. Her glow reminds me that I am safe. Sometimes I stay awake, watching Her, in awe, thanking Him for birthing me with eyes that can see more than just sights so that I may bask in Her glory. My mother.  Photography by me. For more photography by my brother and I, please follow us on Instagram: www.instagram.com/a.z.s.photography You were Spring during my Fall. Was I a fool to have thought you'd be Summer during my Winter?  Photo by my brother, Adeen. For more of our photography, follow us on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/azs.photography/ |
