Sanctuary

For Brown girls everywhere.

Mymona Bibi is a writer and teacher in the North East. Her focus is currently on investigating identity, storytelling and understanding social inequality. Her writing has been featured in the Ilkley Literature Festival, MEDUSA and Corridor8. She is also exploring sewing and embroidery through environmental and social craftivism.

Safa Maryam is a poet and medical student from the North. Her work has been featured in Dear Damsels and Mslexia, and in So Long As You Write (Dear Damsels 2022). When not writing, she enjoys painting, and finding excuses to go out for food. She can be found on Instagram and Twitter @bysafamaryam

Akiba Azad is a writer, a BA and MA Graduate, born and raised in the North East. Has a love for cats, is a hopeless romantic and loves being Brown. Her work has been featured in PSEUDOKULTURE Edition 01. Find more of her on Instagram @kibwrites.

Hummy is a Teesside-born and Newcastle-based writer and illustrator. Her short plays have been staged at ARC Stockton and Live Theatre Newcastle. When she’s not writing (which is often), Hummy can be found queuing songs at a house party or simply with a good book.

Ilisha Thiru Purcell is a poet based in Newcastle. She studied English Literature at University College London and her work has appeared in Popshot, Chayn’s Creative Hope exhibition and their podcast Less than two percent. Ilisha is happiest by the sea, eating cake in cafes with people she loves and when she’s creating.

Iqra Choudhry is a writer and creative raised in Manchester who has made her home in Newcastle. Her work focuses on themes of identity, love, loss and grief. If she’s not writing or reading you can find her cooking up a storm in the kitchen or listening to metal.

Nadira Jhan is an Organisational - People Development and Culture Change Leader. She consults in Diversity and Inclusion, specialising in Race and Faith. In her spare time Nadira enjoys cooking, crafting, travelling around the world and developing her knowledge of faith and spirituality.

Acknowledgements

Thank you Tahmina Ali, without you we wouldn’t have had this sanctuary. Thank you New Writing North, for giving us the tools to write and Emma Wallace for continuously being supportive of our ideas. Finally, thank you Sharmin Islam for imagining and creating a space for us Brown girls to thrive in.

Brown Girls Write is a group that meets weekly in the West End of Newcastle. It was conceived and set up by Sharmin Islam, New Writing North’s Creative Associate, and is run as part of New Writing North’s West End Writes programme, funded by Paul Hamlyn Foundation.

Around the Clock

6am - 9am

She built danger for her other self, With bricks of sweaty darkness. A building where her brand new phone, Is plucked out her pocket.

Picking, and pinching at prickly skin.

Twisted, tossed and turned in silk threads.

Arguing, Is it or is it not?

“It is not, it is sleep!”

She cries as her body sinks into her thief. “But if it is, then I shall weep!”

Chasing the demons, Who steal her rest and lay, Heavy on her chest.

Lucid in her steps and it is unclear, Humid in her bed and in her fear.

9am - 11am

Coffee - hot, bitter, sweet. The turning on of Microsoft teams. The “Hi, how are you? How did you weekend go?” Of every call. Corporate prison. These seventeen inches of screen a cell. I have an email from my new work nemesis. I clock watch.

I stop, pour another cup.

Coffee - lukewarm, bitter, sweet. I microwave it, I perk up.

Mymona

I tiptap on my keyboard, feeling businesslike. Meetings, done. Calls, over. Emails sent. I sigh.

I pick up my cup, I take a breath.

I drink it down to the dregs. Only an hour till lunch left.

11am - 1pm

11:11 make a wish. I want to eat. Do not judge me. We all must eat to live. But I get ahead of myself. Because I skipped breakfast. So I wiggle my mouse, Draft some email replies, Until the clock strikes 12. And up I rise. To eat, eat, eat.

1pm - 3pm

Sandwich in stomach so shortened lunch over, Concentration wavering but hometime grows closer, Beyond the door impatient patients wait, While in here I prod for a bouncing branch, In the left cubital fossa of a blue-haired teen mother, Sharp scratch then flashback,

Bottles fill up, Till needle pops out, Unintentional, Scarlet streams down,

“Will this stain my scrubs?”

I wonder,

Five years in I should know the answer, I press cotton wool over entry site, And patient prepares to chunder. Safa

3pm - 5pm

Waiting for the black car to move.

Humming along to SZA while Dad’s impatience sets in. Finally, it reverses. I park.

Rushing inside, as I haven’t ate my lunch.

Chicken steaks in the air fryer, veggies on the hob.

Wizards of Waverly Place, company in my ears.

Ready for sustenance.

Reminder alerts: ‘Pick up glasses @ 3:50’

3:27, need to eat quick.

Hop into my pants, tuck in my top, slide into my trainers. My name’s not scheduled in.

“I hope you don’t take this wrong, but these will definitely suit your skin tone,” Anette admires. We discuss bad parenting.

Not your regular customer/employee conversation. Bus driver is nice enough to wait for me.

Making my way.

5pm - 7pm

It’s rush hour at Kings Cross and for once I am taking my time. Descending Pentonville Road I am reaching a summit in my stomach, A bubble of joy rises up out of me, following the swirls of soot and smog,

And for the first time in a long time, this bubble doesn’t pop.

Today, I am not hit by the scent of stress and agitation But by anonymity, my anonymity. It saturates the air around me and tastes ever so sweet on my tongue.

The clock at St Pancras cried out that it was 6pm And every time I blinked more pink pigment was brushed across the sky,

The sun blushing with a secret that only both of us knew, That yes it was setting and the day was ending, But really everything had just begun.

For the first time I was walking towards something and nobody knew, Because nobody knew who I was, But I did.

Ilisha

7pm - 9pm 7pm – I’ve just made it! I’ve gotten to my brothers in time for kick-off.

I quickly get into the house and in the living room, making myself comfortable on the sofa.

It’s on! England Vs France!

“Come on England!”

Bhabhi hands me a bowl of hot custard and jam sponge pudding, brilliant!

Exactly what I needed to warm from within. The radiators are on full, welcoming me in.

I was freezing on the outside, while I was driving in!

It’s already started snowing! The signs of seasons change!

8pm – the score is 1-1. Can we do it? Will we draw? Is football coming home?

Everyone is tense, their breathing shallow!

Eyes watching, their semblance hollow!

The sea of faces on the screen mirrors the anticipation that floods our living room

What’s going to happen?

No one can be sure.

9pm - Such tension, such heartache. We’ve not made it to the semi-final.

Devastation melted smiles off the fans’ faces.

Football isn’t coming home.

But what a great game!

The effort was so pure.

I’m sitting on the couch, feeling a little sad. Keeping hope for the future, so I don’t feel bad.

Nadira

To Death

Hummy

Dear the Grim Reaper, I hope this letter finds you well

If at all

They said death is just down the street

But I cannot imagine you abide in an off-licence

So I put this in the postbox and mailed it to the afterlife

As I could not deliver it myself

I regret to inform you that I cannot make it

To the light I’m not supposed to go into

Or the plot of land that I must pay my final paychecks

To call a grave

I will not be able to attend the balls of heaven

Nor the raves of hell

I will be sorry, however, to miss the family and friends that have come to pass

I especially regret not taking this opportunity

To meet Carrie Fisher

But send her my regards

I do not mean to offend, my good friend

I’m sure you’re a spectacular host

Even if the ride to your estate is rumoured to be bumpy

And your reputation precedes you

But it’s not you, it’s me

There are still other letters I wish to send

Meals I have yet to share

Flowers I have yet to grow in a garden of my own making I even want to learn to swim

I do not want to turn my heart to lead

It’s too soon for me to drown

And I owe you my thanks

For without your invitation

I would not have remembered

That I am not alone And I want More than anything To live

I hope you’ll invite me back one day When there’s more grey at my temples And more stories for me to share

Around your dinner table

Yours sincerely And c’est la vie Hummy

Enjoy the journey…

Nadira Jhan

Excited to jump into the van and get on our way. It’s such an early morning start that I hop into the backseat without delay.

Watching people go by and seeing the highest peak of the mountain.

As there in the distance. It was slowly getting closer, we’re on our way!

I feel sticky in the heat. My reflection in the car mirror, warm and cheerful I watched eagerly, the bustling roads were so full.

We’re winding around the long road, to the highest peak. Bali - reaching the top of the mountain, is what I seek. It’s already been a while on this journey, I’m nearly nodding off to sleep.

Suddenly, the car stops along the way. Wait, Why, We’re nowhere near what I want to see.

I look at my watch and see the time, I really don’t want to fall behind.

I want to feel like I’m on top of the world.

I see the winding road ahead of me, the cars piling up.

The driver veers to the side of the bustling road and he tells us to come out and see what his eyes behold.

I impatiently come out the door, not knowing what I will see unfold.

The dry roads, spreading golden dust onto everything that comes close.

I see now before me, the most stunning scene.

The vibrant colours, so picturesque.

The blue sky beautifully echoes the emerald and turquoise river beneath.

The frosty pink flowers, like vibrant butterflies, sitting on a sea of green. They cascaded down the mountain, draping the side like a lovely screen.

Change to: I try to capture the beauty of this scene, my emotions running high with the waves of the sea. This has to be the most beautiful sight, I’ve ever seen. I go for a walk along the terrace.

My eyes captured the stunning image of the sea, the mountain and the road, leading me to where I never imagined that I’d once be.

Change to: We’re back inside the car now, we’re on our way

We’re reaching the highest point of Bali, just as I wanted to see during our stay.

I once again step out of our carriage, to see what it has to bare.

I breathe in that cool and crisp fresh air. The manmade road along the side has fooled others coming to see this natural display. Nature is so wonderful, so brilliant that we humans cannot remake!

The warm sun kissing our golden skin, Leaving behind a trace of its inviting embrace.

I can’t get over the striking scene, I see before me. Subhan’Allah, it makes me contemplate, That, how what we make can never be more wonderful than what our creator, has created.

I feel so grateful to have seen what I have never faced.

My eyes gazing over the exquisiteness that it has never traced.

The driver told me something so profound that day, how can I forget, what he had to say:

“The world is always going, never stopping to just be. That beauty is all around us. Just appreciate it and see. The long winding roads, encompass lessons so deep, So let’s enjoy the journey, keeping what we can keep.”

The Thieving Stomach Mymona Bibi

We had been walking for 13 hours. The exhaustion and hunger took over and people were hallucinating. We wanted it all to end. Everywhere, green coated the sun-burnt mud, Singing, soft baby-blue above, Wished me false wellness. I should have been looking down, Towards the mischievous ground, Hidden under the popsicle green grass. Behind me,

The horizon was a thick, heavy, angry hue. A forest and an army that held down the fort of the country. Like a loud fog, The sounds of my friends, Breathing heavier and heavier, Hung around.

The wind engulfed us and, I shrunk with every exhale. My eyelids were weak. Feet uncontrollable and back crippling. I walked into a rabbit hole. And quicker than sand, My foot was sucked in.

I was no longer braced by the ground below. My stomach was so hollow, It was stealing matter and moments from my mind. The burglar in my torso was the noose of death. Foot in the rabbit role, The ground attacked my ankle with a thousand knives, Mud wrapped around the wound,

Hugging tightly with vigour and violence. Bent out of shape, Out of sight, out of mind is a lie when, I couldn’t see my foot, but I could hear, The pain thumping through my throat, And my lungs emptied themselves out into the forest, Filling the green valley.

My voice was eaten alive by wild lynxes. My friends all merged into the landscape, They morphed into bits of dead grass, dried mud, leaves bigger than my body.

It was as if I’d stepped into oblivion. Where there was only me, And my pain. It was her.

The hollow torso. The thieving stomach. Because of her, The ground swallowed me whole.

Desi(red) Food

Hummy

I want to eat

Anything with a turka of chilli powder and turmeric

Lazy scrambled eggs with green chilli and coriander

Never with toast, always with roti

And daal of all shapes and sizes

But I like best the brown, black-eyed and red kidney

A sort of self portrait forged in a pressure cooker

I’m hungry

For potatoes with cauliflower or chickpeas or spinach

Or potatoes, just potatoes

Leftovers tucked between slices of Warburtons white bread

For seekh kebabs that you have to rest

On Bounty paper towels that soak up the oil

Staining them as yellow as the sunflowers on the tin

For savoury and sweet rice mixed together

Like confetti from weddings I always hated to attend

But I liked the food

I want lassi wala saag even when the yoghurt breaks and curdles

I’d eat roti soaked in it with my hands right now if I could

I want to eat the entire Indian subcontinent

And still have room to spare for dessert

Falooda, rasmalai, gajrela, gulab jamun so sweet and syrupy

I feel sick

I want you to cut apples and pears into slices for me

Like I’m a child or an esteemed guest

I want to sit at a table where our plates tremble

With the sound of the Pakistani news on the TV

I want a second chance, a second helping

To go back and soak it all in myself

Every speck of spice, every yellow onion tear

I want to eat those meals again

Not just remember the taste of them

The translation for aubergine and okra

Always just on the tip of my tongue

I don’t want to stand in my kitchen

Trimming the fat off the memories in my mind

I bite, chew and swallow

But I’m never full

CAKE RUSKS

Mymona Bibi

Along that narrow corridor, Our shoes littered the floor. And with every step, The notes of Bangla chatter, Vibrated through the ground, Creating an ever-lasting warmth. An amalgamation of houses and homes, Of families, Of DNA.

Some held close and some led astray, Our lineage and our habigushti, Our forest filled with a thousand trees, Rooted and labelled with a thousand names, And even more identities.

I hurry in, Unsuccessfully, dodging the medium ones chasing the little ones.

With the plastic bags crinkling in my hand, And the evaporated milk, Threatening to crack and spill.

Dumping the grocery haul on the one free, Partially clean, Counter.

Out goes a heavy sigh. An ingredients list begins spinning around my head, Items jumping between the fragmented team, Of sisters, cousins, aunts and mothers.

Dalcini, elaisi and tez fata, BFFs, Holding hands in a saucer. The swirls of steam,

Sweet spice and soft milk, The breath of dalcini is not just a fragrance, But a call to home.

As the pot gets warmer, The ingredients are thrown in, One by one, And so the requests flood into the kitchen, One by one.

“When is it gonna be ready?”

“Can I have some Oreos with my tea, Mummy?”

“I don’t want any sugar in mine!”

“I don’t need a cup, a mug will be fine.”

“Hey guys, where are the cake rusks?”

Not a please in sight.

And with that dooming, looming realisation, The scramble begins.

Like the guests in the flat, The contents of the pot are, Almost bubbling, boiling and brimming. And a cousin is stuck in traffic, Whilst the children raid and invade the cupboards, In search of non-existent Oreos.

Nani laughs at the chaos around her. Her laughter and the chaos stream out the flat together, And drown the neighbours.

The phone rings in a car a mile away, And I ask,

“Can you get some cake rusks on your way over?”

Silence through the speaker phone is shattered with a, “Please?”

Soon, For half a second, The forest is revived.

Filled cups touch lips of brown and pink. Figures of love scatter the floor, The sofa, the kitchen, the bedrooms. Places where crumbs are waiting to be made, As the crunches and cracks of an ancient joy, Create calm out of prospective catastrophe. The steam and the heat melt us into, One tranquil body.

That first sip of saa swims into my stomach, And lays there, Waiting for the next.

நன்றி

Ilisha Thiru Purcell

In this home, a mother Thinks of a mother

Thinking of herself as a mother. Miles away, the mother of mothers’ Mind is an open bracket filled With all those she tries to mother.

If you taste their food

Your chest will sense the unmutated breast cells

Your leg will kick out in communion with the saphenous nerve They have extracted from their own flesh

In the hope your body will accept this wordless offering. A forest always knows which tree is in need.

This family is a microwave, Splattered with good intentions

As love hardens into stubbornness, Stained and functional. This family lays the table.

In their dreams the mothers, The mother of mothers and all Those beyond and in between fly along The contours of the sky, Not like aeroplanes –But as nightingales and swallows

Who understand the up up and the down down And that this forest will never run out of branches.

Dear Abba - My first love

Nadira Jhan

From the day I was born, you have always given me love. For as long as I can remember, you have protected me as a whole. You have worked hard, sacrificed and fought for what you could. You have given me all I needed and have taught me all you could.

I know life wasn’t always perfect, it turned out how it was destined to be.

You’ve always given me strength in your wise words. You’ve stood by my side, when I needed you next to me. You’ve always tried to protect me, and I know for as long as you’re here, you always will.

You are my Abba, my first love.

I want you to know, that I am no longer the little girl that you once carried and hugged

Now, I am a grown woman, who wants to protect you, like you always could.

I care deeply about you Abba and I know I always will.

You are the strength in my words, even when I feel I may fail. You stand by my side and tell me“Try my girl, your ship will always sail”

You’ll always be my first love Abba, just like I know, you always will.

TANDA

Akiba Azad

Hummmm, the yellow light coats the cloakroom. warmth wraps around my body now I’ve added a layer.

Miss Peel escorts me to the primary school blue door, creak and croak, it opens.

Shhhhh, the wind rattles the blue-tacked decorations.

Nani and Khala greet me with big smiles.

Khala wore a perfect-for-this-weather black coat. Nani, almost engulfed by her snow-white sador.

“My Nani tanda” I say, as a cape flies behind me, and an eye mask adorns my face.

I repeat, “My Nani tanda”.

Miss Peel gives me a I’m-not-sure-what-you-mean-youbilingual-child smile. Her eyes soft, she’s trying.

The woollen grey of the British cold covers the sky. A smile in Khala’s voice, “khothasleh, “my grandma is cold”.

Germination

Ilisha

Thiru Purcell

My shadow strikes out from my body/ as if I am announcing that now is the time the time is now/ I have been kept in time and now I am the keeper of it/ Meeting my own gaze/

I expand like the lungs of the city I rest my feet upon/ I smile a wry smile/ a “you can’t even imagine” smile/ A man on a child’s bike asked me where I got it from/ this crescent of grapefruit flesh/ and I replied my mother/

My mum/

who shines brightest in a sea of saris/ who circles my thumb with her forefinger/ like a planet in orbit/

My mum/

dressed in black, absorbing everything, is everything/ A river running to and from everything/ If these images could talk they would tell you there is more than one way to pray/ more than one way to bless a journey/

Eldest Daughter

Iqra Choudhry

I am a second mother, eldest of six; the sounding board, the family therapist; the communal wallet for cinema trips.

I am the medical help, at-home first-aider; the home chef, the late-night fridge-raider; the negotiator, the peace-maker.

I am the hardass, bad cop to my mother’s good; the homework help, more often than I should; the buffer for others - too early to adulthood.

I am the eldest daughter of an immigrant family. And I am tired.

HYBRIDENTITIES

Akiba Azad

Teabags submerged in milk, boiling, infused with elasi and cinnamon sticks.

Chai Tea.

Not Chai.

Not Tea.

Knead the nigella seeded dough, off the thawa, onto the stack.

Naan Bread, Not Naan. Not Bread.

Bay leaves and cloves, aroma, haldi for colour.

Pilau Rice. Not Pilau. Not Rice.

Half and half, but not quite. Whole beings in my being.

Markers of my identity. Makers of my identity.

SKIN

Mymona Bibi, Akiba Azad and Safa Maryam

Through her lens lay a girl, Not fair enough for you or glowy enough for them.

I hadn’t seen her before, soaked in rays and pearls. Onto a place where collarbones meet warmth. A darkness not shadowy; a rich, velvet moon.

Undesirable, too dark, too much. The sun is not my enemy. It glows for me; not like you say. Brown skin adorned in gold. Gold of heritage, skin of ancestry.

No more stood longer in the light, Skipping the sunscreen, Pinking, burning, hoping, Tomorrow it’ll be browner, Line at my sleeve darker, No more faced, With bottles of golden shades, Swatching wrong, Painting myself what I wish to be, No more “so fair”, “so lovely”, I am brown enough.

My Hijab - The greatest part of me

Nadira Jhan

You make me feel graceful, covered, like a pearl safe in her place. The way you frame me and hold me to a higher level of faith.

You are my reminder that what I believe, I also see. You are like my uniform, that others may perceive.

I look for you before I leave my home, as the security blanket, we see.

You are my hijab, now, you’re the greatest part of me.

I make the decision with every rising sun, to wrap in your embrace.

Folding in the edges,  around my heart shaped face. I use my hijab pins, to hold you in place. Some may not understand you and choose to stay away.

To me, you are my friend, my comfort and wearing you, makes me feel free.

I pray nothing can get between us, as you remind me of the one I can’t see.

ACCIDENTAL REFLECTION

Mymona Bibi

When the train enters the tunnel, By accident, Its windows capture her, And in her, I find new contours, bumps, chin hairs, tan lines, wrinkles, scars.

And that old beauty spot on my left temple, How do you think she feels?

About the changes in her surroundings, The creases forming to her right. I wonder, Do they suffocate and choke her? Or do they give her new avenues to explore? Does she notice me smile at her?

As I’ve done, these days, More and more.

The figures climbing out, Reflected in every polished surface before it, And after it,

Are a record of every day, And every other day.

The light may sit gracefully on high cheekbones, Or misery may draw the darkness forward. But mostly, things just linger.

Like my baby hairs that my sister’s wax and toothbrush couldn’t tame.

Twisting in big waves, Providing time and space for me, To beam and marvel at them.

Before I kiss my teeth and stab my scalp with plastic pins and strong, crisp spray. Yet, On some days, They are wanted, Needed. They are a necessary part of the artist, Scratching her head in confusion, Striking out, They are not a nuisance then. They are outstretched arms, Welcoming all utterances from all souls. And God’s patchwork around my mouth and hollow eyes, So frail, They follow the threads that, barely,

Hold this face together. The patches come with, A receipt for 2 foundation bottles and distant teasing. They are tired and worn from carrying the gravity of pastself-hatred,

And memories of learning hyperpigmentation and freezing in hyper fixation.

Chin up, soft jaw, eyes straight, The train pours out of the tunnel. The sunlight brightens God’s patchwork, And the threads tighten, around, my, smile.

CHECKED OUT

Akiba Azad

The door pulls me in and pushes me out. She wore a smile, “floor 1, room 8”. The room for today, for the week or the month? I guess we’ll find out, he calls the shots anyway.

The luggage at my feet, one that he’s kept full; almost ripping at the seams. My journal under my arm; the only thing that feels like mine. But he’s in there, too.

‘Checked in’, I message. He’s already waiting.

The light hums, a reminder of a home, expecting my arrival.

My finger lingers over the numbered buttons. ‘Floor 2’ echoes the elevator.

Flickering lights my path. A welcoming door ajar, Room 12; no key card required. Ceiling to floor, mirrors cover the walls.

My hollow eyes, lusting. Upturned lips cracked, yearning. I blink.

It’s not quite me who stares back. Her lips radiating joy in a smile, Warmth in her eyes, exuding life.

The suitcase rides the elevator. I return the key card. Checked out.

Taste Iqra Choudhry

You taste like warm honey, like want, like a text sent at 2am. Not ‘u up?’ Nothing so cliche. But ‘why aren’t you here right now? This is agony.’

You taste like a mistake, like a regret, like I’ll slip across the hall after, in the dead of night, and stretch out in a different bed, alone.

You taste like a comet, like fire, setting me alight, leaving third-degree burns, here one brief shining moment and gone the next.

You taste like maybe, like a see-saw of uncertainties, like you want me to stroke your hair and brew you coffee in the morning or like you never want to see me again.

You taste like you’ll ask me to stay. Sometimes in my dreams, you do.

Safa Maryam Close

We’re close

Everyone knows

I still remember

The first of five winters

My fingers weaving

The love I had

And the flowers you picked

Into your curls

Blue against brown

My fingertips painting

Our eyelids

A matching

Gold against brown

Glitter fallout on the bedroom floor

Silence stretches like sour rope

Across A roads while we sleep

So I sit in the not-forgetting

Till someone asks

How much

And I say Close

We’re close

Meaning beginning to necrose

Atop my tongue

Tell me

Do you remember parties and pancakes

And fancying our best mates?

Remember grocery trips

The green veg

How you shared it?

Remember secrets

The big one

How you kept it?

Still you’ll say

We’re close

But everyone knows Except me

Everything I Know About Heartbreak

Iqra Choudry

After Neil Gaiman

This is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing. This is everything I’ve learned about heartbreak: nothing. Only that people aren’t what you want them to be, and there is more to this than the way that your joy has morphed into agony. It feels as though the future you built has crumbled, each brick lovingly placed, now rent asunder. Only know that a new future awaits, even if you’re not ready to lay it’s foundations yet.

It’s not the hurt; or never just the hurt; it’s what it means. Someone’s gone, but they’re not dead. Someone knew your best and worst self, did the maths, found you wanting, and left.

You’re not lesser for it, not broken. You’re simply scarred by battle, exhausted. You are wanted, just by another you haven’t crossed paths with yet. But you will. I promise you will. So this is everything I have to tell you about love and heartbreak: nothing.

You’ll learn to let go; learn to heal; to wake up one day, and forget how this feels. Time will blunt the razor’s edge, my dear.

Because there are things you cannot know without experiencing them. Because no amount of life can save you from this loss, this different, sharp, sudden shade of grief,

where you know how to find someone; where they’ll be, what they sound like when they cry, and what they look like asleep. But you have to choose to let them leave.

I can’t teach you how to move on, but you will learn. One day, you’ll breathe a little easier, meet a different pair of eyes over dinner, the thoughts you’re having now will be distant, fleeting, only a reminder of what once passed, what is past, with which you’ll have made your peace.

And that’s all I know about heartbreak. That it ends.

A Second of Forever

Ilisha Thiru Purcell

There is a moment Between an inhale and exhale, Exhale and inhale, As one song fades into another, Or a full moon blossoms from passing clouds, And when you look at me That everything stops.

For a moment, time is non-existent

As you plait your fingers into my hair And pull, ever so slightly So you can see my face and read My mind in my eyes.

It’s like that time I was crossing a main road And for a second no cars appeared Silence fell like a flash flood –I spread my arms in the stillness, Carving out my place in the peace.

That’s how being with you makes me feel, Like that shoulder-dropping-stomach-expanding moment Has been copied and pasted over my life. You make time stop for me, You make all that’s not you lose focus As we catch the moments where divine and timing meet And let them rest on our open palms.

So stay with me

In this slice of forever, There are no cars coming, The road ahead is clear, It’s just you and I.

Inhale.