poetry is a scintilla.
so am I.
identity poems don’t do justice.

I could write anything and
everything yet
it still wouldn’t feel right.

it could never capture the viridity
of two year old me falling in love with books.
never present the orphic attachment
I have to argyle rd.
bring back the nostalgia
of walks to either the masjid or the library.
show the charmolypi
of wrapping my hijab every morning—a mixture of fear and confidence.

poetry could never describe how
my heart stops beating.
shatters itself and lodges
the glass pieces in my throat.
blood and mucus, the result of an anxiety disorder.

it could never hold pulchritudinous heartbreak in its grasp.
never keep my shivers as I trace repetitive scars on my friends’ wrists
telling stories of abuse, sexual assault, eating disorders and times I almost lost them.

it could never offer a proper explanation of why
I’ve got depression to my mother.
or why my english teachers know me better emotionally than my father.

poetry could never preserve our process
of healing.

poetry could never express the selcouth feeling
of finally being enveloped in somewhat peace.
could never photograph the way waking up
suddenly doesn’t feel like a disaster anymore.
the relief of knowing my friends are safe.

it could never give off the smell
of my ammu’s cooking.
it could never taste bittersweet enough
to remind me of the social worker’s office.
never as homey as
our tiny two bedroom apartment shared with six other family members.

poetry could never reflect
my smiling aspectabund face as I write prose.
never reveal the way it’s a catharsis for me.

poetry could never understand
why I chose these bits and pieces
from my past, but
they’re what poetry is
traces of a feeling(s).
a scintilla.
just like me.