malalai khan

i dream of tunnels that have no way out / and stray dogs lying gutted across the street / i want to pry all the buttons off from the keyboard like teeth / and stab the ballpoint pen right through the journal’s spine— / the blank daily pages have more to say than the scrawled ones // i play the same mixtape of ghost words on repeat / until they twist around my throat / like floss—violet, vermilion, a vertigo hits / and i fall down a winding staircase— / past everything i ever tried to be—in a static waltz / but there’s a figure at the end that i don’t want to face / and so i shut my eyes // my reflection flickers in windows but not in the mirror / my shadow steps away when i draw nearer // to be free from all sorts of masks and names / to drift unseen like a phantom / to be untethered from invisible threads / to be simply laid bare / how do you cut off something that isn’t even there? // i grasp at nothing and open my hands— / how empty they are as everything trickles through / how solid the floor feels / how the lungs forget to breathe / how bold of me to believe / how tempting it is to be in a room full of sharp objects

initial draft

i dream of tunnels that have no way out and stray dogs lying gutted across the street. i fill the walls with things i hope would feel like home. but, writing makes me feel so furious. i want to pry all the buttons out from the keyboard and stab the ballpoint pen right through the spine—the blank daily pages in my journal have more to say than the scrawled ones. sometimes, words seem so futile. no matter how much i will scream, it’s really nothing more than a phantom in the wind. it’s tiring to use metaphors and symbols for so long you forget how to speak. i play the same mixtape of thoughts on repeat until they twist around my throat. i can never drain myself of all this blood. i can never escape the limitedness of this body. to be free from all sorts of names and labels and faces. i despise abstract boundaries and invisible threads. i can never cut off something that isn’t even there. how helpless these hands are. how cold the floor feels. how the lungs forget to breathe. how bold of me to believe things were getting better. how tempting it is to be in a room full of sharp objects.