malalai khan

i promise you this is the last of that poetry notebook’s collection of mediocre poems, written from 2021 to 2024. i can’t seem to properly finish either of them—terrible time management—so i’m just dumping it all before i lose them. again, there are no titles and the asterisks separate them.

*

My mother’s eyes,
twinkling grey skies,
under a whole storm,
like open windows
to cold chaos,
and yet she shows
a beaming smile. 

*

Lovely are those sunsets
when the golden hour sinks
like a buring sequin
into the rosy velvet. 

*

When the darkness eats you up,
you bite back. 

*

You open doors
for others,
and then close
yourself
in these walls
—remember,
you also need the light. 

*

You throw stones
at me,
and then
have the audacity
to ask me
why my heart
is made of one. 

*

You must carry 
your own lantern
and find your way,
but it is not wrong
to hold someone else’s
hand as well. 

*

I am both
the magic and the magician,
te creator and the creation,
the seeker and the seeked
the master and the masterpiece. 

*

I can make
storming oceans still,
and shatter the skies
under my will. 

*

You break my heart,
shattering it into shards,
and then blame it
for being sharp. 

*

I am growing
at my own pace
—life isn’t a race 

*

If you ever
remember me,
just pick a star
from the horizon
and wish upon it,
for I will love you
back no matter 
how far apart
we are. 

*

To live is both
a privilege
and a burden. 

*

Perhaps 
it wasn’t about 
finding a lighthouse
but rather
learning to sail
underneath the stars. 

*

Go inside that shower.  
Wash those thoughts 
out of your hair. 
Scrub that anxiety
out of your nails. 
Rinse yourself 
from their whispers. 
Let everything
go down the drain. 
Cleanse your body
from anything
that doesn’t deserve
your time. 
Let the water drip
from your fingertips
and hold yourself
in the mirror.
—you are a masterpiece worth taking care of. 

*

After every dark phase
I go through,
I am always
reborn anew. 

*

And if I
could turn the hourglass around,
I would keep coming back to you. 

*

Salt breeze
licks through my head,
flipping rusty memories.
Lint, sorrow
lie at the bottom of my bucket. 
I turn to the open sea and let go. 

x

(Feature Image: The Monk By The Sea, Caspar David Friedrich, 1810)