by Simra Sadaf  




Existing through


a feeling like

the last leaf,

I know the winds

are never kind,

so I press my hands

against the soil,

and ask it to

be gentle when it

swallows me,

my skin is sensitive,

I said, it has never

known warmth,

or snow.


I have forgotten


or what else a human’s

throat could do but

itch and swallow pills,

I sit in my room

every six hours,

swallowing them,

so my chest

doesn’t stifle,

or my gut

doesn’t writhe,

or my mouth

doesn’t freeze,



I have always loved

the words gentle

and perennial,

but you are neither,

neither are these

poems I hide behind,

or the breeze that

smells like kerosene,

sometimes your

remnants are like


and I am a field

full of explosive

land mines,

and your feet

are never still,

just like your



As the sun’s neck

sits on my rib cage

every morning,

burning like

the city of Rome,

burning the walls,

burning my book

with 30 poems and

a song about

summer rain and


burning my nicotine

stained fingertips,

my skin,

everything is burning,

your repentance is

not enough to

put out the fire,

my pearled eyes,

my ventricles,

my books,

not my books.

Author Bio

Simra Sadaf has finished her Masters in English Literature from
University Of Madras. She writes short stories and poems for magazines. She pursued her bachelors in Sociology and has an abundant knowledge about the workings of a society which she incorporates in most of her writings. She reads books of all genre and likes to review them on Goodreads and other social media platforms. She loves the art of storytelling and someday hopes to write something that will leave a lasting impact on the readers. Literature drives her spirit and words churn her soul.