Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on quite a few platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific.
She lay too confined on a hospital bed,
a drape of selflessness over a camouflage of pretentiousness,
she had never in her life been this selfish.
A strange air of peacefulness
protected her from the thankless cries
that my larynx was involuntarily producing.
Its obstinacy saved me from the hefty cost,
and she finally responded —
firmly held my hand,
moved two pearl-white globular capsules,
that doctors called ‘eyes’ after she lost consciousness.
With her heart rate going up and down,
sp02 was not giving my mom what she deserved.
I was sure she would get her due
but the oximeter’s self-serving attitude pissed me off,
and I asked the doctor to remove the oxygen mask.
Mom looked at me,
perhaps to tell me that I sing better than Lata
because I have no breath control.
I changed my clothes the other day — so unlike me —
showed mom the blue dress I wore especially for her
— she nodded,
‘I know what you are doing, beta.
Be you, be natural. Go and never wash your face —
my eyes are accustomed to the symbols of your indolence,
don’t disappoint me with these ornaments of self-care.’
They believed the left side of mom’s brain was severely damaged.
I think mom won over her stroke
but her adamant brain needed an outlet to showcase its strength,
so it stopped functioning.
A flower calmly rests in my hand,
enveloping the small grains of sand
that I secretly stole from my mom’s grave,
to tell others my interpretation of peace.
I don’t belong here
I love chipped crayons they tell me colours can come in different forms: pitch-black darkness can become the reincarnation of red moonlight can subdue the proud ribbon-like body of the river wise men need not have a white beard. I often whisper to the wavelength, Ask her to, once, and for all, be flexible if dispersion is an absolute necessity to tune into madness- her least-favourite frequency. Sometimes, I even read her poems so she can know I have word bubbles that don't blow my way, similar to the paintballs she complains of being too unruly and wild. I am a laywoman with no command on phonetics deficit and the shit sounds similar to me and I often tell my husband - take care of calorie the shit, he, being, the ultimate science guy says, it's a good fat joke Once in a while, we're on the same wavelength. And nibbling the crayons, I often think, I too can think.