red wrists, Poetry by Sanchana Krishnan

we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit’
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.

Genres: Realism, Modern Day, Spoken Word, Self Harm, Depression, Strength, Recovery, Generation Y.

red wrists by Sanchana Krishnan

we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.
the ones who fell asleep
to the sound of constant yelling, artillery shelling; bitter bullets exploding
into ugly bruises splattered across still skinny limbs,
shifting stories of anger and frustration, guilt and regret
expressed across inches of innocent skin;
the ones whose clothes were just a little bit frayed on the edges
the wear and tear of secret battles
fought behind sunset alleys, behind midnight tea stalls
or on bright Sunday afternoons
at the bus stand,
desperately fighting hungry eyes and hungrier hands.
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones with the
red tips red lips 
red ribs red wrists.
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones that house boys in our hearts and
smoke in our lungs,
the ones who spend way too much time inside their own head,
asking a hundred questions before every step in this game of wizarding chess that
never seems to slow down –
we’re the ones that can be found
wandering insomniac across sulphur-sodden streets,
wisps of distant wishes
settling into the foggy vestiges
of a high mind longing to soar higher.
we’re the cool girls of this generation
the one that are still allowed just the right rationing of
action emotion expression complication communication
while wearing a constant resting not-so-bitch face
head sorting information in a frenzied daze,
heart swinging between your fingers and a suitcase –
the ones with one foot in the present and
other parts traversing through parallel dimensions,
searching for a back up plan if your hearts refuse to allow us home;
the ones whose mouths became graveyards
for all the words that went unsaid,
for all the words to which we came undone,
for all times your eyes asked us questions that we shunned
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones that belong to roads unknown and bodies untouched,
the ones that find stories in shipwrecked planks
that ride stormy oceans only to find homes
or perhaps even build them –
amidst the crumbling sand castles on the sea shore.
because we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones with the
red tips red lips 
red ribs red wrists.

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THE OTHER, Poetry by Randa Shami

She stands tall, proud.
If heaven was a voice
It would be hers.
If love was lost
It could be found in her eyes.
Her walk oozes confidence,
Her lips convey wisdom.

Genre: Feminism

THE OTHER
by Randa Shami

She stands tall, proud.
If heaven was a voice
It would be hers.
If love was lost
It could be found in her eyes.
Her walk oozes confidence,
Her lips convey wisdom.

Her words fall on deaf ears.

Her words are viewed as the punishment,
And her body the prize.

The breasts that come in different sizes.
Yours for the taken,
Her golden cherry,
Your final destination.
The only thing you listen to.

Naive .
Thinking she can use it as a weapon.
Proud that her heart did not beat for you,
But her legs opened gladly.
Naive.

You are the winner.
She lost everything.

But her walk only gains power.
It mirrors yours now.
An undeniable stance which shouts
‘I am the hierarchy’
‘I am the definition of double standards’

Her words are still wise.
But even her own ears have closed to the noises her lips make.
They utter hateful words behind her back.
Call her names,
Slut,
Dumb girl.

Then she runs to you.

You who walks the same walk.
You whose words are less wise.
You who made all the rules.

Let her say
‘I know what I want’
Let her dare become that brave.

Disregarding
Her words, actions
Only the materials draping
Over her temple will define her now.
And you will use this as an excuse to
Invade, destroy and conquer
What once was her temple.

Tears will fall from her eyes
And with every drop love is,
Lost, hated, forbade.
You place your hands under her chiselled chin and use her tears to wash away the,
Blame,
guilt.

Provoked?

Were you?

The body will die it is the soul that is the prize.

A woman she is
Women they are
One is nothing without the other.

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