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Grafted plant

We once laid
feeble and stagnant
on nursery beds

Slight sprouts
we emerged
from split seed

A grafted plant
we stand, eternally bonded
from pot to pot. From soil to soil.

Together
a tree
profoundly majestic

The concept of soul mates has always fascinated me. It is very comforting to believe that there is someone for everyone: created just for them, two halves of one soul. It is not for me to say if soul mates exist, there is no certain mode of deducting that. I am however unbelieving that I have one. I know someone is coming for me but I do not think he is my missing half; I do not have a missing half. I am whole.

The one for me is the one I shall bond with, graft on so I can stand stronger, higher and greater than I could have on my one. I will not be weak without him, but being with him will increase my existing strength. I don’t have a soul mate, I don’t have to complete me but I have someone coming who will dilute me and together we will be stronger, brighter and sweeter.

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Poetry

The war within

A Warrior on the battlefield
She stands with her sword drawn
Ready to kill
In this war one must die
Or all will die.
The fight between who she is
And who she should be
There they are
Shouting and stabbing
Kicking and pulling
Each sings its battle song
‘The world is cruel child, assimilate’
‘No. let your kindness dilute the earth sweet girl’
They beg that she listens
They demand that she choose
But how can she decide the voice to obey
Who to be
How to be
How can one be kind when one has only known cruelty.
How does one judge hate when one has never felt love.
The warrior thrown down her sword
She decides
No part shall dies
Every part shall live
She will be both
Who she is
and
who she is

I pride myself in being authentic. I am completely transparent. I understand that in this world you have to hide the best part of yourself so as not to lose all of yourself but I refuse to do that. If there is a part of me fragile enough to die from exposure, I’d rather it be dead and leave room for the stronger parts of me to wildly flourish. I guess it would be easier, more rewarding even, to ‘assimilate’: be one with the world and massacre my authenticity at the altar of societal acceptance. Or perhaps I could ‘be kind’ like my mother and holy book tells me to. Be like the prophet and the angels: the perfect Muslim girl. It has afterall been guaranteed to make Life easier and heaven secured. I can’t be either of these persons because I despise these persons and I am both persons. I am like everyone but unlike anyone. I am a juxtaposition of opposing complexities so incredible. I am broken: I am whole. I am strong: I am weak. I am open: I am closed. I am glorious: I am hideous. I am everything: I am nothing. But the beauty of it all is that in spite of all these, because of all these: I am Hafsah.