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On Pakistan

On Pakistan

Sometimes I wonder what it is like to not hate the place you were born in

To have a home that’s homely

With black and white walls.

To devour the warm soup that your mother made for you

Without worrying when she will throw the plate at you next.

To discover a safe spot in the city where you can smoke

Without worrying about a catcall.

A city where I roam around with my eyes looking for a lover

And not in search of a potential rapist.

A place whose love is not escorted by Guilt.

A place where I can clean the floor without feeling filthy.

Sometimes I feel like my heart has so much to give.

So much capacity to Love.

But this place like a nasty witch just sucks it out of me.

Mixes it with all its ghastly potions and shows me the Blackest side of my love.

Throws my love back at my face in the name of resilience.

I am sick of this place.

I don’t want to survive, I want to live.

I don’t want to gasp for breathe and exclaim relief at my survival, I want to inhale.

Published by queenofclumsiness

I am the queen of clumsiness and bad jokes. I oscillate between being an Amy Santiago and being a cold-hearted workaholic . I like to overeat and write when I happen to be free . I specialise in overthinking so be kind with your feedback. :)

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