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Farah Sultan Poem
trigger warning Rape, sexual harassment
you were 6 when the boy in the desk behind you kept pulling your ponytail till he made you cry. It was okay though,it meant you had pretty hair.
You were 9 when the ball kicked at you by the boys in the field coloured your eye instead of the makeup you were not yet allowed to wear. It was okay though, they did that because you were so pretty you intimated them.
You were 12 when the filthy fingers of the boy next you on the bus marked your thighs blue. You didn't tell anyone though. You knew it was your fault really; that skirt was too seductive.
You were 16 when the man on the other side of the street had the brilliant idea of following you down the road, cornering you in that dark aisle and thrusting himself inside of you. Only to leave you there, a bloody half-naked carcass, repeating to yourself again and again that this was okay. This was okay because boys will be boys. Girls? Well, we just have to take it like a man.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2018
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Farah Sultan Poem
Salt in the eyes hurts more than salt in a wound.
You bite your lip and rub your twinkling eyes attempting to keep those secrets of yours locked away.
Sea waves churn behind the whites of your eyes.
The first droplet of a never ending river ever so slowly trickles down your puffy cheek.
All the secrets you worked so well on hiding burst out with your tears unravelling your biggest secret:
You.
Are.
Only.
Human.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2015
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Farah Sultan Poem
When I was 8 I wrote stories;
About princesses and pretty girls.
My teachers praised me.
“What a wonderful talent at a very young age!”
My parents encouraged me.
When I turned 11 my stories didn’t have endings.
In these stories the big bad wolf wasn’t so bad and prince Charming was a narcissistic ass.
My teachers were confused.
“Sweetie wolves in the forest aren’t supposed to be nice and the prince is never the villain”
My parents don’t quite understand.
At 12 I turned to poems;
I wrote about pretty girls who try to kill me and the bittersweet thought of dying. Nobody ever saw them.
“Her work lacks passion and creativity.”
My parents don’t know who I am.
I’m 14 and I don’t understand;
Sometimes I write stories with happily ever afters.
Sometimes I write short excerpts with no endings.
Sometimes I write poems about sweet melancholy.
My teachers don’t know.
My parents don’t care.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2016
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Farah Sultan Poem
You let yourself in through the cuts in my heart and sown some up while you left others open.
You made a camp and lit a fire that still burns bright inside me; you left and forgot to put it out.
You talked about the sky, the stars and the universe; how they were so big and we so small.
You spoke big words that you didn’t understand.
Or maybe you did.
Maybe you did but even if you did I’m sure you never understood how much they impressed me.
I found myself falling again after I said I wouldn’t; but for the fifth time I did nothing but fall.
I tried to force myself not to look in your eyes; those deep, dark green eyes.
I tried to force myself not love your laugh; that loud, quirky laugh.
I thought nothing could tear us apart.
But alas, the cuts are open and the fire is burning.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2015
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Farah Sultan Poem
My mind feels weak
My mind feels heavy
Sometimes, my mind goes fast
Sometimes my mind goes so fast and i can't keep up.
My mind likes to play games
My mind likes to surprise me
Sometimes, my mind just stops.
My mind just stops and I'm so out of breath.
I'm so out of breath and I can't push it hard enough to get it going again.
The only part of me that seems to remember how to function is my chest;
Up
Down
Up
Down
Trying to keep the pace of my almost collapsing lungs.
My mind is the war zone in a battle between m depression and my anxiety
and i pray but the demons i need to repel aren't deterred by any deity
I get headaches and i imagine it's them tearing and gnawing at the remnants of my brain
their one goal to drive me insane
punishing me for smiling too wide or laughing too loud but deep down I know that the only thing causing the banging in my head is the lack of sleep.
One thing I am thankful for though is that my demons finally allowed my thoughts to go down pen to paper and not blade to wrist,
This is an apology to anyone I've ever hurt.
I'm sorry to have caused you any type of pain.
I truly didn't mean for it to be this way.
I didn't mean to spill my emotions onto your spotless marble floors.
I didn't mean to trample your flower gardens.
I didn't mean to soil your heart.
And I definitely didn't mean to cover your walls with my bloody hand prints.
I'm sorry.
I don't mean to leave black holes behind me wherever i go.
I'm torn between you all did this to me and I've brought this upon myself,
between I'm innocent and I deserve this,
between kill me and I am not ready to die.
I'm not ready to die,
but I'm not ready to live either.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2019
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Farah Sultan Poem
When the world was shades of black, grey and white; you were always surrounded by color.
While silver smoke swiftly danced with swirling winds; you laced your fingers with mine and I held my breath.
I heard people talking and judging; you pulled me closer and suddenly they were heads floating aimlessly.
Everything was hard and cold; but your body heat burned my skin and set me on fire.
You leaned in. The fire burned brighter. You whispered in my ear “I’ll never let go”
You let go.
Suddenly my world became dark again. The smoke grew thicker and thicker until I choked. The voices grew louder. I felt colder every second. I exhale and when the fire is no more; my soul finally rests.
Copyright © Farah Sultan | Year Posted 2016
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