why I call you a constellation

by 03:11 0 comments
from where I come from, they name constellations after those who couldn’t live long enough to seek their life’s purpose. 

when Shahzad was shot, he was 3. His mother sweeps his grave each morning, dead flowers like bullet wounds pierce her soul. She carves a new name out of the stones that were thrown at her. Lafani: he who never dies. 

The graveyard screams, but you can hear his heartbeat in hers. 

The only silence they share is in the whispers of their past, their home calling out to them. It feels a lot emptier when she screams in her tears, it’s never been more silent than on the nights she empties her gun, marking bullet holes on the same walls she marked his height on. 

When Nadia was raped for the first time, she was 15. Her father was outraged, he tore out the village himself, knocked on every door that night with the hands of her rapist, glued together in an apology to every girl he ever laid his eyes on. They were later cut out and thrown into the village well. His body was never found. 

His mother grieves his loss in ever bucket that’s drawn from the well. She carved out his name on the walls of her house, reminding herself of the monster she raised, every single day. She still misses the little boy he forgot to be. 

When Aazir was 17, he stole Abbu’s watch. When he found out his watch was missing, he didn’t say a word, just walked into Aazir’s room with his belt off. He still has scars on the exact spot he wore it. He still brags about them, says he got them fending Shazia off the thaanedaars. He still spends every penny on cheap whiskey and every night in a chakla. 

Shazia goes to bed early, knowing Aazir wouldn’t return. During the day, she washes clothes at Mehroon Sahab’s house. Some days, he pays her extra for washing the dishes and on others, to buy flowers for Shahzad’s grave. 

She walks to the graveyard every morning, her heart emptier than the sound of her silence, dead flowers like bullet wounds pierce her soul. 

from where I come from, our night skies fall to dust every single time we hear a gun shot or a muffled cry knowing that every constellation is half an unspoken story and half an incomplete grieving.

_why I call you a constellation

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 16. 



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