Night spills ink across the fractured mind,
where echoes rise, unshaped and nameless.
Silence bends, brittle beneath its weight,
shadows pulse with restless hunger.
Thoughts unravel, thin as candle smoke,
drifting where the fevered wind calls.
A hush lingers at the edge of knowing,
a murmur swallowed before it takes shape.
Wake, before the monsters take your name.
Sleep, and they will teach you how to fly.
—T.A.
For now, I’m stepping away from posting here—I need a break from the relentless noise of the world. I’ll likely still write on my personal blog, so if you follow that, I apologize in advance. If you don’t, that might be for the best.
Read More »IT’S TOO COMPLICATED, THEY SAY
II. The Mouth is an Open Grave
You—who called me militant over a glass of wine,
You—who said I was too loud, too political,
who said that academic associations should remain impartial,
as if to study anthropology is not to see its ghosts assembling.You—who snarled at me after a boycott motion,
who spat my name like a bullet,
said you were sick of my pro-Palestine ‘shit’,
as if grief should wear clean clothes,
as if rage should come whispering
apologies at your door,
as if I could soften my sorrow
to spare you discomfort—
you, who mistake silence for peace,
politeness for justice.You—who told her to shut up,
shut up, shut up,
while the bodies were still warm,
while the smoke still gathered in their throats.What does it mean to shut up
when the silence is already swallowing a nation?
As the Music Fades, the Storm Remains
The storm rages, relentless.
Not a crash of thunder, but a quiet, gnawing roar—
Thoughts splinter like waves against a shore,
each one demanding attention, each one refusing to fade.
I beg for silence, for a pause in the motion.
For the weight of my own mind to ease,
for the tides to settle, for breath to feel light again.
But peace is a mirage, slipping through my fingers
the moment I reach for it.
If the storm must stay, then what remains?
A longing, a whisper, a quiet ache—
A hope, however distant, that someday,
I will find comfort within the chaos.
—T.A.
I nearly forgot—I had submitted one of my poems to Mad in America. That was before I learned they’d received funding from Open Society Foundations for their podcast. When an email arrived saying they’d published my piece, I was completely caught off guard—I hadn’t expected them to accept it at all.
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