Written by Areej is a Saudi-born Pakistani citizen, now doing her B.A. in Ontario, Canada. Areej officially studies English and Philosophy but can be found at all hours gobbling up a book on something or other. While being a devoted DWL-ite, she is also (very much by luck, chance) a Poetry Editor at The Missing Slate. She happens to write poetry that some deem publishable, also by luck, chance, and in her spare time (if an undergraduate student can claim to have such a thing) she indulges in copious amounts of bad television and cheesy movies about kittens. Her favourite word at the time of writing this bio is "silly." Read more by this writer |
The Hand That FeedsOn a night as starless and empty as this I pray it is not the last time I see the moon adorn your face the way it does and give your tears a slivery sheen so utterly divine
Don’t cry It’s just me tonight We worship the Maker in our own special way and I stand, mesmerized, by the way you, stop breathing when we touch * Don’t be afraid It is our love * That drives me to press you against my chest, to feel our hearts beat in sync * Yes, I am driven to weave myself within you and cherish the moment for we are One * “Daddy, it hurts” * Hush, child We’re almost done. |
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