years of clogged matter

*long hair covered it well

now

beware severe flooding.

(potential damage) -cosmic+cut

sink is running over ~

tears cover the bare body

may drain, not anytime soon.

leave it open.

flow disobedient;

Waterveins

ad nauseam

© Nimila, Studio Shyama

Inspired by my first writing prompt — ///// THE CUT /////

alexithymia

the inability to cry

doctors had given up

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deadweight

fat ass

They tell me to shut up
                 to shut down

heavy moves,
        steel obeys

          still, I don’t.

but tell me,
how do i set this down?

is there a steady workout plan to unburden the

WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

on my shoulders?

you can do much better

continue to add more weight

don’t limit yourself

try some more

the voice in my head is an existential coach.
                         spine calcified

mechanical stress
            strengthens bones

living tissue.
              denser, a circle of power (((trapped)))
                                     in the illusion of time

I do enjoy it, I have to admit.

*i feel better. isn’t that enough proof?

fracture risk
     reduced or increased?

each set,

some more

some more

some more

the weight that follows

      magnanimous

with
no bar,
no plates

breathing lead sitting
heavily on my shoulders

no rack for this
no last rep

just me
still holding

what was never mine to lift

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   rooted,                                                
                                                              
      ~ ~~~ ~ branching

quietly reaching
      through unseen crevices,
                    engraved on a log.

Being

through us

Trees hold what endures,

roots
growing in silence.
just Being.

Trees hold us

in their presence,
love
becomes

gentle, patient, wise,

rooted in the skin of the Earth

and alive

in the slow circular                                                                    

                                 motion

           between                                    

light

          and breeze

roots grow

  when the soil

     stops resisting

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I have walked away from conventional pathways to pursue a full-time writing life. That means being ready to face financial precarity, which is not new to me, but still demands strength. As a migrant, queer person of color, carving a life as an artist means going against the grain, carrying extra weight and care.

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pines stand
in the slow breath of fog,
their needles holding quiet

a waiting.

spring does not arrive loudly,
it seeps in

like a gentle love

that arrives on its own time.

grounded, careful
not to bother.

a silence

through damp bark,
softening ground,
a thin insistence of green.

pervading tenderness

a raindrop falls
and breaks open the air

crisp morning air
mystic fog
the scent of soil
and dew on pines

the scent rises
earth remembering itself,
            wood remembering light

between trunks
           the mist

                     loosens

                                   its grip

embracing new meaning

and something small,

almost invisible,

natural,
begins again

the heartbeat of the earth

a bud
a pulse

a return,

long yearned for

the soil softens
and suddenly
everything remembers

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ALERT

today, the wind speed exceeds 150km/h outside.

stay at home. stay with yourself.

it’s quieter today (in my heart)

i’m not scared to alter tones.

I am an atmospheric instability.

a rarity.

a gentle love

I once imagined

but never touched.

a return, long yearned for
and yet
not untouched by absence.

I will keep waiting

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for a lost soul.

a blur

between

being and dreaming

the blur kept words from forming,

expansion out of reach

uncharted forest

the same blur took my hand

and guided me gently

through the fog

back into something -

i could not see for long.

myself

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Image prompt by

how come you don’t see me

burning

eternal flame.
one of a kind. baby

I am in full fury

while

the guilt is eating

me. alive

two forces in a constant fight

rising, tightening, circling.

learned reflexes of attention and touch -

    bodily perversion
          molten deviation

              no longer contained
                      only carried away

          a single current,
we are made of the same substance

not enough to rest
not enough to settle

a continual rhythmic motion of breath,
        wind folding into itself

            drawing

            inward,

           turning back and around,

then releasing upward again,

inhaling guilt, exhaling rage,

       a spiral that sustains its own rise

a long cosmic reversal of the natural order

guilt + rage = 🔥🌪️💧

conflicted connection yet they make love

heat gathering. breaking. gathering again

                   a push and pull love
          destroying themselves and others

constantly there for everyone,

   I turn around

              and around

                   and around

        a spinning top at your service
              eternal people pleaser

     shrinking the edges of my                 wanting

until I fit

inside another’s ease

the fire brings light but cannot   (introspect too much)
        when it keeps moving and moving and moving

I cared about others and forgot about myself

completely subjugated in flames.

      created and consumed


you may think I like being like this =
                      a tornado too active destroying everything it touches

untamable desire
restless, relentless

I touch the divine,
stretching vertically up to the sky
an erection you cannot have.

         giving contour to what was flat
               pulse that cannot disappear

   Firefighters will you please stay away!

    I will strip your clothes off with my turbulent kindness

are you okay? do you have money? have you eaten?
not once, did they ask me back.

i was hungry. and I am still.

my fire fuels on rage

i am always the angry one in the room.

yet i’m also guilty of striving,

                                           starving.

                                     surviving.

      water.fire
    guilt and and and an anger

(together? they stutter: it’s love)

     identity marker?

                black, queer fag.

       I am an atmospheric instability.

                   a rarity.

the core:

a rotating vortex eating everything — intense anger

and still, hungry.

           still, hungry?

                  still, hungry!

       still, hungry…

eating disorder in motion.

         hollow cavity insatiable.

the spark?  —>    eternal guilt

_______________________________

the day comes, when guilt

becomes

debris on the ground, the

crackling sound of what burned enraged

slowly trying to rest. horizontally.

you’ll be long gone.

a flatline of _____________________________ death

Your fire disappears.

They’ll remember you. don’t worry.

They’ll remember you.

not the anger. not the guilt.

Not the force than burned through you.

those who notice your absence will only miss the water that nourished them.

                                     uplifting

the trace of your                               selfless

                                                                                 support                          

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       d                                                                                                        

sustaining their perpetual                   r

movement                                               a

                      forward                       w

and                                             p

                                              u

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are you new here? not really.

have you tried some deep breathing? maybe

have you tried free breathing?

No.

i have not.
  

        nothing is free for me



to breathe i need

a fucking inhaler.

it costs me 50 francs a month.

  my breathing has a fixed price.

discounted price tag

my breathing is 50

        why does the breath of some others costs nothing?

for a few, it’s

        priceless



i understood this when the bus driver didn’t count me in when counting, and i was left outside of a full bus. on a holiday. standing. waiting. maybe he didn’t see me breathing

           i am still waiting.

my father says it’s genetic,

his sister died choking -

            lung passages too narrow for life

   i also think it’s genetic

           when your entire bloodline is not given a voice,
           nor an education but is killed.

when you open your mouth only to scream.

of course, it’s a genetic disorder.

colonial boots on my chest.

of course, it’s a genetic disorder.

forced to face the ground, spine bent for a lifetime

of course, it’s a genetic disorder.

what happens if i choose to put my inhaler in the public dustbin?

in there a precise formula to determine
who gets to breathe and who gets the boot ?

(throat singing: a unique melody)
manipulated resonance

of course, it’s a genetic disorder.

the oxygen does not flow to my heart consistently

and even when it does.

it is ||||| obstructed |||||

can i bring my inhaler to the underground when they finally nuke us?

does it blow up in case of self-heating ?



                oxygen + the fuel of my dreams - burning

fire ignition *

                 BOOM

will my lungs finally

blow up

so

i can breathe from

                         a cloud ?

                                       —————————

           ______________

inhaling requires holding my breath, otherwise
the medication does not travel effectively.

traveling to a place unknown, a new discovery, exotic and sensual, my heart

lover of adventures on
      uncharted territories

              arrest the impulse (breathing)

                     stop it, forcefully. but

               don’t give up yet

       (cause they need you alive)

you can start breathing again when the foreign body enters your system


contradictory life force?

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I carry grief

like an uninvited guest.

it sits heavy, on my chest,

egotic, stubborn, expansive and

refuses to leave.

it has become my long term

companion, loyal, ever-present,

taking up all the space, surprising

me, leaving me breathless,

speechless,

feeding on my agonies.

what if it’s a loud alert

just protecting me,

a rhythmic thumping life

warning, guarding, shielding me from

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today the sun does not rise.

look at the horizon closely
you see in the distance - not too far,

a sudden light

lux aeterna

god’s first creation

scientists announce:
the sperm fertilizing an egg
creates
a tiny glimpse into the world

           wonder


the magic of life,
microscopic zink spark

innumerable billions of atoms
create
a flash of light

___

       firework activation


tiny bang
vs.
loud bang

zillions humans losing tiny particles

the glow stops its flow

here the city:
its gutters
first flowing with blood
then flowing with fire

here
black rain

the sun is covered in thick juicy sticky clouds.
oil

you think perhaps its one of those gloomy London days
perhaps it’s just a movie
perhaps it’s not really happening

perhaps
perhaps
perhaps

                     possibility is not resolution

dark tinted sky

in the city*
a veil of smoke chokes my throat and
my eyes
only see the pitch-black sky

sleeping thrown into nothingness until
feeling withering coldness
and

                             I wish to be sky

clear sky. in the past
clear mind. in the past

the long night has left me breathless.

                asphyxiation in creation


the city is burning the love I had

a city can breathe.
a city can’t breathe.      a life of its own denied

burning petroleum releases chemicals.
light hydrocarbons
tiny particles < fluorescence exhibition

rain water joins
sulfur, nitrogen oxides and nitric acid
                      a love triangle a love rectangle

unethical polyamory

                illicit human paranoia normalized

inamicable togetherness,
a suffocating marriage,
where the partner does not leave cannot leave for years to come

penetrating the drainage system

you suppress your emotions,
they turn into slow poison

you breathe in,
carcinogenic words of longing

loud bangs

you breath out,
lungs become ornamental wheeze whispering hope

loud bangs
the sonic spectrum is a weapon

loud bangs
invisible frequency of collective education denied

loud bangs
chemistry is either studied or absorbed

loud bangs
tiny particles emitting light

life
tiny bangs

death
loud bangs

something special grows in you.

        wonder


                            but it’s not life

and the divine light ?
here to be found is
only fabricated illumination

causing
malignant rain
black rain
artificial rain

my feet are inflammable°
soles soaked with liquid gas of
                                                    tears inaudible

black paint
red pain
pomegranate fertile soil

god has swallowed the sky over the city

thick, the biggest cloud in my mind,
confusing me

the sun that used to burn my skin now is gone but my skin burns even more tell me why

chemistry is either studied or absorbed


let me take a deep breath

let me wash away my sins in some holy water first

wait!

god by this time has fainted *

tomorrow the sun will not come
the sky has closed its eyes
    

there isn’t a single bird on the sky, you know what the say, when the birds abandon you, you are truly on your own. of god, no sight

*the city: Teheran

*buried alive

9th March 2026

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Studio Shyama is my independent writing studio, focused on narrative strategy, brand storytelling, and digital communication. I collaborate with creators, small businesses, and institutions to translate complex ideas into compelling narratives, always returning to language as a living, breathing practice.

I am open for commissioned work, including editorial guidance, storytelling audits, or bespoke reflective essays.

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bip. 

the screen is unflinching territory for the mind that refuses color 
 
system malfunction. 

you father was right. you are not good enough 

big data overload 

hard drive gives up on the highway

you move on, never to be seen again 

visual interface interrupted 

transmission files 
sent wrongly.

error
error 
ERROR

you fall for the wrong people
unexpected shutdown

the full stop is not there.
the computer 
does not end with you 

abnormal, still functioning operating system 

is love also luck or just?
info maintenance

network:
incapable threads,

somewhere the process fails again and again 

noise detection 
integrity corruption 

malware infection 

nobody stays

redundant bits,
gigabytes 

archival residue of agony 

cyclic check.
unidentified location 

i’m not a good host

502 bad gateway. 
refresh page 

chronic ghost, unanswered
 
obsolete. restart. wait


malicious gut instinct

{skin factory: cell production lab 
releasing inflammation signals}


motherboard on fire 

tissue damage from burning

blue screen of death

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4th March 2026

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IF

you wake up today and look up
at the sky. so
enveloped in an unusual silence. 

but it’s not snowing! then what? 


you may see birds,
a new kind —
brand new birds.

replacing the extinct 
bothering the existent 


fake birds in the clearest sky 
				high voltage tunes 

a light perpetual buzz; 
is it your brain giving up or god (un)plugging the wire ?

  
a freeway to renewed dreams turning generational visions in red, 
walled up prison of the mind


call them fairy wings — yet
blessings they do not give.

the eye of the bird: 
vitreous eyes

				ubiquitous



imminent precipice 
	giving you access into the abyss which
they call 


					liberation 


one-eyed.

now. cloudy sky. 
fabricated smoke.   



man above god above all 
above everything ever conceived. 
the reversal of birth  




difficulty delineating the border between sky and ground
a flat heart line, hard line





							sudden, unexpected collapse incoming.






drones 

chaotic lenient mindless sky, 
machinery of god 
watching



you 







13th September 2020
2nd March 2026
3rd March 2026

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fear is a weapon.

fear is a drone footage. fear is a drone. fear is a fake bird. turned real. animated. anima derives from breath in latin. ἄνεμος (anemos), the wind, in greek.

wind as in breeze, wind as in blast, wind as in weave.

i watch a drone watching a palestinian home. a family home.

the vitreous one-eyed bird observing, frightening, attempting omnipresence, godlike status. not a video game.

1984. George Orwell. the all pervasive eye monitoring citizens. here dehumanized. called moving targets for security reasons. the kid is a target. the kid becomes a threat. nameless, numbered, breathless. fear is a bird. delicately assembled.

unwinding

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support

poets are experts surgeons 
with(out) a knife,
without a degree. 

anesthesia not needed,
piercing without needles 

extrapolating the pain out of the chest 
a surgical imaging lets ancient memory surface,
screening a screaming mind with invisible tools, 

wait how would you do that 

the writing is bleeding,
the page takes it all, 
our chosen bandage. 

stitching back 
the open cut,
selective scalpel and tone, 
etching new words into spirit

we are so good that 
the emergency room is full of 
patients patiently waiting 
for their turn 

to finally meet us, 
to crack them open 



26th feb 2026

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support

mind chaos.


the human mind 

bears the soul of a 

raised consciousness. 


unaware


escapism 

buds like spring flowers

blooming in the middle of something

unexpected,

a winter state of suffocation.


the night nobody recalls.


asleep


you are what you are,

with all the circling back,

in and around.


in hiding, in revealing.

sometimes more often than others,

sometimes without realizing.


Dandelions look like us.


wild

human form of flower in motion,

on the rise, 

suddenly disturbed



human mind evolving.

human mind dissipating.

human mind externalized.

human mind forgotten.



Oblivion.


Human.

Humanus, humana, humanum.



we are nature.

         dandelions

          following the breeze





written on 17th April 2020

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support

Isn’t difference just an unfinished understanding?

At the encounter of the foreign,

the self retreats in stiffness

fears turns into refusal.

Taken to the extreme,

refusal rehearses itself as repulsion.

The norm reveals itself as dominance only when placed beside something else. Comparison interrupts what repetition has naturalized. Predominance is questioned the moment it becomes visible.

I recognize others’ alienation in myself.

My Mother’s broken English is an extension of who I am today, a flutter within me, a result of her movement from one place to another, then to another again, so that she could give birth to me safely. I do not judge her when her sentences attempt to

make sense.

That would other my Mother.

No. in that moment, the split that creates a distance between the self and other merges into one.

The safe space blurs into creating, together.

I can see her for her battles, which become mine, and in doing so, the self and the other become one, because

we are one.

Listening to the incomprehensible to create new meaning, listening as an act of rebellion that says:

Yes, I am here and I see you.

A posthuman understanding in critical theory rejects the normal, the dominant, the conforming, and what’s acceptable truth.

In its greyness, rudimentariness1 becomes an essence in infinite movement that defies rigid definitions, fixed meanings, and oppressive systems imposed on us.

Comparison, done with the awareness of inclusivity and openness to seeing the value of the opposite, gives us the tools to challenge dominant narratives that have shaped our lives and perpetually continue to define it.

A glitch in the system.

A crack on the surface.

A voice for the wounded creatures.

Yet, this requires an ability to deconstruct every piece of knowledge that has been given as ultimate truth, the standard, what is acceptable. But how does one recognize it when predominance is normalized?

It begins with showing off your voluminous curly black hair when your teacher says it looks inappropriate, savage, untamed. You started straightening it carefully every morning until one day, you stop. Damage control, see,

my curly hair is not fake, it’s real, i am real, stop asking me.

As a Poet in academia, a contradiction in itself, steadily clashing and crashing with structure,

my job becomes to name the unnamable, to point at the underrepresented, the misaligned, the fractured, standing up for what is just, speaking up for the silenced, using my pen as a tool to shape the world anew, and disturb a dormant village with the sound of an alarm that goes off at midnight,

again and again.

Comparison becomes an act of resistance, not to rank, rather unsettle hierarchies, refusing given power dynamics, placing things side by side until the dominant looses its certainty, until what was blurred begins to speak.

a way of living our life in our non-conforming, authentic truth, recognizing blurry landscapes from afar and letting them emerge for what they are, through a new vision in the making;

a quiet hum for the what has been unheard

babies crawling on your back, 

hanging from your bosom,

fainting on the tummy



changing your name 

right after the first bleed. 

you didn’t need sex education, 

only the floor and the man, 

whom you now call husband. 



12, maybe 13. 

by 14 you’re mother of two. already. 



no written exams needed, no former schooling,

you know all the stories by heart, repeated years after years, 

passed on, going back to seven generations



when the moons is split you shouldn’t begin harvest, 

which poisonous plants kill you without leaving trace, 

the lines on your face reveal your intentions 

those on your palm your whole life ahead and all the previous ones. 



the wound between your legs never healed,

counting 6 and one more to come. 3 girls, 4 boys. 



your husband’s mother abandoned him as a baby to 

elope. in love with another man. 

a story rarely heard, 

some call it betrayal some call it liberation. 

that would be my great-grandmother, she left without trace 

and was never found again on the island, she took the way to the sea. but you stayed.



ammamma

i never met you, only heard of your wisdom. 

i cannot fulfill your ambitions, 

i cannot leave flowers

but I promise,



i can mend the wound, 

that causes me to bleed 

more than I should. 

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to relieve the fear in my chest 

I try shaking like a polar bear. 

endless videos on social tell me tremors can heal.

nothing happens. 

the heart thumping increases, rhythmic dance of agony.

stabbing knife  

I can’t cry. 



i am an empty vessel of divine wastage. 

a glass bottle forgotten in the balcony. 

a love letter thrown in the public dustbin.

quiet morning disturbed by another construction site. 

they never stop coming back



I wonder how many dead neighbors are lying down with god right now in this tiny complex. 

180 apartments in my neighborhood. 

a commonplace for retired ones, some former refugees trying hard to fit in, people living on welfare, teenagers displaced suddenly, some single childfree queers active in society but not the way they should. 

because it’s never enough 

the elderly living here, most of them, have been left all alone. 

I am all of them and none of them. 

there is a community café downstairs thought for seniors but its not popular, 

it’s too expensive. the social workers intellectualize on how change can happen.

but those left at the margins do not enter. they won’t step into a place that reminds them of being different.  

I care about the seniors in this place. they are all so full of stories, 

they just want someone to talk to.

from my window I see daily one woman in particular:

Heidi, 82.

sitting on the bench with her dog, staring at the trees that do not move,

I wonder what she thinks. if so.

blink twice if you’re alive. 

I can’t see her face though, I will never know

I worry for them all, the mountain sitting on my chest doesn’t dissipate, it grows. 

her dogs is prone to seizures, poor baby dog was beaten in a different home,

little brain lacerated, over and over, and over

nobody noticed. 



how can you heal a wound when the gap widens 

the slit is visible

the damage is irreparable

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First, wake up.

Which is a task in itself. Some days are easier, but if you are PMs’ing hard or simply had a sleepless night, good luck to you.

The scrolling starts right away. Someone has been shot. Fuck, the day is ruined already. America stop, you are too pretentious, you won’t have my attention forever, I really don’t like you. Why don’t you read a book.

Infiltrating poison slowly creeping into the subconscious hive mind.

I am astonished at the nonchalance which accompanies some people who just claim peace but refuse to take a real stand.

The split shows who you really are.

The sun is slowly rising but the loathing has already commenced. long time ago.

Is violence intrinsic to revolution?

I will ask my spiritual friend who is into crypto, and raves, and circular tribal tattoos, coming back from Goa, but is too high now to intellectualize, preferring silence, so I need to wait a bit.

perhaps,

I should stop waiting for answers.

trigger warning: this piece contains hints at death and other existential quests that may or may not trigger you. take care of yourself.

The monstera had been growing intermittently.

For quite some time I wasn't home. one day, after years, I came back to find that the plant does indeed mirror its name. it has become gigantic, unexpectedly. Nature seems to respond to absence, light presence, emotional dis-connection, distance, forgetfulness, lower expectations. my plant thrives when I forget about it. it’s simple biology. if you keep watering the new seedling will soon suffocate into the waters, the roots will rotten without pity.

I came back and the monstera was healthy.

I came back and I felt cemented.

I cannot avoid the thought that the plant develops when I am not around. I took it personally.

Mother was there all along and that’s enough for life to continue.

the monstera died some time ago. when the world was forced to stillness in 2020. I put a mask on and the fenestrations in the leaves vanished. mother did all the work. repotting, watering but not too much never too much just the right supply*

i, instead, never found the right balance between water and air and breath. I loved too much, so much that I gift myself to the other, another that leaves unavoidably.

you are too much

you do too much

you love too much

you are suffocating

take some rest

stop moving around

you are bothering me

why don’t you do something to water yourself

it does take a lifetime and endless middle fingers from the universe before you will acknowledge that you have been hurting yourself by forgetting to feed yourself first.

this is not about not being enough rather about

being an overflowing river on a sunny day planned to be an easy no obligations

casual time.

turning into casualty.


life stopped because nature always takes over.




*she fed me too. my hair grew long, untangled, unmanageable, no more washing, no streams of water. no more taming. hair resembling dangerous unpredictable snakes. I lied horizontally for an insurmountable amount of time, dead.