Protected: Revisiting

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I’m sorry.

By Farahna Alam
This time it’s different,
you won’t cross the line.
This time you tell yourself
She will be fine.

A crack. A slip. You can’t go back
Gave up, caved in. You turned your back
A year, a month,  or just a second;
Could change a have into a haven’t

A year, a month,  or just a second;
The clean white slate has now been blackened.
Next time, not now, the next and next.
Too late, she’s gone, it can’t be fixed.

And then you say
“The fault is mine.”
While u drifted away,
She wasn’t fine.

She cried. She screamed, and cried some more.
But the monsters were there, hidden in her core.
She smiled, she lied, she pushed them away.
They tried to help,  she threw it away.

This time it’s different,
you didn’t cross the line.
You tried your best,
But she still wasn’t fine.


When I was twelve and you were five, you came into my room one night just to ask me what beautiful looked like. There were other questions,  easier questions, that I answered before but the definition of beauty?  I couldn’t find the words to explain it right. So then I started listing things, hoping you’d get the drift. Our mother, our father, the neighbour next door, the woman on the television, your favourite doll. The sun looking smaller from our treetop house, where you hid almost every day so you didn’t have to play with the other boys. The colour of melted ice cream on our counter top, pink from mine, and blue from yours, mixing in the middle to create a secret galaxy. I wished I could’ve hidden you there the day you came home with a broken nose. Kids will be mean, kids will be cruel. But the worst of all was Dad’s cold shoulder when you couldn’t catch a ball. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I told you beauty was in yours. Because even though the world hated your skirts and your strange little quirks, you took that pain and pushed it down. I knew Mum hated that you couldn’t fit in, and Dad just didn’t get why you did what you did. I wished all those years before the fights and lonely lunches, I had just told you back then, that even though you weren’t happy with the way you looked and even though you had blue ice cream when you always eyed mine, you were still beautiful every time you smiled.



By Farahna Alam
Is it supposed to feel this way?
Going to bed in my coffin
a weight in my chest, just pressing
like I’m buried alive, in decay.

To have words trapped behind
the bars of your teeth; silent.
Strangling your voice; so violent.
All while attacking you blind.

First, the air starts burning
the soil underneath like clay
My arms pinned down. Listening.
Finally. I’m buried alive, in decay.

Streetcar: Conflicts And Connections


Last week, we took a look at the two prominent societies that take stage in A Streetcar Named Desire and analysed the different themes they brought to light. However, when working with the concept of The Individual And Society, we also need to understand the individuals of the play and their interactions. In fact, as coined by a teacher of mine, this entire concept can be compressed into one bite-sized label: Relationships.
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