Alternate Reality

Alternate reality:

18 glowing candles:

One for the life we are supposed to live;

I cried and cried

And no one came home.

The heart can be as empty

As you let it be.

I cried and put my food away

I don’t know if that is self care

Or a clinical eating disorder;

A form of self punishment,

Getting my soul ready for hellfire.

Self love means nothing

When you constantly argue with yourself,

Restless, lose the fight,

Fighting to get out of bed.

I was wondering why

We stop kissing our daughters

As they begin to learn to speak.

When did they began to

Mean less to us

And why is the worth

Of the soul even in question

When once we smiled at their mere and simple movements.

It is better to be dead

(Is it better to be dead?)

Than be crawled up, lifeless.

It is better to be buried

(Is it better to be buried?)

Than to be alive alone

In silence;

18 glowing candles:

One for the life we are supposed to live.

~By Maryum Khalid~

Art: Woodland Waterfall by Tom Thomson



Dark skies are sometimes inviting:

Tulips were supposed to grow

Where war took over:

Only one of us worrying about

The absolute meaning and truth

About love.

Things falls apart

And gather back in place

All the time.

Barried below chaos

Are the intricacies

Of the autrosities done to us

That allow the universe

To align.

The cosmos do not forget

The minute instances

Of paramount abuses

That pushed you far down,

To the point of surrender.

I am confident

Among the black holes and

Lightning storms,

Your soul suffered enough

To still want to survive:

Dark skies are sometimes inviting.

~By Maryum Khalid~

-Photo by me-

Loving you

I’m sorry I couldn’t love you

The way someone should have.

You loved me in countless ways,


Candles burn, starships navigate

The northern,

Mystical lights, I am stuck in the universe

Of us catching fireflies.

Around and around in the world we plan to go, aspiring to leave a mark or let something lasting be known.

However, 360, having returned,

I am full of shame

Of the things I said,

The actions I allowed

To occur and poison my body (physique, psych, in between)

And letting the soul

Dissociate to a place

Where we are all smiling, holding hands-

It could have been something other than this.

Is it safe to ask

If I’m going to be okay?

In the end,

I’m sorry I couldn’t love you

The way someone should have.

I want to be part of something big,

I want to forgive.


Just want to be with babe.

There are no fireflies here, no northern shimmering skies. Forgotten presence,

I ask myself,

Am I really that hard to love?

In the end,

I’m sorry I couldn’t love you

The way someone should have.

~By Maryum Khalid~

Art: “Forgive” by Nasrin Barekat

Tell You Something

I gotta tell you something;

I gotta tell you a secret.

Because I’m just tired,

I’m waring down.

I’ve been bruising and cutting myself since I was 12;

I’ve been crying and withering away for almost two decades,

tried ending it for good a few good times,

And I am tired.

I don’t know what this is called

But I listened to some TedTalk about

Being truly honest and vulnerable with yourself.

And I wish Today was different

But I keep doing it you know.

It is so often I wonder you know,

What does it even matter that I’m here.

There’s so much hope in this world,

So many reasons to change, you know.

There’s so many good people

Trying to save our souls,

Offering homes.

But you know, I was never taught how to receive love,

I was only taught how to give to others,

And to take what ever crumbs of “love” and its “forms” were thrown at me.

And I’m just tired.

You know I’m tired of coming home

And bathing in blood and misery.

Yet life just seems perfect from the outside;

days just passing by;

The irony of “all together in one place”.

“Adults” have children these days

But the families are empty

We are just left alone to find home,

In this vast, big world:

Unconsciousness, loneliness, hypnotic conscience, hypnotic inductions.

Sometimes I come home,

Take a shower, hours pass:

Scraping over and over

The dirt and filth

From my disgusting self.

It’s only safe in there;

Locked doors but even a pin drop

Out of the ordinary

And my soul sinks and shrivels.

They call it “c-ptsd”;

I call it my living, breathing reality.

Talking to myself “don’t worry you are safe here”:

We are just left alone to find home;

I cannot find myself

In this vast, big world.

So again, I just fall asleep

And I don’t have anything left for me

As I wrap my lovely feelings around you

Under the covers,

And you reclaim yourself.

And in all the wait and giving,

all the parts of me are drained,

and having rescued the home,

I, slowly die one more time.

~By Maryum Khalid~

Photo (taken by myself of a cold, winter window)


In my current universes,
At the time,
You decided one day
It was safer to be visibly absent.
But the forever of promises
Don’t quite forget;
And the algorithms calculated your
Inaction as action.
You can never really find home again:
I was looking for peace
You brought me torture
Served in exquisite arrangements-
5- star dining, gold- coated entrees,
Terribly mimicking the universe.
Floating outside of existence-
What paradigms, alternate realities, wavelengths and frequencies
I walk in alone;
Peaceful and lonely.
I should have never opened the door
And after all,
I think you didn’t really know me;
There are so many doors:
No frequencies welcoming you:
Crawling or running,
Low frequencies or high frequencies,
Your attempts at fierce amplitudes:
Your energy is merely mortal:
No potential to any one of my paradigms.
~By Maryum Khalid~





Wedding night.

(Please remain stoic).



Holy ceremony.

(Please remain stoic).

Sexual abuse.


Silent vigil.

(Please remain stoic).

Everyone you know

Is going to die of cancer

And by that time

In your life,

after having done what ever

You needed to do,


Will have reached your

Stage of nirvana.

But everyone was just

Supposed to remain


The after affects.

(Please remain stoic).

~By Maryum Khalid~

The Artist in Me

The artist in me:

I left your place

Feeling smaller, mostly every time;

Lesser and lesser

Of what it is meant

To be human.

It took me more than a decade

And all the atrocities

To finally figure out

That is not okay.

It was no accident;

No I didn’t make a mistake-

A poor choice,

Some disturbed and distorted

Use of love and understanding-

Some pseudo- stability-

That although somehow experienced,

You dissociate from.

It was the first time

I had the last word.

And it was a good feeling.

Fall and winter

Were spent alone surprisingly;

The train always arriving on time,

Myself looking for passengers,

Anything for souls and love.

So it goes:

“A house is made of

Bricks and beams

A home is made of

Love and dreams”.

Get out of my home

And stay out.

Now at my eclipse,

Feeling ample, mostly every time:

I want to love in silence,

Silently in the night

Like Venus twirling around

In and around the universe-

Dancing harmonies towards

The other sparkling entities,

stroking gently, Kindly,

Living to be human:

The artist in me.

~ By Maryum Khalid ~

I was hoping to cherish

I was hoping to cherish

That part of you;

The part of you

That doesn’t sin.

I was hoping to cherish

The child in you;

The part of you

That laughs and cries.

I was hoping to cherish

The love in you

The part of you

That feels so small.

(The lost soul in you;

The one you’ve been searching your life for,

Past the animosity and suffocation).

If one day all of the ones you knew

Were to judge you

I’d like to think I was the one

Who got you right

The most.

You never know- everything has a beginning but some things never begin.

You fall in love with my beauty

But I have nothing to give.

I long for your love:

Tell me what I have done

And is it as bad as

Being forbidden from your mother’s touch?

(I love new things

So as you can imagine

When I got married:

The pouring of new gifts).

My best friend died:

Autopsy revealed

The secrets he’d been hiding;

The wounds left from

The childhood abuse

And the monster he’d become.

The heart shriveled with suffering

Yet all these bodies

Are just laid there to be numbered;

The lungs exhausted

Revealed how he’d been yelling from ashore

Bleeding and begging for help

Yet was passed on from home to home

Like you graduate from school to school

Until one day you’re naked to the world

And they are concerned about

The crime you committed

And how you will be punished.

I only asked for my mother’s love;

I wanted to belong to her even after belonging in her womb.

I don’t know when the cord was cut

But my soul wanted to run in her vains

Even after she gave birth to me and rejected it.

And when I ran from hate by becoming it:

Body of steel; inside, a child seeking the hand of a loving mother:

I was thrown into solitary confinement,

A number in death row;

You ask me of my last meal?

(I’ve seen my mother beat me, spit on me

Said no one loved me; that I was worthless; Pointed a gun at me at seven, ten, thirteen and fifteen-

Until I turned that gun on someone else)

I say how lovely would it be to taste

The sweetness of my mother’s touch

(Last meals and last feels).

(I love new things

So as you can imagine

When I died:

The pouring of new gifts)

I was hoping to cherish

The child in you;

The part of you

That laughs and cries.

Blood memories

Passsd through and through:

I was hoping to cherish

Some part of you.

~By Maryum Khalid~


I am shedding.

(Prolonged frame).

Is there something wrong with me

Because I don’t love anymore?

Why do beautiful people

Kill themselves ?

What monsters does this culture create

That we begin to doubt our love ?

(Prolonged frame).

Dad drove hatchbacks all his life even if his babies were dying.

There’s a lot of people who have no one to turn to, contrary to popular belief.

Did he ever think of the Eros, the Thanatos

Or are we cursed because somewhere

There was the death of an Albatross ?

(What did he not tell me?)

What of the death we wear around our necks?

What is this burden that feels like a curse?

This force of life and this force of death, head on head battle.

(Prolonged frame).

Trying to elude

And is this survival ?

Eliding the trauma:

Delete- kill- strike out- wipe out- run.

I am shedding.

(Prolonged frame).

~Maryum Khalid~


I came into your home:


When you weren’t looking (or there)


Amidst your (lost)self portrait,

Your walls filled with

Paris and Rome,

Of dancing girls,

Girls looking at you

Or girls looking away,

Your walls of colour

And the midnight moon and water;

Paintings of big birds

Taking flight:

I wanted to know your story.

Your queen sized bed

All to yourself

With satin (mint) covers

You get lost into.

Patterns in your jewelry

Lined in your dresser,

I, looking at my reflection

Or my self

In the mirror:

I too want to know your story.

Your quartz and amethyst


Set clearly to ‘soulify’ your space;

The quotes you have pinned

On your walls and boards-

You got me too.

Your compilation of life lessons

And words of wisdom, hope, healing and raw earth:

All together scrambled in a giant bowl.

But what is your actual story?

What is hiding underneath those jewels and words and art and life?

What is your story?

I want to know your story.

How do you embrace another in your body and soul that all they want to do is stay ?

The dark and greys of public ridicule, pity

and comic relief with all that your have gathered:

Please, I’ve come in your home,

I’ve been invited to feel your fragrance:

In all you’ve been and what you’ve left, between the places you never will return to ones you want to go, crawling deep into your skin, encountering your child, childhood years, your old age and where you are now, what lands you’ve crossed within you to the demons you fight now, the chemicals in your brain forming your mystical responses and the pictures you create with colours of the celestial cosmos (lost), the stories of your legacy of trauma and what you’re doing about it for your generation and the souls and bodies coming to this place, wherever you live, however you deal with your addiction (a disease of isolation) and whenever it shows up on your skin and all the questions that arise, beneath the layers of your changing mind must be something gasping for air, how life took away from life, from the letters your younger self wrote to you to the last letter you will ever write, the compelling feelings of your bitter sadness to when you feel the most safe:

Give me your human experience, give it all:

Please tell me your story.

Please invite me cordially.

~Maryum Khalid~