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~

6 thoughts on “Uninvited

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