Waking up blind. Dahlias. Being mediocre. Losing all my eyelashes. Telling dad I’m bisexual. Hair stuck in drains. Aunts whose daughters got into Stanford. Being stuck in a cobweb. Holes. Holes inside holes. Not being termed gay enough by gay people. Not being termed straight enough by straight people. Broken chalk. Sharp-toothed combs. Psychiatrists. Summers. Shows that I know I’ll get addicted to. Stagnant water. People who peel pomegranates. Beggar kids. Cough syrups. Yellow. Erasers that make the whole page black. That gap between the platform and the step on the train. Turmeric. Wannabes. Cartoons. Really blunt pencils. Gold chains dangling between the hairy ringlets of a chest. Brightly coloured insects. Outgrowing some really good shoes. Cockroaches on black marble. Pink glitter. Really tall buildings. Birds that don’t fly. Pus oozing out of wounds. Red hearts. People who haven’t eaten. Road rollers. Letting it all go. Infants. Running out of concealer. Escalators. Dry hugs. Really big trucks on really dark nights. College councillors. Really rich people. Aeroplane runways. Gardens that are mowed. People who don’t talk. Bees. The word ‘carcass’. Wall fans. That someone will read the book that I love. Marriage. My hands. And what they’re capable of.
Mehar Haleem is a seventeen-year-old student who writes for the editorial board of her school. She has previously won several creative writing competitions and her works have been published/are going to be published in the forthcoming issues of Alexandria Quarterly, The Noisy Island, Sprout and Inklette. She is also a curator for eFiction India. She currently lives in New Delhi, India.