I Don’t Belong Here

By Fizza Abbas

I love chipped crayons

they tell me colours can come in different forms:

pitch-black darkness can become the reincarnation of red

moonlight can subdue the proud ribbon-like body of the river

wise men need not have a white beard.

I often whisper to the wavelength,

ask her to, once, and for all,

be flexible if dispersion is an absolute necessity

to tune into madness-

her least favourite frequency.

Sometimes, I even read her poems

so she can know I have word bubbles

that don’t blow my way,

similar to the paintballs

she complains of being too unruly and wild.

I am a laywoman

with no command on phonetics

deficit and the shit sounds similar to me

and I often tell my husband –

take care of calorie the shit,

he, being, the ultimate science guy

says, it’s a good fat joke

Once in a while, we’re on the same wavelength.

And nibbling the crayons, I often think,

I too can think.

© 2020 Fizza Abbas

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