Heaven’s Blessing by Fatima Azeem

Heaven’s Blessing

There were three mountains, similar in shape and color, inside and out,  as the villagers would say. On each peak, there was a single tree that bore pomegranates. If you were lucky, you’d find a golden one; its seeds shone like rubies. The juice resembled that of honey, a fair description due to its sweetness. Putting aside the looks and taste, the golden pomegranate was a gift; nothing but good would bless the one who ate it, say the ones to tell the story. Only one man was able to find the fruit everyone wanted, a man who lived 3 centuries ago in the very village where few reside today. It’s said that once eaten, said man would cry tears of pearls, authentic, beautiful, gleaming pearls that you would find only on the ocean floor. No one knows why these trees are hard to find, but if anyone could guess, it’s because they’re from Heaven itself. They have to be. Only the chosen would find their way towards it. This story was told over and over among the children I played with. Whether it was true or not, we didn’t know. Its story, however, was intriguing, and we would only hope of finding this treasure in our dreams. 

 by Fatima Azeem

My Birth Month by Fatima Azeem

My Birth Month

August, you arrive like a melting pot of new and shattered memories, weaving intricate waves of sorrow and harsh sunlight with each day that steps by. Once the vibrant peals of laughter and petals of flowers leave, the scent of ashy fireworks comes tumbling down like raining fire, and I can’t help but listen to the songs of old. You see, the grass blades are scratching at my back, and when I turn and flex to find a better peace, my scapula might pierce through and form tiny wings that never grew. Memories will flicker in my mind in black and white, and the music and tone of them will linger like persistent fog that clings to my heart. Though I might enjoy the snack of something cold, the liquid will slowly pour down my fingers, and my skin might just curl up with disdain. Does anyone genuinely like August? You’re just an unwelcoming intruder who enjoys haunting and whispering the warmth of wind into my eyes, and in my opinion, something you love should only be cooling, not unbearably hot. You represent the ugly, bitter echo that might be wistful and pass time on silently, but the world will collectively mourn the landscapes of fallen gray and beauty, the skies once blue turn indigo in heaped pressure that lays down on our bodies, and the sound of our blood once rushing will fall loud in our ears, red like a blushing dusk, and the moon won’t help but show it’s face while mine stays hidden in the relentless seasons that follow after Gatsby’s passing. The sweet smell of summer and the relentless noise of parties lead into eerie twilight, finding the unspoken burden of cleaning up the decay that follows. Still, I can’t help but lie next to you, listening to your soul guide by, and hope another year will pass unapologetically. Leaving is easy; staying with you is hard.

by Fatima Azeem

Deaf Soulmates by Fatima Azeem

Deaf Soulmates

by Fatima Azeem

Three words ran across space

Space told me it was too late

Now, they dance underneath a street light

And the moths look from above with pity

“Who other than us could burn from pain?”

Attracted to something so far away 

The words now yearn with regret 

“If only we spoke before time was set”

The wind carries uphill and through valleys

And yet never towards the right person

Never the right heart

Now these words are spoken from another

And the hands you placed on my soul feel more like bruises

Rather than wishes and kisses of our love

Anaphora by Fatima Azeem

 Anaphora

by Fatima Azeem

To anyone who fears the sand slipping away.

To anyone who fears the empty embrace of crumbs.

To anyone who fears the slap of time change us all.

To anyone who fears staying and leaves instead.

To anyone who fears the mistake, instead of seeing the effort.

To anyone who listens and never speaks.

To anyone listening,

To anyone who fears,

Me too.

But even if the ground keeps us up on our feet,

The blue horizon truly keeps us sturdy and grounded. 

So, congratulations.

You’ve arrived at the point where the threads of the vast universe are sown,

And you are part of that universe.

You are the remains of star dust that left and came back for something more

Lucid, poetry by Fatima Azeem

 Lucid

by Fatima Azeem

The Dreams of the Undead

Come to haunt me

On days when the Sky cries and dies out.

First, it’s comforting

But it gets to a point.

And sometimes I wonder instead

If I could just lie in warm arms and not cold ones.

These Dreams take me somewhere reality never could

Where I could reach for something but never have it.

It’s unfair

It leaves an acrid fire in my throat.

My heart feels vociferous, and it fights against my ribs

It wants to claw out and pierce my soul in the process.

So while Time walks away, 

The memory of You stays with the pillow I lay my head on. 

I forget the night to soothe my heart

Only to stare at the snow clouds and wish for stars above.

The Inhaler in My Bag by Anushka Bhatt

 

The Inhaler in My Bag

by Anushka Bhatt

At first, I thought I was just out of shape. Soccer practice was tough, but it felt tougher than it should’ve. I’d jog through warm-ups, and suddenly my chest would clench like it was caught in a vice — tight, unrelenting, like a seatbelt locking mid-motion. I brushed it off. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I wasn’t pushing myself enough.

Then came that one night. I wasn’t even moving — just lying in bed — and I still couldn’t breathe right. My lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves, shrinking with each breath instead of expanding. I didn’t cry or call out. On the outside, I was still. But inside, everything was on high alert. My thoughts raced, my heart thudded, and I kept telling myself it would pass. That I was overreacting.

The next day, urgent care gave me a word: asthma. Specifically, exercise-induced. I didn’t even know that existed. I thought asthma meant wheezing, inhalers during gym class, something more obvious. But this? It was silent, sneaky, and terrifying.

Now I carry an inhaler everywhere — tucked into the side pocket of my bag like a lifeline. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t beep or buzz or draw attention. It’s just there, small and quiet, like a backup battery I hope I never have to use.

Asthma isn’t always dramatic. It doesn’t show up with sirens or scenes. Sometimes, it’s subtle — a whisper in your chest, a pause you can’t quite explain. And that whisper says: slow down. Take a breath. Pay attention.

And now, I do.

I Pulled an All-Nighter and Felt Like a Zombie in HD” by Anushka Bhatt

 

I Pulled an All-Nighter and Felt Like a Zombie in HD”

by Anushka Bhatt

One night, everything hit at once… two quizzes, a bio paper I’d barely started, and, for some reason, an overwhelming urge to reorganize my closet at 1 a.m. (Don’t ask. It felt urgent.) I told myself I’d just power through. No sleep, no breaks, just “grind mode.” Spoiler: I did not thrive.

I didn’t even nap. I just kept moving, kept working, kept sorting through biology notes and mismatched socks like a caffeinated robot. By morning, I looked like a human being but felt like an open browser with 47 tabs — all glitching.

I sat in class, physically present, spiritually gone. At one point during a test, I stared at the paper for so long I forgot how to spell my own name. That’s not a joke. That’s what happens when your brain is operating at 4%.

People romanticize all-nighters like they’re proof of dedication. “Grind culture,” they call it. But let me tell you: there is nothing empowering about forgetting entire concepts you understood the day before, or feeling like your limbs are underwater while trying to raise your hand. Sleep isn’t a reward you earn …it’s oxygen.

Now, I protect my sleep like it’s the final boss in a video game. I dim my lights like it’s a ritual. I make wind-down playlists to slow my thoughts. I say no to one thing each night, even if it feels small. Because that “one more thing” is what used to keep me up.

Rest isn’t weakness. It’s the secret weapon everyone sleeps on. Literally.

(Medical Fact: Chronic sleep deprivation increases risk for heart disease, anxiety, weakened immunity, and memory loss.)

Personal Fact: It also makes you forget the spelling of “photosynthesis.”