Poems
I never learnt
the colours of a hyacinth, nor those of the building it grew under. It slithered through the hairs of my dreams, wrecking the gardens, and the carnage of sunken weeds. Moored and half-mooned, the cloisters were uprooted like a blanket that sprawls, or a scent that drawls or a sleep that lingers in the caudal of bones. Each night, I dream of outrunning the tail and measure my progress against my speed against my body against my self against my agony against my self against Breathe. Remember to inhale the sandalwood candles burning the building. The sounds are bright, like the colours of a hyacinth I never learnt.
Errah Fawad is an undergraduate research student in New York, interested in female psychosis and stress disorders. Her writing explores fractured narratives inspired by shapeless feelings.