Learning To Unlearn

Inspiration comes in the weirdest forms. I had been struggling with myself for a while. Why am I the way I am? Why do I refuse to open up to people as though I view the world as this harsh, untrustworthy place when that perception couldn’t be further from the truth?

As a child, I was always judgmental, cynical and untrusting. I thought the worst of most things and felt very uncomfortable with my feelings and communication. While the last two remain true today, my inner vision and perception of the world has completely changed.

Now, everything is golden and good and beautiful. I often only choose to see the best in people and the world. I am filled with love towards everything around me. I now long for a true connection, a connection with someone who can understand me. Somehow, this seemed backwards to me. Why did I start off with all the broken negativity that one would assume is molded by negative experience?

As a child I was an old soul, harmed by some sort of broken past. And yet my experiences were limited and not at all broken. Perhaps my soul rose from another life, a life where it was hurt and broken. Was I born broken? Was I born having been hurt before?

My mother told me a story the other night. She told me about my first day of school. I was nervous, panicking most likely. I was surrounded by people I was not familiar with at all. I was scared. My mom said that she could see it on my face. I was sitting alone at a table, most likely overwhelmed with all that was around me. I was probably screaming inside, wanting to run, jump up and leave. But, as always, on the outside I was calm. Sad, yes, but silent. So quiet and still that I’m sure no one would have noticed a thing if I were invisible.

My mom said that I told her to just go. To leave me all alone in a position that I didn’t want to be in. She said that I wouldn’t let her see me cry but as she walked away, she saw a tear running down my cheek.

It was an insane story. One that was nothing similar to any other story of the younger me that I had heard before. Yet, somehow, it was the most relatable. While listening, a huge, fleeting part of me felt embarrassed and wished that my mom hadn’t seen the tear. And in that moment of embarrassment, I realized that I haven’t changed.

I still don’t want people to see me vulnerable and yet, at the same time, I wish someone would understand and see me in that state. I mean, I have the strangest recurring dream of me crying in random, hidden places and this figure would just materialize and begin comforting me. It’s the strangest dream. I would be sobbing and the feeling in my heart would be an aching, heavy, broken sadness.

I never understood where all of this sadness and brokenness came from. I always felt it in my heart. I always knew that there was the potential for painful, heartbreakingly poetic sadness inside of me.

But, as my life progresses the sadness grows less and less. It seems as though I’m growing backwards. In true Benjamin Button fashion, I feel my spirit getting lighter everyday. I grow less and less critical. I choose o ignore more broken and wrong things in my own mind and focus on the good.

It’s seems, sometimes, that I grow more innocent the more I know. I would call it enlightenment, the opposite of experience. The gaining of knowledge and wisdom normally breaks a person down. Smart people are often complex, broken and intensely cynical. This is simply because knowing too much can cause a person to be overwhelmed with all the bad.

And yet, it seems as though life hasn’t broken me. The more I learn about how broken the world and lives, families, people are, the lighter my heart becomes. Sadness dissipates with knowledge. Learning creates this intense happiness inside of me.

Perhaps I was born broken. Perhaps I can never be truly fixed. But I like this. I like growing into happiness, waiting for it to fit me properly. I like who I am becoming and I pity who I was. As a child, my heart should never have been so broken. And yet, for some reason, it was. However, I am outgrowing the cracks. I’m filling them with love again.

This life will treat me well. My broken soul from a broken past life will be fixed.


Too Much Love

With each heartbeat, a flavourful, overflowing, gushing wave of love is released into the world. The love I have for everyone and everything is so overwhelming. I look around me, day and night, and I see beauty. I see a world meticulously manufactured to operate in perfectly imperfect unity.

I look outside and see all these tiny particles, fitting together like a microscopic puzzle to create a macroscopic universe. The world’s pieces falling together, forming an object resembling glued china.

The light from TV screens and the light of the stars in the sky aren’t that different. All of it is light and all of it is beautiful.

Why do we try to classify beauty and confine it to the objects which we would like to bestow it upon? Is everything not beauty? Is everything in the world not part of something much greater?

Here we are, tiny parts of something magnificent. Pulsing waves, heartbeats of the convulsing universe.

Our energy creates beauty. Beauty is absorbed into anything we project it onto. It becomes beautiful when we see it that way. We make it beautiful.

The prettiest rose is just a rose without the feelings we feel when we see it. The rose is only sad when we project sadness onto it, only romantic when we project romance into the folds between its delicate petals.

Nothing is what it is until we make it what we want it to be. You create your own universe and in that way the creator is within us all. But we are confined to creating our own universe.

We can’t change or create others. We can only love. We can only love others. Why change them? They’ve created their own masterpiece within which they reside and we’ve created ours. Let yours be full of love and happiness.

Project love and happiness and maybe, perhaps, possibly that love will spread into other universes too.

The Other Side

I guess here she is. The other side of Zayaan. The side that we hardly ever see down here. Here’s a dark, misty hole that I enjoy crawling into when the real ‘other side’ wants to manifest. However, allow me to shed some truth on this situation.

I am not a manifestation of negative energies and terrorized feelings. I am as light as sakura blossoms and as energetic as lightning bolts. I guess that each action does have an equal, opposite reaction because my powerful positive driving force is occasionally drowned by this dark, unforgiving side.

I hate the fact that there is a place (which I consider so important to me) that is made up of this concentration of negative emotion. And so, the ‘other side’ of me will no longer possess this niche of mine. I grab it back and I will infiltrate it with positivity as well. It doesn’t have to be singular. It can be whole.

It’s often confusing to live in this world. My fears and dark thoughts manifest as anxiety. My body suffers as stress grabs hold of all the lobes of my brain and rattles it down my spinal chord. My poor, aching stomach takes most of the blow. Random spouts of vomiting and panic attacks sometimes rule my life. However, I am not sitting around, waiting for it to take over my life.

I know that the days are hard and the disorientating feelings may seem to last forever, but there is light all around. In every day there are moments of joy and love that I wholeheartedly absorb. Sometimes, I can feel it; The end of the road. It’s bright and beautiful and it’s where everything is steady. Not perfect, but I’ve put in enough work to be content enough to relax. I’ve worked hard and long enough to be happy with what I have produced because I know that it comes from the inner passions of my soul. I know that one day I will get there. I will get to that place where it’s no longer confusing. Where it all falls into place.

It sometimes seems impossible but I know what will get me there. It’s my aura, my presence, my mindset. As I grow, it blossoms.

One day I will be free from the chains of confusion and uncertainty. Not completely, but perhaps enough to always be happy. I feel the confused grip listening around me every single day. It’s a beautiful feeling and I welcome it with wide, open arms.

Here I am. This is Zayaan Sallie and she loves the world.

Poem 8-Skin Hunger

The starving skin
Lacing my bones

Oh yes, it is fed
But the food doesn’t nourish
It destroys

Hunger, an appetite
For something more
More, more, more

The cerebral need
For a missing puzzle piece
To complete

A map that shows
The way to the treasure
Of love, of company

Skin cells reach and grasp
At any possible match
And fall away

Every fall hurts
The bruised heart
All alone

The skin starves because
The puzzle piece
Is missing

What if
There’s no map to read
Or treasure to find

What if each attempt
Is futile and hopeless

Coating the white, hard,
Now hollow bones
Starving forever

Lost in Loneliness

There is a price to pay for isolation. It’s called the price of one’s sanity.

I spend my time focused on myself and others in equal balance, I won’t lie. I think about my own woes as much as I contemplate those of my friends, family and strangers.

I see a lot. I like to listen, to watch, to observe. I can blend into the background of many situations. I can transform into a confessional in the blink of an eye. A tolerant, prejudice-free advice giver who won’t get upset when you reject her advice. I try to be a backbone for my best friend. I try to be there for anyone who needs it.

And yet, no subtle hint of mine is voluminous enough to capture the attention of even those closest to me. For some reason, everyone thinks that my façade is real. I would think that someone would have seen the inching cracks and broken pieces. I say that I have no emotions and yet that could not be farther from the truth.

I feel so alone.

I’m always helping someone else and yet isolation has become my dearest companion. The dark of the night caresses my tears. The bowl of the toilet caresses my sorrows. The bloodied sink hides my imperfections. My retched mirrors spit all critiques and backhanded praises. My best friends are inanimate objects.

Am I insane?

I seek protection from the fragmenting and ruthless mind of mine and yet I’m too afraid to voice its true state. I’m afraid of everyone around, every minute of every day.

An accismus of note. I desire help, I long for it. And yet, I am so terribly frightened of the raw shell-shock of a straightforward revelation.

Tears warm my cheeks as I dream about my own confessional. A place to go where human ears can hear my internal hurricane and assist in calming it’s treacherous winds.

I exist in this limbo between terror and absolute desire. I’ll never move because I’m frozen still, stuck in between.

What is my next move?

I need therapy and yet I’d never be able to benefit from it.

I need a savour but what if I am supposed to be my own savour?

What if I’m not strong enough to save myself? What happens then?

Am I lost in this loneliness forever?

A Collection of Defeat

This collection is from a time in my life which I am afraid I am returning to, in a mysteriously, twisted and different sort of way. I just wanted to post it because I’ve hidden it away for so long. I feel as though the collection is complete and reflects my feelings at the time. Not that posting it makes a big difference but anyway…


A Collection of Defeat




I have these moments
When I so badly want someone to know
What I’m suffering

But I know I can’t

So I make up a beautiful lie
To hide a tragic truth


Today I asked her. Is she okay. She said “Yeah, why?”. I know she lied. She almost opened up a few minutes before. Talking about being depressed. I lost it. But I’ll see her soon. I want to help.

I’ve said before

I’ve said before
I’m all alone
And this world
I’m made of stone

My heart is ice
My eyes are shields
I’m isolated
In burning fields

Of my own thoughts
That ruin me
But soon this terror
Will set me free

I’ll drop the weight
My skin will heal
I’ll be perfect
I don’t need to ‘feel’


I guess I’m just ungrateful
I’ve got so much to love

My life is pretty perfect
School comes easy
And my drive is strong

I guess I’m just ungrateful
To have this mindset
To think that I’m ‘depressed’
Or anxious … Or anorexic

I guess I’m just ungrateful
For focusing on the bad words
The words that hate on fat
The words that praise thin

I guess I’m just ungrateful
Unappreciative and mean
For getting upset when my mother
Said she’s happy I’m losing weight

When she said last week I was fat

Maybe I’m just over sensitive
When she calls me “a little chubby”
When she’s proud that I don’t eat
When my insides drown in tea

Maybe I’m just over sensitive
She was just brought up that way
I don’t have to fall into that trap

Too bad

It’s already too late

Well then…

Paper Cuts

Scribble down a granite word
Erase it, let a tear splash down.
That tear probably says it better
Than worthless words right now.

Feel wet paper in your hands
Beneath your worn out fingers
Feel the sting as it slits skin
Bask in the pain that lingers

And now, your tears they gather
You’re drowning in doused sheets
Paper cuts across your stomach
A red waterfall to your feet

That paper turned to stainless steel
A dreadful life ago
But still the sheets, they hold those words
Your stomach bears their sorrow


When a word
A simple word
Becomes so important to you
So vital to your description


It’s the perfect word for me

My head is filled
With empty thoughts
My stomach is filled
With air


Like my eyes sometimes
When empathy is supposed
To be present

My heart when it
Realises how lonely
It really is

Inside my chest cavity
It’s true, it’s acidic
And corrosive


Like my scars
Filled with nothing but blood
Ha, turns out my stomach is


In where no food lies and
Out where scars form ragged plains


I guess that no one is really ever together. We all live in our own apartness.


I hope it burns

Furious red lines
Zigzagging across your skin
I hope it burns like hell

When you reach for something to eat
When your body cries ‘no’
I hope it stings and aches

When you feel lazy and
Don’t move
I hope the pain is numbed

By sweat and a hard heartbeat
By an empty stomach
Those lines are train tracks

For your doubts
Openings for the truth to seep in
Maybe then you can understand

Why you need to really, truly
Just be thin

Burn, razor, burn

Cut her, don’t let her forget
Her stupid mind is weak

The only thing that will remind her
Is the fire below her breasts
That is caused by you


My kind of aesthetic
Is lines
Beautiful, ordered, straight lines
Red lines
Beautiful, straight, red lines

Red lines of blood
Beautiful, straight, red, blood lines
On skin

Beautiful, straight, red, bloody lines
On skin

Almost Perfect

Beautiful, straight, red, bloody lines
On me


Perfection on me?
Such contrast.
It’s laughable.



I don’t feel empty
I thought I would feel better
But no

I want to vomit

I think I might
I feel gross

And fat
And full
A swine in a workout shirt
I tried to run
But my stomach was a weight
It was an anchor

I hate myself
My full stomach


I can vomit right now
I didn’t though
I don’t think I will

My paper punished me
I still feel sick
Nauseous even

But the pain takes
The taste of the pizza
The sugar, cake, brownies
The calories

Out of my mouth

Slowly I bleed
It all out

I wish my insides could
Be filled with blood

The metallic taste
On my tongue
My stomach full

But at least I would be



I hate myself
Why can’t I just hate food

Why am I a pig
Why do I do this
Why do I ruin myself

Tomorrow I will starve
If it’s the last thing I do

I can’t even eat breakfast
‘No’, I’ll just say ‘no’

It’s supposed to be my favourite word
But why does food make it so hard
For me to hate it

I hate myself
I wish I hated food instead.

Me 24/7


The pages know me best.

I have friends.
But they don’t know me like you do.

Pretty paper, you just allow me
To confide, to set myself free

No one cares enough
But you, you care.

Because you just reflect me.
I can trust you, pretty paper.

A human mind is too unstable

Pretty paper, you won’t fail me.
You will hold, protect, treasure my words.

You were created for them.
You want them, you waited for them.

Pretty paper, thank you.
Without you, I’d have to speak

My voice box fails me when I need it most
My mind seems to hate telling people about me

Oh pretty paper, thank you.


Fuck me.

I fucked up.
Food is a fucking problem
No, it’s my lack of self-control.
To fall and fail is detrimental
In this mind game
Of forgetting the food
And seeking the beauty

To eat is to lose
And to never be beautiful
I hate myself

Fuck me.

Why do I ruin my own fucking chances
It’s already summer
I look like a fucking ball
Of cheese and chocolate and no

I don’t want to fucking eat
Ever again in my life
And if tomorrow I do
My skin will not only be covered in blood

But the screams will be heard
From the other side
Of the country

And I will hurt
Every inch of me that
Enjoys the fucking fattening food
And it will bleed out of me

Fuck food. Fuck me.
Fuck all of this.


Little, tiny bubbles
Tickling my intestines
That’s what hunger feels like.

Hunger smells like
Buttered popcorn, melting chocolate
Fresh, green lettuce and tomato juice.

Hunger feels like
Warmth on the lips, on the tongue
In the chest, in the stomach, between the hips.

Hunger tastes like

But that taste is like

Empty means tiny, little bubbles.
Bubbles that dissolve fat
Not the buttered popcorn, melting chocolate or

Bubbles that dissolve love handles
Thick thighs, double chins, arm flab
Back fat, fat shoulders, belly fat and fat cheeks.

Hunger tastes like

Hunger feels like