Category Archives: Secret

Secret by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

I smoke my cigarette in a corner in the bathroom; God forbid my father smells the scent. I mean he did smoke for 22 years—but his daughter, suckling on tobacco until it turns to ashes?

No. Not okay. Never okay.

I imagine the conversation I’d have with him if he ever found out, “I can’t trust you anymore!” He would yell. “I don’t need your trust, father. I am an adult, and it was my conscious decision to smoke!” I would respond eagerly.

Eager. Hmm. I mean, what is a cigarette at the end of the day? Some would say it is cancer. It is death. It is suicide.

Why does a man have the option to commit this slow paced suicide by inhaling this foul smoke but a mere woman cannot make this decision?

Then they ask me why I claim Feminism is a way of life, it is a struggle to survive, it is a fight for freedom.

I quickly put my cigarette out when I hear footsteps passing by my bathroom door. Did he smell it? I light a candle and open the bathroom window quickly and freeze, listening with every fiber of my being. Trying to figure out if he was now going to try to diminish my future because of my very slow suicidal tendencies. If he would try to diminish my future, over a silver and blue pack of secrets.

Secret by Dee

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By Dee.

Not with a bang

Nor with a whimper

But with a whisper

Ends the world

Subtle susurrations

Of pursed lips

Shielded by

Hands and Infinite Politeness

You didn’t hear it from me

But

Did you know that She

Did you know that He

Did you know that They

Oh

No

Well

For shame

And a mere murmur

Breaks down years

Built on brick and mortar

And homes torn down

Piece by piece

And lives

Smashed apart

By nothing more

Than a hissed syllable

Or two

Secret by Quamar Al-Mumin

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By Quamar Al Mumin

Come here and let me whisper in your ear, the same way that I used to. Compared to all my deepest secrets, you were an abyss. A secret that seemed to never end, and to be honest, I didn’t want it to end. Because having you as a secret made you mine. And it was nice, knowing that nobody knew but me and you.

But then, it grew heavy, too heavy for just the both of us to carry. You said it was a burden, I thought it gave us wings. You grew distant and with that you took my heart as well. My heart, my mind, my sanity and my secret left me to be with you.

I’d sit alone, in the dark, my face in my hands, my hands on my knees, my knees to my chest, the tears refusing to flow. They kept their own secrets; they didn’t want me to know. They’ve been coming up with a plan. A plan to meet the corners of my lips, but they didn’t want me to feel them. They didn’t want to leave my eyes like you did. They didn’t want to fade off of my lips, never to be returned like you did.

It weight became unbearable, with every day I can feel you forgetting me. I can feel the secret leaving you, running away from your forgetful mind and joining mine. My tears gave up on their hidden plan; they crawled helplessly down my cheeks. Traitors. How could they leave me as well? Do they not miss the warmth of my eyes? Or have my eyes gone cold..?

Slowly, little by little I decided I couldn’t keep it any longer. Forgive me, but I had to share it. I gave a little bit of it to my friends, who held it close to their hearts and offered guidance and support. I gave a lot of it to curious strangers, never to be spoken to again, and even travelers, who took our secret to far off lands. It was happier being spread out, it made new homes in the hearts and minds of others. It taught them lessons, never to make the mistake that we did.

The very last part of my secret left my eyes through tears that fell onto my mother’s lap. As she held me close she squeezed every last drop of it that I had left.

It was as if the air that entered my lungs had been filtered when the secret left me. Sweet, sensational freedom of my subconscious mind.

Secret by Shahd AlShammari

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By Shahd Al Shammari

When we first met, you told me that I was the reason all the others had never lasted. You told me that I was that one, the one, the one we all claim to know is that one one. You just knew. You said you had waited for me. You watched me from afar, and waited until I had fallen out of love with the one before you.

“I don’t take remains of a heart. I don’t like to put people back together,” you said. You claimed it wasn’t your favorite part of things, that it was up to me to be ready for you.

I was up for the challenge. I would resurrect whatever was left of me, for you. I would become whole again.

And so it was that you trusted me. You labeled me as trustworthy, and I thought I had won the lottery.

And then there was that moment. You lifted your shirt. You showed me the canvas of scars that was your body.

“How could anyone do this to someone they love?” I gasped, touching your skin, afraid of breaking it, and even more anxious of not giving it the attention it demanded.

“It’s just what people do to each other.”

My faith in humanity was lost.

But nothing could have prepared me for the worst part. I found out that you had imagined this pain was self-inflicted, you claimed you were a victim of abuse, and you rejoiced in making me believe your stories. Your secret was, your favorite part of things, the thrill for you, was breaking people, burying them in lies –and watching them fight to come up for air.

Secret by Yas Bin Shaibah

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By Yas Bin-Shaibah

Strangers on a train.

He with his newspaper, wrinkled face with salt and pepper hair to match, and glasses sitting at the edge of that beer nose. Reading tragedies of yesterday. Perhaps another murder, or that car pile up blocking the A1. I think I see a ‘lost dog’ ad, poor fella, I wonder if it’s the dog digging through the trash last night.

Why’s he getting up? Oh, another stop. (Sigh)

I wonder where he’s going. To work? Or is he coming home from a night shift? Maybe he’s visiting his sickly wife in hospital. Might be the secret behind his unusually tired, worried eyes.

Young people! Finally, I was beginning to feel like the fetus on the train.

Dreadlock Blondie kinda reminds me of myself, hasn’t stopped organizing her stuff since the train left the station. Am I this annoying when my OCD kicks in, too? Hmm.

Her girlfriend is the Indian, female version of Justin Bieber. Or is it just the hair?

Ah, new couples. Shyly holding hands, smiling and blushing so hard when their eyes meet.

I wonder how they met, they seem like a highly unlikely couple.

Yet another stop.

No one went down, and only one cute little young woman came up.

Look at her with her little suit all dressed up, so polite asking me if she can have the window seat with a great, big smile.

I read the words “product relaunch” on her folder. Ah, one of us marketers!

It was a handout of a PowerPoint she’d be presenting when she got off the train. I figured that out when she hurried trough her Starbucks breakfast and started flipping through, silently practicing, but could see her lips move at the corner of my eye.

I looked at the paper and learned what product it was for. Woah, I though that was doing really well! My sister sure makes it seem so. Hmm, it is a different market in the UK though.

Yawn.

I wonder if she’s new, she looks really nervous, and around my age. I wish her well. Unless she’s the bitch around the office! In that case I wish her a broken coffee machine. And for the curse to stay with every coffee machine she gets. But, na, I don’t think the office bitch would be polite to a stranger on a train.

I wonder if someone here is thinking of me now as I am thinking of them.

Another world, a planet orbiting on its very own cycle.

Wondering where I come from.

Wondering where I’m heading.

Wondering why.

Wondering what kind of person I am.

Wondering if my outside fairly represents… ‘me’.

Wondering, “What are her secrets?”

Secret by Anonymous

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They met in secret and spoke in whispers, but when they fell in love it was quick and violent – a whirlwind romance, some people would say. Others describe it as a classic case of boy meets girl behind the Torres store, under the old avocado tree.

The avocado tree is the holder of all secrets, of all murmured promises and breathless exchanges between modest young girls, barely sixteen, and muscular but green suitors. Boys who know nothing but the muddy streets of San Pedro and the price of every beer have the nerve to stand tall and pledge eternal love to someone’s daughter. Some boys speak with excitement, bouncing on the balls of their feet, wanting desperately to communicate their passion with a kiss (at least a kiss). Some boys take deep breaths and run their hands along the dark, rough bark. They describe a decadent life with gadgets and meats and an endless supply of expensive wine. They can envision the cool dark bottles but they never think about respect or warmth or affection. What is affection? A mere word uttered by husbandless teachers expecting their class to read poetry.

Day after day, year in and year out, boys and girls meet under the avocado tree and spin plush dreams, so different from their dreary life in San Pedro.

The first time she set off to meet him, her feet felt like the heavy tires that she used to roll in when she was a little girl. Even the air smelled rubbery. Her eyes watered and she wanted to vomit. The afternoon sun didn’t want to bear witness to this secret rendezvous; it silently slid behind the clouds and hid away from the scandal. She ducked into the alley between the Torres food store and the sinister butcher’s shop. A powerful whiff of animal carcasses hit her face like a fist, then pushed its way down her throat and made her gag. The dirt under her foot was a deep brick red and she thought it was because the blood seeped from under the butcher’s door and soaked the side street.

The alley was narrow and as if that was not enough, the two small buildings started closing in on her. They were going to squash her, so she picked up her pace and pushed on. She had to see him. Years later, she would recall that fateful afternoon, remembering the toes of her scuffed black shoes against the crimson earth and the unbearable stench of death. Yet she could never remember why she wanted to see him, why she needed to see him. What made her put one foot in front of the other when she was supposed to be at home minding her siblings?

“You are always thinking,” Diana says sharply. She crams years of criticism and reproach in just a few words. “What are you thinking?” A little softer this time, as she folds ratty t-shirts next to her older sister.

“Nothing.”

“What?” Impatience creeps into Diana’s voice again. “Come on. The kids?”

“Yeah. No. The avocado tree and time… Back then, you know?” she just shrugs. How does she articulate her thoughts to her sister?

But she doesn’t have to look for words because Diana knows. They all lived fairytales under that tree, they were all promised silk dresses and gold but look at them now, washing threadbare garments at a common laundry room.

Secret by Osman Naeem

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By Osman Naeem

Secrets, out the deep dark blue

The voices outside my head seep through

As I unwillingly break a dozen promises

Unaware of the captives that it’s held over time

Feels like walking in air and swimming in ice

The cycle continues until a friend says goodbye

This is a typical approach to a whisper, or a candy coated lie

Listen closely because I need your attention

But I’ll be wise so I have no names left to mention

We all have them like a mercenary does

A bulletproof vest on to protect himself

From government officials, income tax and debts

It’s what brought a tear to the eyes of an adopted son

When his mother swore on Virgin Mary that she was secretly a nun

The truth behind a man being forced to steal a bun from the bakery

It’s what got Adam bullied for being gay,

After it spilled out from his best friend’s buccal cavity yesterday

The existence of MI7, Area 51, and democracy

The answer to why sometimes confessions aren’t holy

Oh, and from another point of view

A secret is a hole in the membrane that blurs truth

A scratch on the mask people put on to fit in since birth

Hiding mistakes, scars and unknown aliases

The shortcuts in life and hidden pathways

The keys that we pass on in hopes of leaving behind a legacy

You can’t deny the fact that we all disguise

Our dirty little secrets and the location of our treasures

The names of our high school crushes, and struggles through peer pressure

Buried beneath the second degree of desperate measures

Secret by Taiba AlOtaibi

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By Taiba Al Otaibi

“Come here, I have a secret to confess:

Grandfather used to tie Mother up to a tree
for hours in the blazing desert sun.
For she was too boisterous, you see
And Grandfather was not one for fun.

She rose up with such a dirt covered face
As hot tears polished away her inspiring plight;
Now a silken draped woman, so full of grace
With an efficacious core of iron might.

Although the worst that she has ever done to me
was pinch her face as she nagged in vain.
And yet there are times that I wish I had felt
the searing sting of Egyptian canes.”

Secret by Batool Hasan

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By Batool Hasan

You see, I’ve been standing on this bridge for quite a while now. The molded planks are rough with age, tiny wooden needles digging into my bare feet. The pain is sweet, momentarily at least, comforting my nerves. An endless black abyss stretches below me, surrounded by a dense dark forest. The smell of rot is rich in the air as my lungs burn, consuming it. The traffic of venomous voices shuffling around in my head collides with a tornado of my own grim thoughts, unbalancing me.

MAKE IT STOP.

Caught in a state of vertigo, I hear them inside my head and I hear them outside my head. I break through my frozen stance and lunge forward, falling hard on the set of wooden planks ahead. Blood and sweat paint a thin layer on my body as I fight back the tears, it’s too early for tears. The bridge skids to the side as I stretch my arms forward to grip the plank in front of me. Gasping for air through the murky fog manifesting around me-

The frail threads linking the planks of wood cushioning my legs snap and I fall backwards, my hands catching on the edge of the ropes.

GET OUT. JUST GET OUT.

I feel their shallow touches on my mind. I hear them yearning for absolution, a better ending, a cheat.

Blood trickles from my battered palms and—

I slip. I fall.

No longer resisting gravity, no longer ignoring the pull.

I pray to God but I can’t distinguish my prayers from their cries.

MAKE IT STOP.

I’m ready to be shattered, ready to be thrashed into a peaceful state of limbo.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

The fog is blinding so I close my eyes, unable to tell how much longer I’ll have to wait. My heart drops as I open my eyes again.

My feet are firmly placed on the bridge once again.

Three-two-one

Here comes the mania

The pressure on my skull increases and I clamp my hands over my ears.

FORGIVE ME.

My heart twists and turns inside my chest, nothing but a stiff lump of mixed emotions. All I ever wanted was to see two vertical gashes adorning both my forearms. They were never deep enough because no amount of self-inflicted pain could counteract the agony I keep reliving inside my head.

Why? Just why?

It’s like a switch. I turn it off. They turn it back on.

I’m exhausted from harboring this secret, this untold truth. Maybe I lost my sense of reality while roaming the roads depression led me on.

No, maybe I’m simply delirious.

How can I be lost when I’m home?

Soft dust swirls around me in a haze of bewilderment, almost tickling me. My body isn’t proud of me. They turned my forearms into a beautiful canvas of crimson red streaks. Scars peek shyly between the red lines on my arms, slightly curving into crescent moons like shallow smiles.

Smiles or frowns?

I’M BEGGING YOU.

”How’d you get these scars?” They’d ask.

“Oh, it was the cat!” I’d answer. Silly cat making perfect parallel lines on my wrists.

I claw at my heart, hoping to stop their pain from poisoning my veins. These voices, they’re not demons, they’re variations of me. Their words bleed accusations drawing depthless rivers interlocking with each other across my thighs.

I often think about heaven and hell. What if hell is as cold as the inner depths of their souls? What if it’s as lonely as the lost look in my eyes?

What if it’s as sad as…

I laugh at myself, never mind, I’ll find out soon enough.

Secrets have a way of intoxicating your mind until you’re nothing but a mess of pure cynical skin. I’ve given myself so many names to satisfy all the changes, all the variations, but they’ve all lost their meaning to me.

I feel everything and they feel nothing. This hunger feeds from a place between their greed and my useless pride, hunger for…

Nothing,

Blankness,

I feel nothing towards them.

I can’t take it anymore.

ON YOUR KNEES.

CRAWL.

BEG.

—————————————————————————————–

Beep Beep Beep

I force my eyes open, blinking away the blurriness of my vision. I move to the side while furiously slapping my phone with my left hand to turn off the alarm. I lie on my back for a few minutes, mesmerized by the tiny cracks in the dirty ceiling. Reluctantly, I pull the warm sheets away, cringing at the sight of dry blood and swollen cuts on my wrists.

I’m just the girl with voices in her head.

Secret by Amira Sheikh

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By Amira Sheikh

Her mother’s lost smile was back which she longed for
Her brother’s grades now wouldn’t be low,
She bought this happiness which now knocked on their door.
But the price she paid for it, they would never know.

Six months ago when her dad took his last breath
Their rents and bills were due, they cried for bread.
While wiping her mum’s tears, she saw in her shelf,
A pair of her bright red heels, and asked to herself:

‘If it’s money in which my mum’s tears can be soaked,
Being a woman, I surely know the easiest way to earn it.’
Starvation and cries were by what she was provoked,
She thought her dignity was worth it.

Dressed up, makeup on, she would leave at night,
A daughter for whom the dark was a fright.
Her mum thought she got a job at the call centre,
For which daily wages were paid by the mentor.

Self-esteem, character, a lot she lost, to her own self she was a disgrace,
The price she paid for her mum’s smile was her cloaked secret.
Now she looks at the mirror, degraded and can’t face,
The exploited reflection of a mere harlot.

Secret by Noragotcharisma

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By Noragotcharisma

You take a step forward. You put one foot in front of the other. You carry on with your life. One day the world is full of color, the next the shape-shifting realm that is reality seems grey and boring.

You live moments of joy, moments of hope, moments of utter euphoria. You experience difficulties, forced to make slight detours, you pick up the broken pieces of yourself, not knowing how you’ll do it, but you just do. You heal yourself, you grow strong, you put one foot in front of the other. The beauty of life is its inconsistency.

The one thing you do know is karma, but what we receive is what we yield. That’s a pretty simple law to abide by to guarantee things’ll go better for another tomorrow. But there are unknown destinations, bigger things you’re unaware of, greater secrets swallowed into the core of the universe.

This feeling of the unknown is so graciously forgotten as we go on with our lives. You grow selfish enough to think that what you get is what you make, but it’s a parade of partners that you don’t see, helping you unravel what is to come.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and life’s biggest secret is your destiny.

Secret by Fatma AlSumaiti

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By Fatma Al Sumaiti

They both buried their words and hid behind glances. They couldn’t speak their hearts, so they walked. They walked until they couldn’t anymore.

They stood on a cliff, both staring at dangling thoughts. Thoughts yearning to be vocalized, but to no avail.

“Tell me a secret,” he silently asked.

“I am slipping through the cracks. I wish you would’ve told me. I wish you would tell me now,” she bellowed.

He remained as silent as a book. Soundless, but oh so full of noise. She could always sense silhouettes of his thoughts. So close, yet so out of reach. If only he would share his secrets, she thought.

“This,” she gestured to her surroundings, “would be as clear as day if you would just say it,” she shouted with vehemence only a scarred soul would muster.

“But is that really what you want?” he questioned with the calmest tone. Slowly, he retraced his steps and went back into his dark chambers.

She goes to sleep that night with her subconscious still a mysterious stranger.

Secret by Wil

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By Wil.

Archeology can change your life. Archeology can lead to personal growth. It doesn’t even have to be impressive archeology. For those particularly prone to life-changing events like me, it can be something quite minor. Like an article about excavating a 150 year old house in a small city called Adelaide at the bottom of Australia. No, it wasn’t the house of my ancestors, I wasn’t involved in the dig – heck, all they were looking for were sets of dinner plates. So what could be so inspirational about that? How could one get excited about archeology of the mundane, about a not very ancient house in the suburbs of a backward, quiet sprawlopolis, a report on a search for crockery?

‘The Ideology of Domesticity and the Working-Class Women and Children of Port Adelaide, 1840-1890’ by Lampard talks about people striving for status and respectability in the 19th Century. I discovered the article four years ago and it has stayed in the back of my mind ever since. This is despite my not really knowing why. It’s like my mind put a bookmark in my life at that point and has patiently waited for the rest of me to catch up with its significance, and go back for a closer look. Now, in 2013, I finally have.

The article is about literally digging through deposits of possessions at a few households in a dockside working class suburb. It mentions proper archeological activities like counting how many buttons and other items related to sewing exist in the deposit. They also looked for matching sets of teacups and dinner plates in these deposits of 150 year old items at each house. They inferred a family was of higher status when they found matching sets.

Deposit is quite a lovely word to use because it comprehensively depersonalises the set of possessions of a household found at a site. It makes one think of one’s own entire set of possessions within one’s house – how would a stranger, god forbid an inquisitive archeologist keen on making historical and cross cultural comparisons, summarise my life based on what items they found in my living room and kitchen?

The idea of such an examination set off a chain of reflections for me. I acknowledged something I have known, but simultaneously tried to keep secret from myself and especially others. I am desperately seeking status. I have always been vaguely, and sometimes quite plainly, aware that I am of low status. At school as a kid, it was obvious I was not from a rich family. Growing up, there was always this annoying aunty who gave my sister and I hand-me-down clothes from her own children. These were often better than the clothes my parents bought us. As a kid, I was also quite aware of the distinct groups of people based on status. The kids from richer families hung out together. They were cooler too as they had more possessions, and the possessions were more exciting. For example they had mobile phones in high school. This was back in the late nineties, early 2000s when having a mobile was more expensive.

Observing all of these consequences of status had a big impact on me as a child. It made me quite competitive. I realise now that I became from a very young age fundamentally motivated to change my status. To improve it. To essentially be one of those rich kids. I also realise that this motivation remains with me as an adult. So what are some examples of ways I have demonstrated my obsession with status, beyond childhood?

Take my decision to study psychology. I made this decision when I was 18, probably the biggest decision I first made as an adult. I was attracted to it for two reasons, it was a high paying profession and it required a high Grade 12 score to get into. These two elements of eliteness attracted me enough to enroll. What really makes this an obvious status based decision though is that I am completely incapable of reading minds and of socialising well. I had no good reason therefore to study psychology based on my talents or interests. Psychology is also highly theoretical, there is no getting your hands dirty working on a project outdoors for example. Instead, there is lots of research methods critique and analysis of thought and sometimes emotions. If I had been honest with myself I would have avoided the degree like the plague, knowing it would make me unhappy.

But I didn’t. And I soldiered through a four year degree hating it, but not allowing myself to act on this feeling – further proving my unsuitableness for psychology come to think of it! All because I thought my status would increase. And it would have, if I had liked it enough to invest fully in it, do well enough to get into Master’s, then start a career. But because I kept secret from myself my unsuitableness for the field I never could invest in it, never could feel passionate about it, and ironically never increased my status because of it. I got a horrific job afterward doing disability support pension assessments, did that for 10 months, then quit the career altogether after getting burnt out. Yes, my brief psychology career caused mental health problems.

Are there any other examples of this secret motivation? Yes! I am here. I am an expat, paid well, though living as a foreigner. I knew no one before I came and I can’t speak the language. I left behind someone I loved, whom I was beginning to think about from a long-term perspective. These are large sacrifices for anyone to make.

I left all that behind to work for a leading global engineering firm on a massive, pioneering environmental rehabilitation project. Yep, definitely sounding like this relates to status again. For sure. Funnily enough, the father of the family that I had status issues with as a kid because we got hand-me-down clothes from them also worked in Kuwait once. I feel like I am here showing I can do what he did.

And maybe that makes me feel like I’ve made it. And maybe that makes me feel like I can finally acknowledge this secret motivation. It’s served its purpose of increasing status. Since it’s made my life hell, my subconscious mind has kindly released it to my consciousness, allowed me the chance to seek freedom. Freedom from collecting matching dinner plates for archeologists to write about in the year 2163, for example.

Again I say I am grateful for this writing club. I am grateful, too, to Lampard for changing a life through digging up old cups and plates. I am grateful for the chance to work it all out, and realise it’s all going to be ok. Also, now I’m a rich person, I can finally see what I’ve been missing out on. You know what that is? It is the annoying feeling that there are yet more rich people of even higher status above me. I’m done with this. I just want contentment now, efficiently.