The Thief

May 29, 2024

the thief comes to me 

in the quiet of the dawn, 

before the noise breaks, 

and i am alone in my bed. 

she snatches from me

soft sleep and sweet dreams 

and leaves my dry palms 


and my black silk head 

tangled in its own threads. 


the thief comes to me 

in the kitchen downstairs,

where her pawns play against me. 

i was never good at chess;

i’m too scared of losing. 

nor was i strategic in my defense.

I cut my innards out for argument’s sake, 

a begging to be believed. 


the thief comes to me

in the arms of security,

indiscriminate in her contentions. 

she reminds me of the inescapable fate:

admiration becomes authority,

lost in translation 

somewhere in the midst of 

my hero-worship. 

but i don’t mind bruising my knees 

for a head pat. 


the thief comes to me 

when i’m being filled with love,

and after a few minutes, 

she turns the love into a sword.

it rips out my insides,

but how can i say no?

she asks me, 

have you forgotten being ravaged?


the thief comes to me, 

but how can she be blamed 

for what she has been taught

by the hands that feed her?


Safa Ali is an aspiring writer who combines academic rigor with a creative flare. Her distinctive voice in literature, nurtured by a profound love for poetry and art, resonates with readers seeking originality and depth.




Featured image by Zoe Sn.