THE CAR

When I was pregnant,

I craved something strange —

not food, not smells...

I just wanted to sit in a car.

People laughed.

But I knew why.

Houses stay.

They’re stuck.

Close to the ground.

Heavy.

But cars?

Cars are freedom.

Cars are “maybe.”

Cars are “what if we leave right now?”

They don’t hold you down —

they wait.

Ready.

Every time I sat in one,

I felt closer.

Not just to movement,

but to a place I missed,

a place I wasn’t in,

but always carried with me.

It was silly maybe —

me, with a big belly,

just sitting there,

in park.

But in my head,

the wheels were already turning.

Now here I am.

Baby in my arms.

Wheels really did roll.

We made it.

And I’ve learned —

sometimes the smallest things,

like just sitting in a car,

can be the first step

toward everything you hoped for

THE SILENT WARRIOR

In a house where walls have memorized screams,

where anger echoes like the ticking of a clock,

you stood, mother —

not with clenched fists,

but with a heart that refused to shatter.

He —

quick to anger,

sharp with threats,

cloaked in false piety,

stingy with hands, generous with curses.

But you?

Your silence wasn't weakness,

your bowed head wasn't defeated.

That was patience —

the kind only the strongest souls are chosen to carry.

Year after year, you swallowed fire,

never once breathing it back into the world.

The children stayed full,

even as your soul starved for understanding.

You folded your pain into your prayers,

your hopes stitched into every whisper to the skies.

There was no revenge in your voice,

only a quiet wish for gentler tomorrows.

Mother,

you are not just a woman —

you are a shield,

a light,

a heaven built from the ruins of heartbreak.

And today,

I need you to know —

your patience was love in its purest,

loudest

 form…

even when no one else heard it.

SEPUCUK SURAT TAK TERKIRIM DARI IBU

Aakku yang ibu sayang,

Setiap kali kau tidur, ibu duduk diam-diam di sisi.

Pandangan ibu jatuh pada wajah kecilmu—

Damai, tenang… macam dunia ni tak pernah menyakitkan.

Tapi ibu tahu, satu hari nanti, kau akan tahu rasanya kecewa,

jatuh, dan mungkin... rasa nak menyerah.

Ibu tak selalu pandai berkata.

Kadang marah ibu kasar, kadang suara ibu tinggi.

Tapi bukan sebab ibu tak sayang.

Ibu cuma takut.

Takut kau terluka,

takut dunia buat kau lupa cara balik ke pelukan ibu.

Ibu simpan banyak cerita,

tentang malam-malam ibu tak tidur,

tentang doa-doa yang ibu bisik sambil mata bengkak—

minta Tuhan jaga kau bila ibu tak mampu.

Ibu mungkin takkan ada selamanya.

Tapi kasih ibu,

doa ibu,

rindu ibu—

akan selamanya berbisik di setiap hela nafas kau.

Walau tanpa suara,

kasih ibu tak pernah berhenti.

Jaga diri ya, sayang.

Dan kalau satu hari nanti kau rindu,

pejam mata... ibu ada dalam setiap degupan hati kau.

Dengan cinta yang tak terluah,

Ibumu.

HER SILENCE WAS LOUD

She never asked for thanks—

just watched from the shadows,

tucking her pain beneath prayers,

turning hunger into meals,

and fear into lullabies.

While the world moves fast,

she stayed still—

a quiet constant

in a life that never stopped needing her.

We outgrew her lap,

but never her love.

And one day, we'll realize—

She was never just a mother.

She was the reason we survived.

A SILENCE BETWEEN THE VERSES

There was a time

when my heart beat

to the rhythm of Your words —

soft, steady, sacred.

Now, I scroll through noise,

but the quiet in my chest

is louder than ever.

The Quran used to speak to me.

Each verse — a lifeline,

each page — a place I could breathe.

But I…

I let go.

Not all at once —

just a day… then another…

until the silence stretched into years.

I laugh in crowds,

but cry when I’m alone,

because I know

this loneliness isn’t just about people —

it’s about distance from You.

My soul?

It remembers.

It misses the peace

only found in Your words —

the kind no song, no post, no voice can replace.

Ya Allah,

can a heart like mine

still return?

Stumbling, breaking, full of shame —

but still reaching for You?

If You open the door,

I promise I’ll walk through —

even if my steps are slow,

even if my voice shakes

as I whisper

the words I once knew by heart.

THANKS FOR OMISSION

 You planned,

You named,

You counted —

and somehow forgot me.

Cute.

Was it an accident?

Or just the usual pattern

of choosing comfort over conscience?

Either way,

I’ll stay quiet,

Watchful,

and wonderfully untouched

by your selective kindness.

Because being left out

taught me who’s truly in.