Miss Karachi

مس کراچی

I grew up on salt air so I love you slowly. On heat against chiffon. I’m looking for a place to incubate the beads from broken bracelets across my life. Errant petals from silver jasmine strung out on metal wires. Falling down onto the balcony floor. The atmosphere is heavy with dust that sticks to my makeup and smells like a grave. And all of these tears, melted into cotton pillowcases, washed floral and pinstriped. And all of these years I’ll spend wanting you. Broken circuits in my brain. Sparkling like tv static. Sparkling like the open sea. Which isn’t even the body that separates us. And I’m online shopping. From Japan. Pastel lipgloss charms. For my purse. I like it when things match. The way I thought we did.

But I’m Miss Karachi. The one and only, DHA princess. This acrylic heat runs through my veins. Hardens behind my eyes. I rim it with کاجل. Dark black. Super black. No, you don’t understand. I need it to be super black. I need it not to move. It’s hot and it’ll slip. And you’re gone. So I go get my hair blown out. Volume on the sides, not at the crown, undone curls from halfway down. I’m checking my phone. I’m waiting for you. I’m cutting up fruit and waiting for you. Little blossoms of blood. Falling onto the balcony floor. Like confetti. That’s how I know I won. I’m Miss Karachi. The one and only, Park Tower princess. And I have everything to give you, but the life I haven’t lived.