Mother’s Food by Marwa Bhuiyan (New York, 16)

Her countenance is one of vigilance as she adorns the table with her grace; I, meanwhile, endeavor to place my heart into her keeping. 
At the outset of our arrangement, I had endeavored to imbue her palms with the tangible imprint of my fictitious grace, yet she persisted in fortifying her resolve; the atmosphere remained chill and her words, measured.
It was then that I discerned the import of her wily gestures and reconsidered my stance - but the motionless quality of her movements, culminating in the edge of that very table, spoke volumes of her reluctance to finalize the abandonment of her proclaimed authority in my own reality. 
Ah, how I needed it!
Nuanced disarmament lingers in her adoration - her tongue trembles quietly, cautious in what she provides to our arrangement. With my sly command to carry on a sensation of my own autonomy in our conversation, Mother devours the strange poundage I spilled on her coat, claiming it as her own.

Her cold fingertips are clutching the emancipation of her own autonomy that shrieks at my sight. She is nervous.
We are sitting and devouring each other at the parallel sight  - the server was plain and docketed, as was the noise, the room, and everything else.
This was entirely her - she tarnished all else, devastating the furnished configuration I had devoted the entirety of my mouth and hands to the arrangement of this evening. 
I censured her for the felicity of her deportment in my company, yet by such means, I did chastise myself for permitting her to draw near. 
I found myself writhing in anguish as I attend to her discourse that neither acknowledges nor esteems my ardor. The chill, unreciprocated love that burdens me is akin to a thread consumed by the merciless rays of her light.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that we both take pleasure in the forsaken faith that I have nurtured in our engagement. I make every endeavor to inspire a transformation of her soul - so that I may regain my lost autonomy and recapture what she has taken from me, once and for all. The professed motives for our pleasantries and amusement - she refuted. In the domains of her insincere refinement, she assumeed the guise of an authoritative figure, even as she betrayed her own morality.
Her laughter was shrouded in obscurity, brimming with impenetrable decay - the avoidance of this resonance had an impact on the tenor of her speech; Mother was cognizant of this. She took pride in it.
I discerned the odor of uncooked flesh that resided in her shoulders, impeding both of us from advancing in our lives. The stitched fibers in her frame had begun to affect my own posture. Every action she undertook had a ripple effect on my own being, impeding my progress. The rejection of her influence allowed the deteriorating ceiling to collapse - her disregard for the new strand of improvement to be incorporated into her own character only added to the regression of our shared gaze.
She persisted in declining the orchestrated union of our evening, despite my efforts to imbue significance into every scene she presented - and yet, she persisted in blemishing the raw essence of my love with sneers and derision.
But still, the occasional glint in her eyes managed to reach the depths of my core, and as she indulged in her meal, I let out a burst of unrestrained cry.
The gift of her fleeting moments - my misplaced affection held fast.
Let me savor the taste of your saliva; let me consume every trace of your presence. Let me consume you whole.
As I searched for any remnants of her sustenance, all that remained were the echoes of her footsteps and the empty hum of her surroundings.
Despite the hour, dinner was a dismal affair. The sharp edge of her domineering presence had tainted even the very essence of our meal - with every morsel, I tasted more and more of her. "Go ahead, consume it all," she urged me. "Why not relish in these remnants? What of the scraps that bear the imprint of my devotion to you?"
With each bite she took, she let out a pained cry, imploring me to eat.
I have indulged myself to excess, succumbing to the last meager scraps she has deigned to offer me. I take and take, and she lets me - weeping at the sight of my insatiable greed.
I seize hold of the entirety of our table, immersing myself in the very fabric of the evening and holding fast to it.
I have transformed into a desperate lover of deprivation, willingly sacrificing sustenance for a mere shred of her sympathy. I sit beneath the crushing weight of the room, tormented by her pervasive indifference.
She remains still, her gaze lovingly fixed upon her creation.
I revel in the bounty spread out upon the table, relishing every pleasure this space has to offer. But my hunger has corrupted me, and my mouth and hands have grown ravenous.
It is not what I have seized, but rather what she has deigned to offer me.
For my sake, she has pilfered what was not hers to take. The enigma of her being has elevated the very essence of my existence. With her masterful selection of supper, she has opened up a world of endless possibilities.
I have seen her bleed, and the delicate nature of the room has been barred before me.
The act of speaking and taking is no longer permissible. But now, I am awash in a crimson tide of ecstasy. For I have been granted not only the leftovers of the room but also her very self. This night has marked the boundaries of our shared prosperity, where we have been allowed to revel in the unbridled hunger of our souls.




​Marwa Bhuiyan, born on November 8th, 2006, in Brooklyn, NY, is a dynamic young poet, playwright, and activist. Being a first-generation student and a woman of color (WOC), she is committed to amplifying the voices of people from all economic and social backgrounds through her writing. Currently, she serves as the executive director of three organizations: Brooklyn Plays Scream, The Timely Education Review, and Nirbhoy Nari. Through these platforms, she effectively merges her passion for the arts with her dedication to political activism. Marwa's fascination with language and storytelling began at a tender age, where she felt drawn to the power of words and the sense of reverence they evoke, even in the rawest narratives. The allure of various art forms and their hedonistic essence continually fuels her passion, motivating her to excel in her pursuits. Beyond her artistic endeavors, Marwa also devotes time to her studies and directs a tutoring center at her local masjid. Through her multifaceted endeavors, Marwa strives to make a positive impact on society and create a more inclusive and passionate world.