Self Harm and Secrets


Self Harm in the ShadowsSelf Harm in the Shadows by brain-slug.
Self Harm in the Shadows by brain-slug.


By Claudie Muchindu


Palms hide no secrets
Wrists do nothing,
But tell

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade
He hides under my pillow
Waiting for my call

His caresses grace my palms
Hot, wet and painless.
I don’t allow him near my wrists
And he allows me to open my soul

My life isn’t diminished
I do not desire The Afterlife
It isn’t worth racing to

My affair isn’t hidden
It’s in places
No one bothers to look.

Its not enough to just matter,
You need to have meaning too.

You see…

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade

Palms hide no secrets
And wrists?
They do nothing
But tell



This is not to glorify self harm or belittle anyone’s intentions.

Not everyone shares the same reasons for inflicting pain on themselves.

This piece does reflect an episode I went through a long time ago and if life is simply a journey, this patch was a ride on a gravel road with the widows rolled down and blaring heat both outside and inside the car. Sometimes we’re so focused on the misery of our entrapment we fail to see the oasis hiding behind a rock we’ve just ridden past.

Nikaah – Underneath the Veil

The Veil by AP1708
The Veil by AP1708



by Claudie Muchindu

I haven’t stopped loving you. That isn’t even possible. You are, will always be the one… No, not the one: My one. The undeniable and absolute key to myself.

As we lie here in this cold and frigid room with just each other to keep ourselves warm. We both know it is over. Endless? It will never be. Our hearts burn strong and true but they cannot beat side by side. This isn’t a sad farewell, merely a necessary parting of two lovers that shared their souls but shall not be able to share them anymore.

You hold me closer, why? You know I will have to go. There is no pain now. There shouldn’t, this is what must be and I will not have you mar this for me. I turn to face you. Face to face, heart to heart. Bare.

My secrets you hold and I trust you to never share. I am not sad, I am not happy. This is what must be. I reach for you. I shouldn’t. Must not. I can’t linger here. We will not share these silent moments anymore. Yours, I am and always will be, yet with you I am destined not to be.

A tear is shed, it carries no sadness. Longing fills the room with words we know we cannot say. I can never call your name, you shall never sigh mine. From hereon you shall be a memory and I shall carry you within.

You part your lips. I cannot allow you to speak, I have to leave and if you ask me
to stay I shall. My eyes tell you what only your ears can hear. No more whispers, your tongue shall never map a course over my body. We cannot feel the cold anymore, there is nothing but us, for one last time.

I give you my hand, the hand that will soon belong to another. You take it, the way you took my heart. Softly and gently but firmly yet.

My chador lays strewn across the floor, a sign of my disheveled heart. I cannot allow you to embrace me again, but your arms call to me. I can only answer.

One last dance I shall give, one last song will I sing, one last duet shall we play. Yours
mingles with mine and neither knows where the other begins nor ends. Within and
without: I am yours, undeniably and absolutely. Sweat upon sweat, sigh upon
sigh. One last chorus shall we play, I am your instrument and you, my

I cannot lay beside you. My heart can take no more. With heavy breaths but a light heart. I depart. My hijab covers the crown you ran your fingers though, my chador tells no one of how you conquered my body and staked it as your own.

My nikaah is tomorrow. I shall leave
you here, in our den of madness and not return. Tomorrow I belong to another,
chosen for me but you shall always know that I chose you.



I originally wrote this story in 2007 . We usually believe our own set of values and choices are best  and this belief clouds us to the opportunities other choice sets provide.

Simply because someone else’s choices do not reflect our own does not mean theirs are any “less” than ours.

I wrote this story to show that Islam isn’t an ugly religion, and you can be devout in your faith but still make mistakes but you can choose within those parameters to fight or to accept certain situations. This is about how a marriage isn’t forced on a girl but arranged and she accepts it.

Oh, I am Catholic but I have sporadic attendance (at best). But faith fascinates me.

Over and Out.

P.S. Certain phrases that most might not know:

Chador – traditional outergarment for Islamic women
Hijab – traditional head scarf worm by Muslim women
Nikaah – traditional Muslim wedding ceremony

Memory Lane isn’t Yellow Brick

{Memory Lane isn’t Yellow Brick by Claudie Muchindu}


I recently had a conversation with my mum over love of stories in general (I told her I was reading A Song of Ice and Fire and she refused to see the enjoyment in reading “the same story” that spans seven books).  I asked when I started to read, she said “early”. When I was five, apparently I was happiest with a book on my lap figuring out the world that lay in front of me tucked within crisp pages, she said we’d share books together sometimes. I have no recollection of this though. I don’t have many childhood memories and not because of any trauma (unless I have forgotten that too), I just don’t remember any strong emotions and that’s what makes a story live. For me anyway.

Some memories I do have though are of lying. In fact I may have led myself to believe I was some kind of demon child because my lying knew no bounds and people seemed to believe me, no matter how grand said lies were. For example: I have some scars on my back from a wonky infection (that story shall be told on another day), and when one girl at a new school asked me about it (we must have been in grade four or five), I told her it was where kidnappers had hidden emeralds in my back when they held me hostage. Her eyes bulged as I narrated this horror story to her and I have no idea if she believed me or not but we became fast friends, until as most girls do, we grew apart and in different directions. The point is I knew very early on that I could weave a tale that caught other people. I knew that telling stories was what I wanted to do with my life when I discovered that other people had “real” stories that I could re-tell and adapt, I was in heaven. While other girls played with dolls I perched in trees and dreamed of far off lands with warrior princesses and talking animals.

Unfortunately real life got in the way and being a writer just wasn’t practical in my environment so I shelved my ambitions and pursued an economics degree because “you can do anything with it” and eventually got a “proper” job that helped finance the last stages of my degree. I was decent enough to get a few promotions but while my head was entirely dedicated, my heart just wasn’t, still isnt. I had dabbled with the idea of teaching, but wasn’t sure I had enough patience to be a good one and I needed to be good at whatever I was doing. Its not enough to just “do”, you know? Then I thought maybe a psychologist because you can “what if” the hell out of other people issues but dropped that because I didn’t think I’d be able to separate their problems from my own. Studying languages also wasn’t feasible because there was no “career path” and I was “talented” in math so it was considered a “waste” to pursue words, especially when you couldn’t find a job in them. I still dreamed of seeing my name on covers and I have spent an obscene amount of money on new books so I can smell the new pages as I dive into new worlds.

This brings us to what this blog is all about. This is my little patch to showcase my work. I dabble in poetry, short stories and various opinions I may have. I am not genre specific, I am after stories that have some kind of journey and evoke some kind of emotion. My attempt at a novel sits obstinately in a corner and snarls and pouts in alternative measures when I approach. Not entirely certain when I shall tame that beast but in the meantime I am simply seeking the joy in stories, mine and those I find trawling the web.

Over and Out!

It’s Alive!

Hello World!

My name is mwiings and I claim this patch of the interwebs as my own.

As dramatic as that sounds (in my head), I thought I would hear epic angelic music and harpstrings but all I hear is the thrum of my fingernails hitting the desk as I wonder “WHAT HAVE I DONE?”.

So world, I am here and I look forward to a long, “wordy” future.

Over and Out!