Resin
fragment · March 2026
Resin.
People use it for keeping.
I think it's just a prettier way of losing, if you ask me.
So, here's to the resin I carry:
its layers thick with color,
the pink of laughter,
the dull silver of forgotten keys.
People use it for keeping.
I think it's just a prettier way of losing, if you ask me.
So, here's to the resin I carry:
its layers thick with color,
the pink of laughter,
the dull silver of forgotten keys.
— what settles —
Its structure is made of the eyes my mind recreates without asking,
the echoes of voices that linger unasked,
the way hands used to brush mine without noticing,
clearer than most things I try to hold on purpose.
And the hues in my resin are made of the forgotten ones:
the hum of a song someone started and forgot,
a page dog-eared in a book I never returned,
the quiet weight of an arm across my shoulders,
never acknowledged.
the echoes of voices that linger unasked,
the way hands used to brush mine without noticing,
clearer than most things I try to hold on purpose.
And the hues in my resin are made of the forgotten ones:
the hum of a song someone started and forgot,
a page dog-eared in a book I never returned,
the quiet weight of an arm across my shoulders,
never acknowledged.
— borrowed things —
I think
the kindness in me is not entirely mine.
I think it is made of borrowed things:
the purple of my best friend's bag still bright somewhere behind my ribs,
the dull shine of my roommate's gold chain
catching light in places I didn't know I had,
the careful way my sister lands her T's
as if every word deserves to arrive fully,
and perhaps, the smaller things:
the way someone said my name in first go,
and let it stay there a second too long,
the quiet slide of a glass of water from my dad toward me
before I knew I needed it,
the kind of laughter
that doesn't end when the joke does.
the kindness in me is not entirely mine.
I think it is made of borrowed things:
the purple of my best friend's bag still bright somewhere behind my ribs,
the dull shine of my roommate's gold chain
catching light in places I didn't know I had,
the careful way my sister lands her T's
as if every word deserves to arrive fully,
and perhaps, the smaller things:
the way someone said my name in first go,
and let it stay there a second too long,
the quiet slide of a glass of water from my dad toward me
before I knew I needed it,
the kind of laughter
that doesn't end when the joke does.
— what I didn't notice —
I didn't notice
when any of this stayed,
but it did.
It settled in my voice, in my resin.
But I don't think it's only them.
I think
I left parts of myself there too,
careless ones, unmeasured,
a version of me mid-laughter,
mouth still open,
like a moth caught in resin,
wings spread
as if it could still choose
where to go,
but the air is gone
and it doesn't know it yet.
when any of this stayed,
but it did.
It settled in my voice, in my resin.
But I don't think it's only them.
I think
I left parts of myself there too,
careless ones, unmeasured,
a version of me mid-laughter,
mouth still open,
like a moth caught in resin,
wings spread
as if it could still choose
where to go,
but the air is gone
and it doesn't know it yet.
— the keeping —
People call this beautiful,
the way things are kept unchanged,
but nothing in resin is alive.
It only looks like it.
And I think
that's what I did.
I kept the parts of me I liked the most,
exactly as they were
until I couldn't reach them anymore.
Now, when I try to find her,
she's still there,
mouth open just about to laugh,
wings open mid-motion,
not moving,
not leaving,
not becoming anything else.
And I am here,
watching
through something clear and hardened
that people cherish so much.
the way things are kept unchanged,
but nothing in resin is alive.
It only looks like it.
And I think
that's what I did.
I kept the parts of me I liked the most,
exactly as they were
until I couldn't reach them anymore.
Now, when I try to find her,
she's still there,
mouth open just about to laugh,
wings open mid-motion,
not moving,
not leaving,
not becoming anything else.
And I am here,
watching
through something clear and hardened
that people cherish so much.
Resin.
So, is it keeping,
or just a prettier way of losing?
So, is it keeping,
or just a prettier way of losing?
☕
marginalia
“We preserve what we are afraid to lose. But preservation is not the same as living.”
For the parts of ourselves we trapped in amber, thinking we were saving them. For the borrowed colors that became our own. For the moth that doesn't know it can't fly anymore.
written on my first Eid away from family & friends. some things settle in us without permission. others, we put in resin ourselves. learning to tell the difference.
Eman, peer-reviewed