Muntaqa Zaman

Muntaqa Zaman

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Moon is a fourth year studying Anthropology. She is passionate about culture, identity, and intersectional studies. When she’s not crunching out research papers, you can find her dozing on the Lawn or listening to music and writing poetry at the Pav. She enjoys reading books, traveling, and eating good food with friends. 

a person with their head on folded arms

Here is what I did when I first got here: I meticulously cleaned my apartment.

circles arranged like a tray of food in orange tones

the aftermath of living—
have we ever thought about it?

white graduation caps against blue background

“How does it feel?” Everyone asks me. I clutch the crinkled plastic bag with my cap and gown and tassel in it.

seven men standing in a row with orange clothes on

Since their debut in 2013, the worldwide sensation and phenomenal K-pop boy group BTS has made a steady, but certainly not easy, climb to success.

an image of a foot with a blue anklet on it against a blue background

i’m tired of love. of being told that love is going to fix the irrevocable loneliness of existence. because we’re not in love, are we?

An imagine of people at a table resembling the last supper scene

When I was in my junior year of high school, I wrote a piece for my end-of-the-year project in AP Language and Composition titled “Recipe.”

a broken plate on a checkered floor

remember when you were too small to trick or treat
handing out candy corn by the door in defeat
you were pretty brave, mostly alright
except when a zombie jumped into the light
they found it funny to make a kid cry
turning happy halloweens into a lie

silhouettes of people in green and purple against black background

Mannequins are made of wood, and humans of flesh, but what about souls? What cloth do we dress them in?

phone screen with little smiley faces

Burnham gets our generational conundrum—do we curb our empathy because we fear it being turned into a mocking form of entertainment?

hand extended with red rose in palm and blood dripping from grip

The longer I looked at my instagram, it became less of a museum, and more of a mausoleum. A distraught young girl haunting the hallways.

side profile of a woman on a yellow background with colorful lines above her head

sometimes I read my old writing and I think, god, she really let the cringe jump out there, and other times I think with definitive certainty, I will never be able to write words so beautiful ever again. words will never leave me like that again. 

it’s been so long since I’ve written.