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sa'hibi in five parts.i. there are a thousand truths i never told:
i am incapable of happiness,
in the tenth grade i had an eating disorder,
and six years ago i fell in love all wrong.
i got over it,
i've done better since.)
i imagine branding
a thousand tiny secrets on
a thousand paper sailboats
and setting myself free.
i am ready.
ii. you came in faster
than i could keep control of.
you midnight whispered
in three languages
and there was that one time you
laid on a dirty, empty dc street
just to kiss me.
i remember you
for when i turned away in my sleep
and you kissed the back of my neck.
i remember you
the way your scruff tickled
the parts of me i hid away,
and all of the times
but loved me anyway.
i could have watched you play piano forever.
iii. you left just as fast,
before i ever had a chance to pull you back.
i suppose it had to be this way.
i realized today that
the only thing i have of yours
is your virginity.
iv. the truth is
written, stamped, but i never sent the letters.i don't remember
why we stopped talking,
what that last fight was about,
(it was probably my fault)
and i'm sorry about your mom
and the cancer
and i'm so sorry
that i can't fix you.
in my mind
you are still 17,
in your kmart red polo,
laughing way too hard
at some stupid joke
you made yourself.
you are unhardened
by the colorado mountains
and let go of.
what i mean to say is
i miss you,
but the words
never come out right
and i am too afraid
to do anything about it
so i won't.
won't you save me, san francisco?i have always said
there are only two things
that can fix me:
a good book and
some people have God,
i believe in route 66.
i believe in
and circle, alaska.
and why stop there?
i believe in
and everywhere in between.
i am restless because
i have never found anything
worth staying for.
saudade.there is no such thing as a good day anymore.
there are bad days
and there is numbness.
some days there is
toska saudade empty.
some days the bills go unpaid.
some days they make me eat but
it's okay, i just throw it all up later
like some sort of
some days the sky is blue,
sometimes i can't tell.
sometimes i just can't tell, okay?
i don't have all the fucking answers.
i dream about
and it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
sometimes it's just
november starry.her nana calls her "raater-mey,"
(maiden of the night.)
he can barely stay awake long enough to
talk to the doctors that come by weekly,
but he weaves her hair into braids with his weathered hands
every day, and he tucks her into bed with secrets and
"tomaar moton keo nai, amar kolija."
she repays him in popsicle stick birdhouses,
hand drawn flowers, and shy smiles meant for no one else.
she doesn't understand why everyone stops
talking when she walks into the room, or why her
ammu cries in the middle of the night.
all she knows is that her old nana
has always been there, will always be there
to braid her hair and tell her stories of
what it was like before bangladesh was called
she writes him a poem
about starry november nights on the
sloping tin roof and all the places she
will take him when she is grown up,
all the t
esperanza-i. you catch her eye on your first day working at the local movie theater
and you fall for her immediately, without even realizing-
for the subtle catch of her shirt on her hips,
for the way she tucks her hair away while talking,
for her eyes like the ocean and her laugh like windchimes.
ii. you teach yourself to belong to her.
you wear her favorite color on her birthday
and you play with your hair the way she likes,
even on those days you don't see her.
you draw rocketships on your spanish notes
and learn to love edgar allen poe and
you call her
i was a child and she was a child,
in this kingdom by the sea;
but we loved with a love that was more than love-
i and my annabel lee.
you miss her when she's around
and tell her you will never stop loving her.
you believe in her future.
you forgive her for showing up to dinner half an hour late
and for breaking the strings on your favorite guitar.
iii. and then one day, she stops
kissing back and wanti
and i let him."do you still know all the constellations by heart?" he asks.
"of course." i point to a spot over his head, "see that really bright one over there by the line of three? that's apollo, the sun god. and that little one next to him is cassandra; she's my favorite."
i look at him. "i told you the story of cassandra, didn't i?"
"yeah," he allows, "but i like hearing you tell it."
i turn back to the sky, fixing my gaze on the little star and dropping my voice. "cassandra was a mortal. a princess, actually- daughter of king priam, and she was gorgeous. she was so beautiful that apollo fell in love with her. being a god, he gave her the gift of prophecy. eventually though, cassandra fell in love with a mortal man. he was handsome and loyal and he loved her, too. they were happy together, but apollo was jealous, so he put a curse of her. she would still be able to see the future, but no one would ever believe her. cassandra saw the destruction of troy, but they called her a liar. it ruin
listen:you ever think about that night
you tried to kill yourself?
does it ever scare
you how much has changed?
do you care?
listen: it's like this.
it's like the way he never just says he loves you.
it's like his left shoulder blade is your favorite place in the world.
it's like celebrating christmas a day late just because you're both jewish.
it's like stretching in bed and "good morning, scruffy."
it's like the way he has to tilt his head down to kiss you
and using late nights as currency and he makes you believe in god,
even if he doesn't.
it's like he needed you
and you can be sorry all your goddamn life but
all you've got now is a sinking feeling,
a letter, and three years worth of memories.
postscript: i have never been more sorry.
ten:fifty-nine.have you ever taken the subway to the very last stop? you walk through the ghost cars and feel so goddamn insignificant you kind of want to drop into one of those chipped orange seats and cry away everything that holds you together. but you never do, because this is new york and life is hard and no amount of tears can break the routine. you're stuck with yourfuckingself and there's not a thing you can do to change that, not really. you're selfish and ignorant and you're trapped like an insect in a washed out peanut butter jar; that's how much you don't matter. and so you swallow overrated tap water from a plastic bottle and breathe in and out. you let that dirty city air filter through you, remind yourself to be tough, and you hold on. you hang in there because that's all you know how to do.
have you ever done eighty-five on a major highway at four:thirty in the morning without a seatbelt? because who the fuck is going to stop you at that hour and who the fuck is going to tell you you
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
kitestrings and catastrophes.i've figured myself out-
i am a catastrophe at best and at worst
i am yours.
you once told me i was a disaster
just waiting to happen. i would like to be
a hurricane or maybe a thunderstorm.
i would like to be so many things,
(mostly happy and yours.)
you never really liked thunderstorms
and hurricanes wreck lives.
maybe i wasn't so wrong about that one.
"do you believe in magic?"
i believe in miracles and meteorites.
i believe in you and me
and insignificance and disasters.
i believe in paper cranes and kitestrings
and maybe we're not right
but what's so wrong with trying?
fairytales are for princesses;
catastrophes don't get happy endings.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More