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Hot-soled and solo,
I’m going on the run
w/ no bookbag & no makeup
cos I’m running just for fun
to the sweetmeat-vending sweethearts,
to the heart of Wadi Rum,
to the undiscovered pit,
to where my troubles were begun.

 

photo credit: @crookedcosmos

غدار / I DON’T NEED YOUR EYE FOR MINE WHEN I CAN TAKE TWO

You told me once about your uncle.
A bad man. He was. You said.
You told me that,
in your country’s gilded framing,
we get back
what we wreak.
Taking fire for ransom
– the passionate fist of my heart,
an example –
will not be excluded from your equation.
Though it takes a little longer
than your trespass
to reach the full extension
of its force,
though it takes its time
unlike the shape your face would make
with each level I dipped further
in your gamed world (love),
though it’s without conscience, too:
the whole conclusion
of that forfeit
will continue to blow
through you.

“You left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul.”

Yes,
some days
– while some other peaceless nest you sow
and other wings you clip for show/
to hang upon your mantelpiece
for only you to know (her) –
slowly.
شوي شوي
but with creeping soreness
that batters the core.
A chronic disorder.
Perhaps, when you think you are safe or recovered
(a mistake I know so well),
it will get you like the sharpest hit of trauma.

I don’t need your eye for mine when I can take two.

 

I was walking in the snow
when I should’ve said a prayer for us.
If only I had known.
Too busy, I was,
with padded feet that felt like wings
and confidence in love.