strength.

you admired my strength
it shone through, you said
a pillar reminding you not to fuck with me
strength: quiet and pulsating
laced with courage for vulnerability.

"she can handle it"
maybe you admired it because you knew that however many times you play rough with me i may waver but always stand tall, never breaking.
and you could walk away
guilt-free.

i did not spend years cultivating this
only for you to test its limits.
i made this to share. to walk with loved ones.
to wear my wounds open
and to heal them with my own tongue.

goddess

soft. vulnerable. hopeful.
every time.
maybe i’m foolish
or forgetful
or insanely courageous.


maybe a goddess
with infinite capacity
for forgiveness.

bedouin

my bedouin roots prepare me
for the harshness of matters of the heart.
nomadic, not by choice but by necessity.
when the well runs out
when the resource stops regenerating
i pack light and move on.

when i find my new oasis
i make a home out of small corner spaces
like an inconvenient guest
ready to leave whenever she is asked
whenever the wells run dry

i pack light and move on
i pack light and move on
i pack light and move on

over and over and over again.

as if.

you look at my limp limbs

my poker face

my indifference

in horror and astonishment

your brow furrows

your lips curl

when you hear the accusation against you

you wail and wail of protest and defense

as if you did not hear my cries when you pushed me down

as if i did not beg and plead

as if i did not reach out

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sunlight dancing on our skin

intertwined lazily under a central park tree

exchanging vibes, musical harmonies

pacing our lust, small doses

holding hands and gazes

adorned in the graces of his presence, touching faces

his fingertips slowly graze over my lips 
swollen from his kiss and a touch of cannabis

could a bliss be so simple?

we weave through the city

slowly, inconveniently, rebelliously

pestering pedestrians as we walk 
heavy with our hearts

staggering intoxicated with wanderlust 

of new york city and... us

who is this man?
who is this MAN -- my inner teenager demands
who is this man who envelops my entire physical being with his callous hands 
and his tattooed frame?

who is this man that i so willingly gave access to my time and affection
my vulnerability and my pain?

what does his soul taste like?

when will i step on a landmine in his mind  --

what does his anger look like?

what parts is he, and what parts are his tributes?

what parts are us, and what parts are quiet desperations?

and i wonder

could he ever love me inbetween my lines of ethereal/juvenile

... could anyone?

His love

Kind of a lame and cheesy sentimental poem, but hell, i was feelin it.

Maybe his love isn’t a run-to-the-other-side-of-the-street-defying-death-in-a-New-York-City-traffic-jam-for-one-last-kiss kinda love

And it definitely isn’t a come-home-late-from-work-to-find-him-running-me-a-bath-adorned-with-candles-and-rose-petals kinda love

And it isn't a whisk-a-curl-from-my-hair-away-from-my-face-on-a-chilly-autumn-evening-only-to-linger-his-gaze-deeply-on-me-and-then-kiss-me kinda love.

But.

His love was a kiss-me-on-my-forehead-when-I-was-spewing-snot-and-sneezing-germs kinda love.

A holding-me-silently-as-I-braced-for-sadness-to-wash-over-me kinda love.

A laughing-politely-at-my-childlike-squealing-and-loud-antics kinda love.

A pausing-the-movie-playing-on-my-laptop-for-a-making-out-break kinda love.

And it was enough.

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My grandmother mentioned
In passing
The softness of her late teenage son's hair
My mother's brother
Casually.

And I ponder on their pain
And their humanity
And the rawness I did not see them experience.
Somewhere between dinner and dessert
I ache to look at them and say:
"You brought me here. How can I make you happier? How can I ease the sorrow of your memories?"

But I fear the question is laughable
Or irrelevant
Or too late
So I don't say anything.

And I panic about the time.