he was my star

beautiful and misunderstood.

we'd share each other like an island

until exhausted, close our eyelids.

it smells like smoke outside

but january always feels like october in georgia.

the girl with kaleidoscope eyes

i have known so many.

((i wish i had taken this picture, but i did not.))

meet me on the precipice

if you see me first,
wave.

i hope i'll wave back.

and all that's left of me

is handprints on glass windows and
scarves trailing down from chair legs

does the scent of chicken cooking
make you think of me?

i've never seen a person read my words

i don't think i trust them enough.

my current obsessions

this place:

Please Find This


this woman:

Warsan Shire


and this photograph:

((i don't own it.))

i want to make a cd one day

and give it to you. leave it on your doorstep, or on the dash of your car.

then i want you to listen to it, and know it's me. i want you to find me in these words, and then find me in person. and tell me that you understand.

i haven't even met you yet, and i'm already making your playlist.

i have this dream

where i find someone who gets me. leaves scraps of paper around with lines from songs that make me ache. thinks of books as having a purpose. lowers his gaze.

pious and strong.

like i said, just a dream. but who doesn't love dreams?

steven strait's voice is ❤.

beautiful man. beautiful voice. beautiful song.

-

alphabet poem (writing exercise)

the product of ten minutes with my keyboard.

-

a beautiful controversy,

dreaming elegance

from great heights

i just know love.

my notes on perfection

quell reality, stopping tracks

understanding vacancy

wanted xcii years,

zoning.

voodoo majick man say

shake the stone three times

and mama come back

but she don't.

miss my blanket.

africa

something old, still loved. :)

*

what do you do once you've lost yourself?

xxx.

Africa, she whispers into his ear as they cross city streets paved with crackling lights and indifference. Africa, she says before she turns off the lights and crawls into bed. Africa, she chokes as she liquor burns down her throat. Africa, she says, and does not kiss him.

Africa.

Africa, she mumbles, and tosses in her sleep. Africa, she cries into the broken glass in the floor. Africa, she screams as her fingernails slide down her face. Africa. Africa. Africa. Like a heartbeat.

Africa, she says when she sees the dusty book on the shelf.

He tries to ask her once, when they are in bed, cigarette ash and lipstick staining the sheets, smelling like vodka and sin, about Africa. Her eyes flash and he can almost see something, like her soul, resonating through the years. She tells him about red sands and minarets and private beauty and a bride in white not being an irony.

She whispers into his skin about family, and love, and simplicity. She wipes mascara from her cheek and explains to him about love – you love your parents because they created you, your children because they come from you, and your family because they are pieces of you. You love God because He is what makes it all possible.

Africa, she whispers when she begs him to understand. Africa, when he can’t.

He does not ask her again.

-

“Don’t say that to me anymore,” he tells her once.

“Say what?”

“Africa. Don’t say Africa to me anymore.”

And she looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

-

Africa, she cries when he slaps her in the face. Africa, she whispers to herself every Friday at noon. Africa, she sighs as she presses the needle deeper. Africa, she laughs when the doctor gives her the results.

“And to think we left Africa to get away from AIDS.”

And he realizes this is the first time he’s ever heard her say the word aloud.

in and out of time

❝ when the first stone looked up at the blazing sun

and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor,

i had always loved you more. ❞

- maya angelou

libya in lowercase, days 16 - 20

more peace, more love, and five more poems from far away. ❤.

- + -

april 25, 2009. saturday.

i spit metal into a sink today.

i should probably be able to make more of that than i am,

but i can’t.

the dentist was nice, with soft hands

stray hairs grew up his cheekbone, trailing away from his beard.

my aunt told him my life story while he drilled my teeth.

he mmm’d and said he was impressed

it bothers me more than it should when i wonder if he was telling the truth.

-

april 26, 2009. sunday.

it hurts more than you would think to realize

that something you thought you knew how to do for years

is completely wrong.

bismillahi ar-rahman ar-raheem.

that fact that is it these words i still cannot say

shakes me somewhere that hasn’t been touched in a while.

-

april 27, 2009. monday.

marriages arranged through phone calls make me nervous

like not enough words spread into too large a space.

he has blue eyes, they tell me

like it should make a difference.

is it wrong that it does?

-

april 28, 2009. tuesday.

why won’t you let me remember you like this,

like dusty roads and sun too hot

to be allowed?

i don’t want to remember you in high-rise cities

while taxi cabs zoom by

it makes you seem too real.

why won’t you just be my dream?

-

april 29, 2009. wednesday.

hijab shopping in furnaj –

boys in nike shirts

and

aacida at night.

does it get better than this?

his music makes me dance

hands over face,

curtains shut tight.

something beautiful before i sleep.

you, soft and only. you, lost and lonely.

you, just like heaven.

never wanted to be cinderella growing up.

or snow white. or sleeping beauty.

i always used to wish i was pocahontas.

everything about this movie is beautiful. never understood what was so wrong with kocoum though.

libya in lowercase, days 11-15

peace, love, and poems from far away. <3.

- + -

april 20, 2009. monday.

if you have never wanted to fall down

for fear of God,

you do not believe.

i fear and love and

love and fear.

and love.

do not ask me why again. i am tired of your questions.

-

april 21, 2009. tuesday.

i watch moroccan women attempt american dances,

slithering around

bracing their backs against poles and

running their hands up their thighs.

i’m still not sure why

the only parts of western culture they long for

are the ones that will tear them apart.

-

april 22, 2009. wednesday.

applying makeup in parking lots

and pulling bangs out from under scarves.

these are the things they think will bring them freedom

but are only imprisoning them further.

i wish i could tell them.

i wish they would understand.

certificate in one hand and a husband in the other,

right?

-

april 23, 2009. thursday.

i sit in the kitchen

and listen to my aunts

and my aunt’s aunt

talk in words

i half catch

i drink shahi with

my back against cabinets and

listen to the adhan

come in through the windows.

-

april 24, 2009. friday.

i play chase around tall walls and

listen to a debate about

arabic morality

as half-naked women dance across the stage.

i’m told i’m wrong for watching it, but his eyes are glued to the screen.

still, i’m impressed that he cares.

he’s changed since last year, in more ways than one

makes me a little jealous that i haven’t morphed a lick since i was thirteen.

his cousin tells jokes in a dialect too quick for me to understand

i don’t need to, to know they’re not funny.

his skin is the color of chestnuts, though

and he looks older than he is.

if he wasn’t an asshole, he’d be beautiful.

i talk about barack obama

and twirl a toothpick between my teeth

and do my best not to look back at the grill

but i do a few times, when no one’s watching.

his hands are greasy from working the spick

so we shake wrists when we leave.

who knew a year could make such a difference?

new years resolution

my new year's resolution is to be here more. try to expand subscribers. work more on my original writing.

love you all. all ten of you.

here's to oh-ten. ((and yes, i can still say that. write out the number and look.))