this is my mother.

i have her hair, attitude, and lack of balance.

this is my father.

i have his nose, teeth, feet, and drive.

dear girl

why do you only love boys who punch you in the mouth?

what does it say that every boy who has kissed you has hit you?

who forgot to tell you love doesn't have to be violent?

but honestly?

i blame your mother

how do girls go their whole lives

mistaking dependence for love?

who taught you that math?

how are you somehow less

than the sum of your parts?

two legs, open; one mouth,

shut.

you aren't dough, love, 

but i swear it,

he will try to beat you soft,

knead out all resistance, 

make you pliant 

you are not a weed,

but he will rip you up

your roots mean nothing to him

you are a math equation,

a recipe, a garden, a mountain

something beautiful

to be conquered

and believe me, love

he will, if you let him.

back home

in libya, the boy who gave me tissues when my nose bled mans a checkpoint. he has a gun and a sister. i think about him when i hear bullets.