Who quenched the light in the eyes of the seeing,
and taught him that trust is a blade
that turns upon its bearer.

He who now seals his heart
was once a house with open doors to every wanderer,
until he gave them sight
and they repaid him with blindness.

May the darkness they planted in him
take root and choke them,
and may the spirits cry their names
through a night that shall never know dawn.

Aman

Come closer
my father once told me
that between my *******,
between my lips,
between my thighs,
lies a power without mercy.
I have learned to wield it like a blade.
My mind is the theatre,
my thoughts the stage where you are both
the hero and the sacrifice.
I will not simply kiss you
I will bind you,
thread your breath through mine
until you cannot remember
where you end and I begin.
I will lead you by the hand into velvet darkness,
make you believe it is safety,
then whisper the truth in your last moment of doubt:
I am the enchantress they warned you about,
the poison they served in a crystal glass.
They call me femme fatale,
but I am older than the name,
more ancient than fear.
I do not ****
I make you walk willingly
into your own beautiful ruin.
I blow a kiss, goodbye.

They asked me about the human soul.
I smiled,
and leaned close enough for them to feel my breath.
They say man is a microcosm
and the heavens the vast world.
But, love, they have never wandered your inner night.
The outer sky is a candle’s flame
fragile, flickering
while inside you,
I have sailed an endless sea of dark honey,
its tides made of dreams and pulse and breath.
The true vastness is in the chambers beneath your ribs,
where my hands have learned the maps
no star could chart.

She came to me beneath a crescent moon,
her hair perfumed with night jasmine,
her eyes heavy with the knowledge
that I was born of spells and dark milk.
I laid her down on the silk of my shadow.
The stars leaned close,
each one a witness to my mother’s prophecy
that my touch would burn without flame.
Her breath caught in the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her as the desert drinks rain:
slow at first,
then with the hunger of a century without water.
The witch’s blood sang in me,
chanting words no priest would dare to hear.
Her body opened like a forbidden garden,
and I,
its serpent and its angel,
entered with reverence and ruin.
When she cried out,
the night shivered.
Owls turned their heads,
the wind held its breath,
and the moon closed one eye in envy.

O She who rises from the womb of the sea,
crowned with foam and crowned with flame,
whose breath stirs the tides
and whose glance births blossoms from barren stone
Bearer of the golden girdle,
keeper of the wine of longing,
mother to the song that awakens the flesh,
and the dream that burns in the marrow.
Aphrodite, hear me.
Pour into my heart the wine of its desire,
and in the cup of that union,
let there be peace.

I like my labneh
full-fat, whole-milk
heavy with promise,
soft as surrender.
Flaky sea salt
melts on its skin,
olive oil glistens
like desire in the sun.
A breath of za’atar,
a trace of mint,
a brush of thyme
and I am undone.
That’s how I like my lover
ripe,
reckless,
and impossible to leave.
Yummy…

For their ink is not ink, but the distilled venom of memory.
They will etch your name upon the black tablets of time,
where even the rain cannot wash it away
and the centuries will taste it like iron on the tongue.
This is no mere revenge
it is the curse of the storyteller,
and I, child of the witch,
have mastered it.