I live inside walls of breeze blocks,
Concrete and cinder halls.
My enemies live on the other side.
We meet sometimes—
to negotiate cease-fires
between cigarette breaks.

Still, while he offers peace,
he sets up artillery.
I ready my firearm.
She rings the bomb alarm.
The Luftwaffe ricochets—
while he prays...

He is more religion than a man.
She, more hurricane than a woman.
And I—something like a child.
Only the old and the unkind
keep count: forty-three, forty-four—
we are still at war.

After the cigarette burned out
The house burned down.
They say, "Child, take this to the grave."
If you made it out alive from the battle of Crete
Parents, I survived the friendly fire.
While you bombarded, I built the Roman Empire.

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork.
How can something so large handle something so small?
Did my mother's hand fit into his at all?
I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork.

"It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite.
The blood is foaming from his open mouth.
"It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries.
to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry."

He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots
He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork.
chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue
I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving

In the black and white pictures, it existed.
where my mother's eyes still smiled
where her movements were not rehearsed
where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst

I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl.
with a table filled with savory and sweet
But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat?
You wish you could replace his head on the plate?

Mother, are you a good actress?
Do you keep knives under your dress?
Does your mind create images?
Where you pay off all the witnesses.

"Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?"
He shouts as he slams his fists.
and his hands make sounds
as loud as war bombs

We learned when to be quiet.
when to soak up all the silence
But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table?
Or just a head on the plate?

I had a dream the other night.
I could lie and say it was about you.
But I was more entranced by the light.

The heat suffocated thick as smoke,
like a stove left on too long.
I choked beside you, gasping there,

The stone’s sharp edge pressed into me,
and your eyes—
slid soft, yet cut like knives.

"I like heat waves, sweat on my brow."
What a liar, I smiled. Summer dries you out.
You conjure storms in these times.

Yes, the weather choked me.
But do not mistake this for cruelty.
I would not use honesty to hurt.

I know dreams are like candies—
tempting, dangling in front of me,
summers I can never see.

I outgrew the sweater my grandmother gave me-
I would not let myself be rocked like a baby
in a dreamscape I can never call mine.

So I will think of sunshine,
how it burned my skin
more than you stained mine.

I can have more summers.
if I am lucky, even ninety-nine—
but not another you in my life.

For I had a dream the other night,
and I lied when I said it was not about you—
it was about the weather, burning bright
'

Ever since I was a child,
I counted all the ways we could die—
falling through ice, an earthquake,
Even the weather seems to panic.
Somewhere in the world, right now,
A fish is struggling to get by.
But it dies by the hand of a man.
who thinks death is a pastime.
We die small deaths every time—
Like scissors in hair, shedding of skin
when I knew all the ways he would leave
Once, just once in my life,
I want to feel delicate.
Not like the hole in the drywall.
shaped like a fist.
Once, I want to shred the list.
that contains all the ways we could miss
Just once, I do not want to be sharp.
like a cutting knife, like a blade
Even in death, there is rebirth—
flies, mites, beetles,
feeding on someone’s deathbed.
From just one conversation,
I could smell the rot—
the body left untouched for a month,
Is it wrong to say?
That ever since I was a child
I lived with ghosts in my house.
And I was never soft in my life.
just bones and flesh
with a brain filled with living death.

My heart beats faster when I see you.
It also does that when I’m scared, too.
And instead of pleasant butterflies
I feel like you are stabbing my insides.
Loving you comes in destructive waves.
Like a flood that drowns, our graves
Maybe you’re not worthy of pure love.
At trial, they judge you from above.
Hear a whisper: "You’re not ready yet."
More pain, you still haven’t paid your debt.
Want to scream "I’m not just bad timing."
Imbalances are all there is to lightning.
Like a raging fire can’t stop the ash
A speeding accident can’t stop the crash.
And a hurricane is just the weather.
like the freezing cold in December.
When an earthquake occurs, it's just a slip.
I'm not at fault; I’m drawn to your lips.
Fresh blood will be my ink when I rhyme.
And the thought of you will fade with time.
The cheerful laugh you faked when you hoped to die
Just thoughts on this page already dry
Poetry makes, "I’ll never love you."
Sound like honey and red wine; it's true.

I think about how my body makes it impossible for me to love.
The truth is, I am shapeless—like a dropped clay ***,
shattered,
with pieces lodged inside my bones.
He called me a liar, but here I am,
telling another truth:
You cannot plant flowers in something that cannot hold.
I convinced my mind, with all its force,
that the Lord took apart your bones
and sculpted something flawless,
more beautiful than angels,
brighter than the morning sun.
And you are too high.
too pure,
to shine on something so lowly.
The truth is, darling,
You made me feel unworthy.
But I am sure she is a vase full of flowers—
worth more than sunshine that fades in two hours.
And I will crawl back into my dark cave,
convincing myself that light is something I no longer crave.

She is a sculptor, carefully molding
And just as precisely, she is folding.
Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes
Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires.
When it finally speaks, the voice is weak.
"Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek."
Oh, how perfect her strangest creation!
Broken fragments of imagination.

"You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories."
"The low whisper to hush all my worries"
First, she teaches it to dance, then how to
Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue.
Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead.
Rotting in the ground below, blood is red.
Also, color of love: never worry.
Learn to appreciate all the beauty.

On the third day, it longs to be free now.
Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out.
It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone."
"I am free as birds that fly toward dawn."
"I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful.
There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful."
Now it sneaks out at night through the back door.
Freedom and chains are falling to the floor.

She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps.
can even travel seven continents
sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands
knows that there are harmless and harmful plants
She wants to stick her hand in them to feel.
thinks it would be nice after it to heal
Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong.
She is forced back into her hole by bond.

For a sculptor loves its creation dearly.
just wants to tweak and work on it daily
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too?
In her road for discovery, did she grow?
Can she let go of what she created?
Or clip its wings and lock all the cages?
My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam.
She might just be the future's next grindstone.

As God, doubtful of her own creation
What if what her hand makes can conquer nations?
Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she?
To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee.
Let her go, let her go, it echoes now.
She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide.
The chisel drops from her shaking hand.
as the marble moves and bows her head.

I never understood my mother.
She used to rest with a book in her hands.
She read novels about tragedies and stolen lands.
Skin-to-skin with my father

Why does she read books about fights and wars?
At her feet lived a real-life Hoplite man.
Already thinking about his phalanx plan.
How to conquer or claim forbidden lands

He never understood my mother.
Why bother with peaceful streams?
When in battle, steel swords gleam.
Crimson blood and gunshot dreams

Me on my couch with my Greek tragedies
At my heels rests my warrior, Achilles.
In his mind, he builds monasteries.
While I read about the conquered seas

I feel like my mother understood the thunder.
Whenever he had a moment with my father,
Maybe he had a glimpse of peace.
While he looked up at my mother's face

Little pond, little pond,
In the heart of this town,
Two little frogs sitting side by side,
We were young, barely five.
We played with rocks, sticks—
Jump ropes, chess, and dominoes
All those harmless little things.

He brought a stick, and I the stone.
He claimed the pond was our kingdom.
We were both knights with a cause—
Defeat everyone who can do harm.
The water is muddy; it needs cleansing.
See how those green monsters keep splashing?
They need to be defeated.

He palmed the stone in his tiny hands,
Threw the rock as it splashed.
The first one missed, the second skipped,
The third cracked as it hit.
“It is nothing but a frog,” he protested.
It was something small, alive, and green,
Not something that a boy can ****.

But how violent can love be?
He batters his hands.
Why is it in his nature to crash?
Look at the frogs; see how they jump—
But how would they look
If they were crushed?

If you want to stay, my friend,
Wrangle their little necks,
Gouge out their eyes,
Tear at their insides.
Rocks are made
To crush, crush, crush—
Can you feel
The rush, rush, rush?

Two frogs sitting by the pond,
With their hands and legs torn.
I shook my head—
Not made for violent acts,
And to do this for his satisfaction
Would be self-betraying,
Not fitting for innocent beings.

Two innocent beings,
Sitting side by side—
Is he worth it,
Shedding blood for?
When I look at my reflection,
She knows she wants more.
"Crush them, crush them," you chanted—
I hesitated back then.

Innocent and right,
But at home,
You had to fight.
Later, they buried the hole.
The dirt and ground covered them whole.
Two little frogs, side by side,
Now they sit with heads torn wide.

Violence breeds violent acts.
Rocks and sticks
Can shift from toys
And playing children
To careless fools.
It's right, it's alright.
I know you had to fight.

Draw your sword and die by it.
At home, his fist shaped to hit,
And the cycle is just habit.
The predator chases the rabbit.
And if you ask me again,
I might not think twice—
Two frogs sitting side by side.

I can tell a good thing just from one sight
As a newborn, I hugged my mother tight
And I knew from the first glance at the Sun
I was glad I was born in a summer month

Could tell from the way you handled light
How it lit up your face, how you smiled bright,
That I want to bask in it all my life.
I would attach wings to my back to fly

They melt to a puddle but I feel the shine
I will gladly take the fall and die,
For knowing the disaster that would come—
Still, soaring high up and risking it all,

is a kind of courage I never owned
But who wants to die without feeling scorned?
I’d rather bear the burn marks on my skin,
Scars, scabs, and tears, than to be soft and clean.

A clean corpse dressed in white laying in the grave,
without stains on my skin without pain
Not the Sun in the sky, not the heat,
Just the cold ground and the mites to meet.

Can I be as beautiful as the Mona Lisa?
Draped in blue like Margarita Teresa?
My features soft and kind
A nature so mature and polite

Can I have a man who paints
Relaxed and focused before the flames,
With hands stained by strokes of time
With a passion for hues and rhymes?
  
He will paint me slow and detailed-
Mouthless, faceless, truly changed
He spends hours perfecting my ears
He never talks when he concentrates.

With every stroke, he paints hues
purple, red, and a touch of blue
He invents new colors, studies the anatomy
Counts the bones inside the knee

He learns the composition.
bends me into a new position.
A new art form now
Realistic, still unrecognized.

For while I am sitting in my chair
He selects shades for my hair
I am now framed and proud
Worthy of being fawned about

When his masterpiece is complete
Mourns then moves to new conceits
Hung in the Louvre—by my neck, pale and still
A brushstroke by his graceful will

You will know me by my mystery smile.
Find recognition of me in his style
I can be viewed now through his lens
More of an art and less a self.