I think I met you when I was seven,
but I can't be sure
it may have been a dream.

I ask my friends about you,
but they all have their own nicknames for you.
Allah,
            God,
                       and Mother
the three I hear most often.

for me, none of these names fit you.
they hang from your body, concealing what you truly are.

forgiveness and rage
                                        empathy and judgement
                                                     ­                                tenderness and hostility



my grandfather talks to you every night with his eyes clenched and fingers clasped

he tells me that you have saved him from his nightmares,
washed the blood from his hands.
he wants to introduce us,

he thinks that you can save me.

I want to thank you for cleansing my grandfather's hands.
for teaching him that a single bad act
(or a collection of many)
does not make you a bad person.
that Life is a game of unknown rules
and unwilling players.

and I don't know if it's my "rebellious nature"
(as my mother calls it)
but for me,
the unknown is a comfort blanket.

walking through life heel-to-toe
I take the time to lose myself.

I lose myself in books,
                                     shopping malls,
                                                              an­d other people.

I believe in little moments of Fate
and Love's cruel intentions.
the Power of silence
and the weight of Words.

but these days, I tend to lose myself within the four walls of my bedroom.
I lose myself.
I actually lose myself.

So, if you ever want to get a cup of coffee,
my number is at the bottom.

I would love to hear what you have to say.

I have spent the last two years kissing away conversations.

His hands
burn away at my momentary doubt

my skin becomes softer beneath his lips.

his lips taste like a postage stamp for an unwritten letter

with slowly drifting fingers, he writes to me:
he asks about my day with his palm on my rib cage and his sighs in my ear.
he kisses the center of my chest, and tells me a story about friends I've never met
he suckles my ****** when he talks about his alcoholic father.

and he writes goodbye with his hips between my thighs.

he provides no return address.
he simply signs his name.

I am a girl of textures,
scriptures,
and hymns.

compulsively forgetful,
i inscribe my teeth with one night love poems.

i try to remember their names

i carve a notch in my hip bone for each of them
an indent where their hands might rest for a moment
and possibly leave their fingerprint...

Your hands
felt like the pages of a well-read library book
torn at the edges by someone who didn't appreciate the story you told

using all the big words I knew,
I tried to fill in your missing paragraphs

but you were never that hard to read.

tracing my fingers along your spine
I find her name
breaking up your sentences like a misplaced comma.

You will never love me.
period.