Burning souls, shredded hearts, and eyes swollen of intense crying and midnight reading; cosmic threads evolving into greener beings.

Rub that old wound over and over again; know that it is friction that creates heat, and know that heat is a synonym for warmth.

Set yourself on fire; know that you’re a phoenix made for a constant rebirth, and know that fire is your friend.

Tear your heart apart over lost causes and  pieces of art; know that the voids you make can turn into light wells if you let it.

Don't let wine, or poets, fool you; unroll beyond time and space.

Because I am a badass rule breaker, that's why.

Because ten words poems are way too mainstream for my taste

I get kicked to the ground so often

Because planet Earth, like any other passionate lover, is in constant need of my warm body embracing his.

Whenever I fall out of harmony with the uni-verse, I cloister at my mother's home. It's full of three things; books, paintings, and kids, yet the walls have more to offer..
I can hear her opening doors

I still remember how she shortened every single one of her galabeyas, and how the space between her ankles and her feet is exactly what infinity looks like.

I still remember the six gold ghawayesh that turned into four then turned into two, and I still remember thinking maybe one day they covered her whole arm like a shiny armor but she kept on falling defenseless because time is a cruel thief. I also remember how she robbed time of its powers by keeping her ancient wise soul an adventurous young one until the very last day; the skill she wanted to learn at the age of seventy was driving, because knitting is obviously for the young.

I still remember her taking pride in her roots, like a baobab tree, and I still remember how it was this that taught to stand my ground, balanced and rooted.

I still remember how people called her house "the mother of Egyptians' house" because that's the name of the neighborhood where it was. I still remember learning at the age of nine that the neighborhood was named so in the honor of the revolutionary Safia Zaghloul, and I still remember thinking that they named Safia Zaghloul so in the honor of her, because she was 'the mother', the source, the one more push, the spring, the lens, the revolution and beyond.

I still remember how her hair looked like moonlight, and how her skin felt like flower petals.

She wasn't an angel; she wasn't made out of light. She was made of water and fertile soil; she was a complete human being in all its glory, molded by the hands of Atum, and Minerva.

And if she was not only in my memories, I'd make a pilgrimage to her; kneel under her feet so she can braid my hair, and offer warmth and bedtime stories in treasure boxes adorned with her favorite poetry lines. And I remind myself instead to take a good look at the night sky; those who follow the stars can never be lost.