i write
but not really

i'm a poet
but not really

somewhere between broken hearts
and putting them back together
i forgot how to pick up the pen

i was so busy piecing myself back together that
i forgot how to put pieces of a sentence together

it doesn't hurt to write and
i want to scream but
there is a calm dull throbbing silence

i write
but not really

i'm a poet
but not really

i think you have to bleed to write
i stopped bleeding when i ran out of blood
i think you have to cry to write
i stopped crying when i ran out of tears

sometimes i wish i was broken again
because this silence isn't much better and
screaming felt good and
not having the words feels worse.

you have to be in touch with your emotions to write poetry
i am not in touch with my emotions

i write
but not really

i'm a poet
but not really

there is poverty
in the
smell of ***.

a hidden guilt: shame.

***** towels
10 rupee soap.

tissues in the trashcan.

we cannot afford
the sterilization
of intimacy.

cannot clean nor claim our space.
roam room to room;
poverty to poverty.

carrying our stench
and shame.

i am not grieving
nor yearning
or moping
i am not crippling
by the weight of
the thought of
you.

but i miss knowing you.

i miss knowing what time
you'd wake up and what time
you have class and what time
you will call your mother because
she is traveling to a different country
& misses you dearly.

i miss knowing what's on your mind
at any given time
& bumping into you in the bathroom
because our temporal rhythms are
in sync.

and the nights you missed her
bottle of ***** in hand
(the cheap kind,
you were never one to indulge)
your voice shakes but
no tears &
you're all fears and
i miss knowing exactly what you're about to say.

the time we stayed up till 3
the day you told me you cared for me
not love though, you'd never throw that around
maybe love though, just not the romantic kind

i miss knowing you
your smell
the blood on your jacket
the cut on your knee

i miss knowing you
your cough
a sniffle
the way you laughed with me

i miss knowing you
having you around

i'm not broken without you
i am not in grief
nor misery

but i wish
i knew you
and you still
knew me.

sometimes the distance doesn't make sense
and i find myself wondering: if i walk down this road forever, would i eventually find you?

in my mind's eye, you are near.

we're talking on the phone and
your voice plays tricks on my understanding
of the physics of distance and time and space
one step away, or a continent
and how far is a continent, really?
if i sit on the bus in front of me, will it drop me off next to you?

you say we share the same moon but
does that mean we breathe the same air and
are you really that far when
you feel so near?

I believe Home moves on;
without you, if it must.
And you find that when you try to return Home,
Home has changed,
Or it has grown.
Or it has moved out,
just like you did.

i want to reach out and touch her hand
her hair is dyed pink but the blonde streaks show
her body is awkward and her skin is burnt at the shoulder
straps where she forgot to put sun block
and i want to reach out and feel her skin

there is a comfort in the familiar
we love what we know
and there is nothing more lovely
than knowing what she is because
it is what i am and i feel like i know
what will bring her joy and what will
bring her pain and there's something
so comforting about knowing that
her history is one of violence and pain but
she is of love and of kindness and
purity is over-rated but her heart is so
pure.

the history of man is ****** but
the history of woman is resilience.

how long i have admired the shape of
her body and it has taught me to love
my own.
i do not want to reduce my sisters to a
body or a touch because they are strong
and wild and honest and kind and there
is depth to them beyond being a kiss on
the lips and a stroll in the park.
i have such respect and longing for the
touch of kindness, one who has seen the war,
fights it now and fights it forever, but
loves you as if you were made of flowers.
she is made of flowers-
and iron and steel-
and blankets and cups of hot chocolate-
and truth and warships.

the touch of a man is pleasurable
but the touch of a woman is fulfilling.

looking at her now, i wonder if it is strange
to love her as a sister- as a warrior- as a leader
and to still love her as a lover- as a muse- as a body
to love a woman is to love a nation.
to love a woman is to love a war.
to love a woman is to love love.
to love a woman is to love yourself.