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Your poems no longer talked about the way you fell so gracefully in the cracks of my collar bones — fragile, hollowed as the echoes of a priestess’ word — my chest is a shrine built just for you. Your poems no longer talked about the way I kissed the sunset lights, laid softly on your shoulders; this love has descended from the gods. Your poems no longer talked about pressed roses — dead and desperate on top of love letters, god was I high on loving you.

Your poems no longer talked about these. They no longer talked about us darling; they no longer talked about my rosewood scent on your pillow the first time we made love. They no longer talked about how we chased the sun and descended back to the ground, like cosmic dusts losing themselves.

Your poems no longer talked about us — we are dead. dead. dead — a forgotten language and its metaphors. We are walking on top of a new city, a pile of words buried underneath. Our love buried underneath. You are walking on top of a new city, all new words and a slim fit suit.

I am quiet as a Syrian poem. I am buried underneath.
i'll always love you like you were the fullest sunlight laid gently on the dark bruises of december. my crystalline hands are bound to start wildfires in your name. and finally when the world burns down, i'll mark your spine with these lips made of sunburnt flowers. in the ruins of it all, you still have all my misguided kisses — all my unbidden words. i'll always love you, until azaleas grow on the softest spots, in the mundane collision of our bodies. i'll always love you, until my ribs fall apart to your autumn eyes, like a babylonian temple that has seen the miracles of god. i'll always love you — in state of both madness and kalopsia. in the explosion and rebirth of the stars. i'll always love you — this is my bareness in the most prosaical state. this is my constant, darling — this is my truth.
unzip my wrists —
fragile, handle with care.

i am drunk with the thought of them breaking,
resembling quartz veins
down in the mines.

unzip my arms,
this is an enclosure —
it is safe from all-seeing eyes.

unzip my skin —
i am bag of sorrows and bones
waiting to be unpacked
in a new rental room.
the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh
and i sit in the middle of it all:
a slashed, opened mail
spilling shadows —
like a ghost inside a house.
a parasite inside a host.

unzip my body:

i am strikingly
all things
anti-thetical —
haunted —
a herald of infestation —

the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh,
the sunset is warm — comforting.
the world spins in a blur.
and i sit quietly, in apprehension,
stuck in the middle of it all.

a ghost.
a prey.

the room is spotless —
i step out of my skin.
some people are just old puzzle pieces
that no longer fit in these jigsaw puzzles — my palms.

i run high on its comfort —
i am no longer the dead air between my riddled words —
i am the rust growing in the tips of my steel bed —
such lackadaisical sight,
it is nothing like
cigarettes ashes falling on azalea flowers —
it's of no cinematic appeal.

i am a storm in a state of catharsis;
feel the last bits of softness break away from my skin.
i have outgrown my body
and its desperate need
to mimick the prettiest poems.

i still bleed, and it looks nowhere like sunsets;
i don't have to look like one —
feel like one.
die like one.

i am all these things. i am everything
but the puzzle of who i was —
like a mess of relics, blurring altogether
into one hazy memory.

these fragile bones come together
into something whole
something breathing.
something human.

and i am no longer a puzzle
that breaks at the feel of careless hands.
i run high on this comfort.
i run high on this clarity.
i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness,
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until i resemble its loneliness —
the very depth of it.

soon, the ocean floor will claim
my driftwood bones.

but there are no sunbursts or naive greek boys.
just surreal june midnights.
just water everywere —

i hold in my hands all of the sea
but there are no sunsets waiting
to sink down my spine —
just the cruel way that my skin goes on and on —
its flat, certain vastness
and this ironic drowning.

i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness —
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until its loneliness fills my lungs.

​i come up for air but it’s just endless skin —
i close my eyes and dive again.
fray narte May 29
i will hang my feet from what's left of the sunset, resigned and in poor fetal position: an attempt to make the pain smaller. but i feel it down to my shoulders, to my limbs, to the parts of my lungs that were left untouched. it spreads in the shadows, like a clandestine secret. soon, i will burst from all this anguish, like a kaleidoscope of crimson butterflies. soon, the sky will feel the forms of sadness locked inside a mortal body; it's the most freeing prisonbreak, and come tomorrow, there will smaller spaces for pain to consume. soon, all traces of pristine, sunday light will leave this black hole, in the same violent ways they're trapped, and my wounds will give birth to the dusk, as the prettiest sunset slips by in a blur — gone as i am. gone as i hope to be.

i fall to the ground, in a perfected fetal position —

i want nothing more than to be smaller than my pain.
fray narte May 25
i will die on this hill.

a lithe figure stands under
the muted summer light.

a flight of arrows —
of betrayal you never see coming
until it sinks into your skin
and chews — marks the flesh
with the memory of
all her sultry kisses,
lingering in the air.

i can still see the traces
of her claw marks — pained. soft. desperate.
all over you, like remanent scars,
like a foreign queen to the royal seat.
where do i lay my love, then,
among all these tainted spaces?
where do i carve my name
and bless it with your daybreak stillness,
your midnight voice?

each hand gesture
is met with an arrow — a memory, catapulting;
a music box of your songs.
the haunting whispers of a ghost
in rust shirt and apricot sheets

i will die on this hill,
by these hands i've never felt:
the goddess
of ******* archery.
still, an arrow is nothing
but a cheap, clandestine shot.

they keep coming,
but the sunset is above me.
the flowers, on my side;

they know of this hurting.
they know these arrow wounds.
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