I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city

I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set

I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning  

I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch  
And hard to uproot

I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah

From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.  

From too many whys
And not enough faith

I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside

I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes

I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom

From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan

I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway

Sometimes I pretend
I never met you.

I pretend that the laughter
that occupied my head
is now just an echo
of an irresponsible child

I pretend, when you contact me,
that you are a stranger
you have the wrong number
no one you have ever really loved
lives here.

I pretend,  when I see pictures of you,
that the feelings are not scratching and biting
their way to the surface.
You are just another
S̶t̶u̶n̶n̶i̶n̶g̶.̶ ̶G̶o̶r̶g̶e̶o̶u̶s̶.̶ ̶B̶e̶a̶u̶t̶i̶f̶u̶l̶.̶ Pretty face.

I pretend that your words
are not engraved in my disfigured skin.
every sound that poured out of your mouth,
rolled sweetly off your tongue,
is now smoke in unforgiving wind.

I pretend, when I write poetry,
that I don't always think of you,
That my words will not give you
the satisfaction of knowing
I think of you always.

I pretend that my lips
never met yours,
and that I am, in fact, able to stand steadily
when I think about it.

Sometimes I pretend,
Sometimes I wish
I never met you.

I made a beautiful mess, my dear.
It seems as if I couldn't control myself
my words fell out of my mouth
and onto the floor
right by my feet and I tripped over them
just as clumsily as I let them escape
and they formed feelings so true and so new
that maybe you couldn't feel them but you could see them
you just didn't know what to do with them.
And it seems as if my heart exploded everywhere
like bumblebees flying from a beehive
and you thought somehow I would sting you
but really
I was just looking for something sweet.
And I think I melted the first time I saw you
I think my skin slowly slipped away
which is why I couldn't sit still
or find anything to say, in case you don't remember how quiet I was
because as my skin began to harden, I'm not that quiet anymore.
I wish I was had more hands to help
yours were too busy ripping me apart
to put me back together.