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Feb 17
she
you burnt me whole
with your picnic candle.
(were you that eager to touch her?
and how does it feel, smooth unharmed skin?)
i am melted wax on dewy grass,
and i have to feel each one of her toes sinking into me,
with her screams growing higher
echoing somewhere in the core of the Earth,
(beyond the moon as well, she had aliens at their knees).
you spilt something,
you whispered her name over and over and over.
she spilt something,
she made me swallow it.
(you used to do that)

strawberries, cherries, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate sprinkles;
i ate your leftovers along with the ants.
you’ve woven me into her;
“how thoughtful! no one has ever bought me sunflowers!”
i barely remember the color yellow.
she has her finger down my throat,
i no longer whisper your name when i sleep,
but i whisper hers.
i lucid dream about her wearing my shoes,
over worn sneakers, if you care to know.
i untie hers and wear them
only to take them off
(take everything off),
drip honey all over your body
and melt into your arms.

i am wax again,
on dewy grass,
covered with sunflower petals and melted ice cream.
it is still her hand in yours,
“i love the grass, it seems comfortable on days like this.”
Reem Hajal
Written by
Reem Hajal  17/F/Beirut
(17/F/Beirut)   
47
     Fawn and Em MacKenzie
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