.                               “I
                            lo­ok out
                        side the window
                      and there
                   I see the
                moon, and
            that makes
           me wonder,
            ‘why would
              such a beauty
                   always want
                     to hide a part
                       of herself, why will
                             she want to?’
                                     ”

She weaves, a river of black,
Flowing from her lap,
The current increasing with each thread
Of satin, of black drops pouring out
From her fingers.
The walls smell of dye,
home to a spider,
In its web a beetle caught.
Murky pools of wax indicate
Where illumination was sought.
In this dark and dingy Hut,
The weavemistress carries on,
A lonesome life but filled with joy,
Of creating what was not from
Mundane items like skin and cloth.
With none to look out for,
And none to look for her,
She finished her masterpiece,
The last design she had to offer.
In silence and in peace,
In resignation and in a need
To mark the final creation
With a final deed.


Magdalena bared herself,
Poised before the window reflecting
The candles
And her haunted frame,
She adored herself as
She adorned herself
With her Gown of Black,
Feeling no regret, feeling no shame.
And to celebrate,
She lit a fire
Poured wine,

Not to the wood,
Not in a glass.
But to the Gown
And on the walls.

on a plane going back
to a place not called home
but i have found myself
calling for you on its streets
and this time recovery
looks less like broken phone calls
and momentary goodbyes but
broken ribs and cracked skulls
i swore i heard the raven crackle
in pain of what was and what never
would be i guess what i'm saying
is that it wasn't supposed to end this
way but an australian girl told me
that love, mate, love it comes and goes
and as we stood in grand central station
amongst the hellos and deathly goodbyes
i realized she was right

"he...
he was
5 foot 7
with the most beautiful eyes
downward slanting
and oak-wood brown
laughs
and his hands
his hands
soft and sculpted
they were so delicate
and safe
but there
was strength
in them
he was
slender and...
laughs
actually, he fit
into my jeans
and it was really
funny because
i knew he would
but..
yeah, anyway
he had the best
hair like
the kind of hair
you'd want to
run your hands
through all
night and i could
never keep
my hands off of him
looks down
i've actually
been dreaming of
him and it was
a nightmare
where i was running
until
i run into his arms
and his
naked torso
was brown,
familiar,
warm and
so strong
i rushed into
his embrace
and whispered
let me hold you
it...
i'm getting off track
how to describe
this boy he
had strong arms
and he lifted me
off my feet
quite literally
his thighs were
like metal
and his shoulders
carried
the weight of the
world and
he carried
me
he had this
little spot
in between
his fingers
that i always
had a little
thing for
his smile
oh ****
grips stomach
i think i'm going
to throw up
thinking
of his laugh because
oh ****
it was the most
beautiful
and funny thing
you'd ever hear
he laughed like
the world wasn't
listening
it boomed
and oh my *******
god i can't breathe
clenches teeth
i can hear his laugh
when he
was happy and
so full of
confidence and
joy
holding my
hand as
we walked
out of the
cinema
****
don't remind
me of
the taste
of his LIPS
****
****
sorry
what did he look like,
you ask?
he was...
sits down
sorry
i'm...
things start going dark
****
listen
i don't feel
so well
can you
**** I CAN
FEEL HIM
ON ME
****
listen..
ah..
i...
..."

who are you when you are no one to anyone?
when your relationships cannot defend themselves
when the night closes in and you are not a daughter,
not a sister, not a friend, not a mother, not a lover.

who are you when your achievements sink into the ground
when your trophies and medals and memories of conquer
melt into ash on the floor, swept away by the breeze.

who are you when you have no first name, no last name
when you cannot show a form of identification
no passport, no student ID, no document that can say
look, this is me, this is who i am, this is my identity.

who are you when no one remembers you?
when you are not even a memory of those you once loved
of those you still love; when no one remembers the years or the hours
you spent with them, talked to them, touched them- who are you?

who are you when you are no one to anyone?
not even yourself.
when the world cannot speak for you
when the world cannot remember you
who are you when you have nothing left;
no one left.
who are you,
when you are no one?

i wonder if my name dances round and round in your head like a mantra
i wonder if it pops up in the middle of conversations, if you hear the syllables like a call to prayer
i wonder if it makes you wish you were dead
no; i wonder if it makes you wish i were dead
i wonder if you wake up in the morning and for a quick second you can't remember why you hurt
then loud and clear it shrills, ringing in your head, a reminder of your destruction
i wonder if they ask you why you look so burnt
i wonder if my name whispers itself into your ear but you stay silent
i wonder if it laughs when they tell you that love is the answer
i wonder if it cries when they tell you that love is the devil
do you stand straight like a soldier being called on to the battlefield
when you hear something that rhymes with it
or do you crawl into a hole within yourself and let the moment pass?
does it lull you to sleep late at night when the demons play
does it scream in your head when you're somewhere between life and death?
do you remember my name, my love? do you remember it soft, loud, and alive? do you remember my name, my love, do you remember it well? do you remember my name, my love, because it remembers you. do you remember my name, my love, because it has not forgotten you.

i am in a haze today. it is cloudy and beautiful outside. it is also pressing down on my chest and i struggle for air. i wore your shirt to bed last night and it helped steady my oxygen supply. i wish you were here to say my name and speak to me in my native tongue to remind who i am and where i've come from. i'm forgetting everything, slowly. recreating yourself is only good when you haven't done it five thousand times over. i just want to be me now. but how do i become me if there is no you? pick me up from the library and walk me to class. hold my hand and tell me that you will stay with me no matter how grey the sky is or how cold my fingers feel.