it all happens so fast
you almost look a little blue, baby
“here’s where the language barrier gets us”
you laugh now, but as you say that
your eyes are glued to the ground

when does every lovely thing break into shards?
always looking for the beginning of the end
this isn’t the way. hammer in your hand—
tear it all down, i say.
i’m done with this house of mirrors.

don't you almost feel a bit
like the guy who discovered fire?
there’s poetry before you fall asleep next to him
and there’s poetry after it.
the latter which is all worthless, of course.

turns out it’s rather comforting
to look in the mirror and see someone
other than yourself.
to see you, darling boy.

to see you.

can you tell my teeth are clattering?
taking your hand by the wrist, placing it
on the soft underside of my stomach
where only soft tissue lies between vital organs
and the negligible possibility of your cruelty,
i am letting you know: this is enough
to make the old animal of my body shake in fear.
keep your hands right there until they’re warm.
you can have this. you can have me.

will you stay after the curtains are down?
after taking their bows, i swear,
even the greats still look like people.
the well-dressed stranger in front of you at the checkout.
your cousin’s old piano teacher. and there’s a reason
why celebrity gossip sells more than the local newspaper.
here's the thing. you want to bare the darkness, the cancer;
to be loved, desperately, despite the horror of it.
but no one's ever willing to be the emperor --
you want to be the child, clothed.
tattling fingers forever raised.

it's always just been fog machines and fitting costumes.
your eyes, sharp and weary, search for a way
past the infinite charades, beyond the gaze of the winged,
half-lion abomination.
and i think i finally understand.
because your hands are shaking, too, as you tell me:
neither of us are destined for godhood.
next time, i’ll call you when i’m sick.
next time, i’ll take you grocery shopping.
tomorrow, i’ll kiss you in the morning and it won’t taste like mint.

my vision blurs and refocuses around the sight of tamed blue fire. i am waiting for the low wheezing sound of the kettle as my mind wanders everywhere i wish it not to go. there was always tea ready for me at my therapist’s office; i think that’s where it started. we used to talk about my parents a lot, me and my old therapist. i remember telling her this one time: I love like my dad. I rage like my mom. she asked me to elaborate and i couldn’t give her much more to write down in her little notepad. i wish i’d said something about how sometimes i wish oranges could grow out of apple trees.

this is one of those days. every move i make has been pre-programmed. i grab a mug from the cabinet. i place it down on the counter. i am trying very hard not to cry. the teabag bobs to the surface so i stick my trembling finger in the water, i drown it until skin turns red and sore, and i’m thinking, You know, maybe I’m not so above it all (hurried whispers, clashing teeth, the hesitant theatre we make out of our long-starving hands). Maybe i need it, very badly. but then again, i’m not bad at being in love; it’s the being loved part that always gets me.

it's funny, isn't it? the paralyzing, nauseating threat of requited affection. funny if you’re the dissector and not the dissectee, that is. ****, but isn’t that what we all want? to be seen? for someone to finally notice everything we love about ourselves and love everything we hate about ourselves? would i not rather see myself through the reflection of your eyes than my own, unforgiving? sharp bathroom LEDs can’t ever beat half-dark and candlelit. see, i know that much. but such is life. some people will walk towards the light and some people will run from it.

from the bottom of my cup, the teabag stains clear water a dark, muddy brown.

i take a step outside in the city of dust and bones.
the game it likes to play goes something like this:
every passage i uncover leads to a narrower one, and
each candle blown is a promise of darkness ahead.
it's a game of shells where my feet can never, ever
take me far enough before they outgrow my shoes.

the first rule of the game is to never stop walking.
the second rule is to keep your ears closed shut.

i wake up once more in the city of dust and bones.
where my eyes cannot be trusted; where my hands
don't quite do what they are supposed to be doing.
where, like beasts, we can only stand and watch
while the will of some ******* god is viciously carried out.
(by that, of course, i mean the same old game called

Power and Whoever Doesn't Have It;
the one with the never-ending shells. you would know it.)

in this city, my rotting city of dust and bones,
i am always irrational and stupid;
i am always the child who can't ever shut her mouth.
and here my head is turned all the way backwards:
nose always pointing towards the footprints i left
when shells turned into sand under my weight. and i wonder:

how far can my feet carry me before i know where i stand?
before the best thing about life are not its countless distractions?

yesterday, i choked up my heart and placed it in your hands. my whole self phased in and out of existence but you just kept talking. not a single look before putting it down, a used up, pulsing thing, on your bedside table: a glass of water, half-full; a statement earring without its pair.

i thought maybe you hadn’t noticed it. which is strange, naturally; mostly because i know i would have. i have never liked to be handed things and much less to be in control. and yet i write. what is poetry, if not the art of plucking on heartstrings? if not learning how to make souls sing? it’s power, too, a type of hunger as well as any other — albeit painted in gold. i will say this: a beast, touched by Midas, still has teeth.

but what’s really amazing about this is that tomorrow, tomorrow it will still be there — my heart — spilling blood and making a mess out of your hardwood floors. you’ll make a face when it gets your socks wet and I'll apologize, pale-faced and mortified, yes, but mostly out of habit. you’ll nod, and I'm thinking, really? a singular nod? that’s how this great crusade, this blundering shitshow of a circus act ends? i won’t say it, of course. and we’ll keep on walking around and dragging red everywhere with our elbows and our feet.

you’ll gather it on the tip of your fingers and doodle something on the wall. A heart. and it's nothing like the real thing but i'll still smile. It looks beautiful, darling. you’ll look away, then — how polite! — as i pick up the offending thing and force it back in between unyielding ribs. this is how it ends. this is when the curtains fall, the painter becomes the life model, the petals turn to dust. a secret message, written in the sand, is too forgotten by the wind.

my mother dreams of apocalypses.
every night she watches
as the world falls to ruins at her feet;
and every time, she tells me,
there’s a strange sense of peace
as her shoulders bear the weight of the sky.

in my nightmares there’s no peace,
no heroics; i dream of pain and
of heels hitting the cold earth;
at night i'm pursued and hurt —
a scrappy child, all teeth and wide-eyed fear
power stripped away from small,
helpless hands.

does that make her paranoid?
or does it make me selfish? no matter.
lately you’re in all my dreams;
you never hurt me in those.
it’s nice. and i know being needed
would be the most beautiful thing
but i’m not the child. i’m not dreaming.
time will ruin us in the end.

i’ll see your eyes in the dregs of my coffee;
my hands will itch to remind me
how to dial your phone number and God,
i know, i know that in my deathbed
my fingers will tap the Moonlight Sonata;
they’ll trace your birthdate in cursive
on the white sheets below my slowing heart.

i’ll remember when you called me pet
then i’ll take off my sweater. yes,  
that time when you pulled my hair?
my body went limp —
a rag doll, a disgrace of a child —
laid out bare on the slab of stone.
i’ll think of you ’til i’m stupid and numb:
sand in my mouth and you put it there.

no, i will keep my terrible secret
as if it is not enclosed in glass.
because she looks nothing like me,
and what i feel can’t quite be
described as relief. but no matter.
whether you’re unaware or uncaring
deceit is so easy
except when it comes to you,
except when it comes to you.

i’m sure of it now: there is something
Wrong about the shape of my bedroom
(has been for a while now);
from the hinges in the door to the
Dust that lingers on top of my piano
even after i’ve cleaned it,
rubbed it raw, pungent citrus smell, black keys
turned opaque and dull and dusty.
i see it everywhere, now: a pale,
god-awful dust,
tickling my throat as i breathe it in.

lately i find myself longing for that quiet,
blurry daze: for that one time I was 10 and
fell asleep, face up
under the early afternoon sun,
woke up half-blind with the brightness,
stood up as if underwater,
heat-sluggish and *****-sated,
Static. the air I breathed was heavy, but clean.
i think I was at my aunt’s -
no, the beach. Anyways.
(even my dreams look way too sharp now,
high-def, white LED lights.
everything's so terribly real. i'm so tired)

i'm not really sure where I begin
maybe under that warm, forgiving sun 7 years ago
or facing of a row of therapists
some good, some bad, all of them in one same
cold, white room where all the lights are on me,
i'm half-blind again
but they tell me to dance to the sound of
sympathetic words and thoughtful silences—
i'm waltzing with a plastic smile;
i'm dragging my body on the stage.
but in my dreams i (like the red dress)
stretch and stretch and stretch until I
can't quite face myself in the mirror;
until i'm not sure where i ever end.

i forgot to tell them about the dress.
yesterday my mom gave me a new dress -
a new red dress, sweetheart neckline -
i ran long bony fingers along its lovely stitches,
held it to my body in the mirror. And i knew, then -
even now i know -
what it will feel like, look like,
frayed and worn: muted red
delicate seams stretched, sandpaper thin,
******* dust clinging all over it.
i couldn't put it in the wash. it’s part of the process.

can you hear the awful drums?
they're telling us that things will never
         ever be the same again -
so they beat, the exact same rhythm
as the blood clogging my ears.

let's take the method
right out the madness, shall we?
          laughter won't feel half as good
          once the last bit of wine has left my throat;
the sacred chalice shattered long ago.

a tall man comes my way, hands and face
          stained with ichor. oh,
now i see that alien glow more clearly!
it sits behind his eyes, sways along
with the light reaching through the leaves outside.

          oh, but i do wish, i wish, i wish
that things hadn't ended this way.
i wish the fates had reached
          some sort of agreement, you see -
                in this matter between you and me.

no point dwelling in what's gone,
and i'm quite sure i won't be here long enough
      to hear the last of the chants.
              and you know, and i know you know
              it would be rotten, rotten work any other way.

there's no limit to what i'd do
to keep this little game of ours going.
you don't wanna know how far i'd go.

yes, i'll keep on trailing you;
for although hope lies beyond the finish line
no ending is better than an empty one.

we'll stall this thing a while longer, so please
let go for just a second; i think that you could stand
to take a small lesson. no, you can keep
holding on to the chain. forget i ever said it.

the night sky reminds me of that one time -
i'm sure you remember, you still have the scar -
eighteen thirty-four, the city was on fire
along with our skins; along with your disguise.

i've never seen rage burn so pretty
in someone's eyes before, you know.
you lean in and i'm not quite sure
if i'll survive to see another day.

and i ask you: do you like what you see?
you answer with a blade to my neck.
eloquent as always, my love, although
are you sure you could stand the silence?

there's nothing i can trust you with
so just take everything. i'm yours to ruin
yours to love and
yours to desecrate.

my mind's a mess, so break it.
i'll pray for my own demise.
will there be revenge, oh cruel god,
will there be mercy tonight?

tell me all about your world so
i won't need eyes to see.
if my legs take me away from you
take them away from me.

tear my temple's walls apart and
usurp the **** throne!
what other gods are there besides you?
what better sacrifice than my bones?

yes, i know how much you like blood, for
there's no blade sharper than your tongue.
so whisper your sweet barbs on my skin
and watch it flood my lungs.

i taste the metal in my mouth
before i am reborn-
sharp breath, blurred sight.

focus back into the soft turn
of your cruel eyes,
all sins repented; all is right.

we stay up all night
for no particular reason, and you tell me
all sorts of things that i want to hear
and it's funny because (like a little inside joke)
you know what you're doing. you know
that i know what you're doing.
but you tell me anyway, because
the black mold on your ceiling is shaped like a heart.
because your favorite character from that one show
you can't stop thinking about
reminds you of me. and i wanna tell you to stop,
i wanna make you wish you were here
just to shove my head on the ground
by my hair, rip my lying tongue out with teeth -
but why should i care?
(masque ou décor, salut!)
baby, if we're gonna break each other apart
we better make it count.
the pain better be what it takes
to grind a billion galaxies into a single
aching spot of phenomenal heat.

we'll restart the universe with this. but meanwhile,
did you know (it's funny, like an inside joke)
that pain means bread in french?

my grasp on her glass of water clanks and
      clatters like shackles,
resonates savagely for miles and miles.
until it reaches my mirror and becomes
      too red to hear;
i hadn't realized the water had reached my eyes
i couldn't know that it was so near.

saw this in the news, my darling, thought
      you might be interested -
but all the sounds from my window are muffled
by the ringing inside my ears.
hope they reach you well, i hope that you
      are well. can't check for myself.

(the dried tubers have always been enough so i never
ever asked for violets)

Time came back once again, daughter,
he left a red smudge on your chair's left arm.
it catches on my hair as I fling
      arms and legs over stained upholstery;
eyes outstretched to the ceiling (an offering:
      to whichever gods are still left.)

how unlike stars we are!

they have been there
for longer than the soil
under your feet can remember.
their timid flicker constant before our eyes,
an eternal pattern drawn on the dark skies.
while we, ephemeral beings, are born and die,
stars, forever above, watch, wise.

and yet, as the night falls,
as those stars seemingly shine
in perfect and close union,
in truth, they are most scattered
across the infinite Space.
while some, as far as can be,
are woven into mystical fabric
on the frontiers of the Universe
others are just within
a single galaxy's reach
(oh, to stretch my arms above
and touch a star's warm fingers!)

so when we lay our small heads
on the pliant grass
and turn our eyes up to the night sky;
when we see constellations made from those
eternal diamonds of light,
in truthful honesty,
we see a lie.
for stars are, for what it counts,
entirely alone.

(perhaps we are not so unlike stars, after all.)

listen to me! we heard him cry,
a blur against the steel-blue Dusk.
but no one would take any warnings
against what we had learned to trust.

the gentle lies we tell ourselves!
lest we endure the stab of truth.
now they were naught but strangled ashes
which had once worn the mask of hope.

from the warm fire of our people
drops of wax flowed down, like tears
and they asked me: "why do you cry?"
"well", i answered,
with my hands blue, and my eyes wide,
"i've held on to the truth for too long now."
and there was no escaping Time.

i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin  
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea

i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"

i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back

i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.

Ladies and gentleman!
Welcome aboard Life Air flight 493.
We are sorry for the delay - of 9 months - in our departure,
but believe me,
it's better in here
than in the outside.

Ladies and gentleman!
There is no safety instruction card in the pocket of the seat in front of you.
There are no guidelines, no rules, no help.
Life is chaos and it is cosmos;
Not black and white, but a blurry grayscale
No x and y axis values you can plot and predict
Just a weird steering wheel
and a lot of dubious buttons.
(it’s not as easy as it seems in action movies!)
For life does not come with a manual.

Ladies and gentleman!
In case of emergency, oxygen masks will drop down in front of you.
If you are traveling with someone, please attend yourself first.
Sometimes, you'll find people who you think are
more worth saving than you are
but breathe.
let the air fill your lungs, overflow.
until it reaches them.
You can't help others when you're drowning.
You can't lean on others when they're also on the water.
You can't love others when you don't love yourself.
Because when you take your last breath
you'll remember
you never got your own life jacket.

Ladies and gentleman!
Keep the shades on your windows lifted at all times.
Even though you are scared of what's outside,
pull up your shades.
Look at the funny-shaped clouds
and the passing cities below you,
Take close attention to all the tiny cars and tiny people
and the dollhouse sized problems.
because we will not be turning back.
Open your windows.
You will see tragedy and hurt and war.
Broken hearts that may or may not belong to you,
broken souls that you can not always cradle in your arms.
Oceans of blood, bright scarlet
contrasting against the otherwise beautiful seashores.

Ladies and gentlemen:
We will be taking off shortly. Please make sure that your seat belt is securely fastened. Thank you.