Your first taste
made the aftertaste
bittersweet.
On your hands,
the gleam of a silver tray.
On your lips,
red thread,
tied to my lips.
Promises exchanged in dark corners,
your shadow consoling mine.
Grey fields bloomed in colors bold.
In time, the thread grew taut,
cut by the blade in your hand.
A love once cherished,
now perished in fading colors.
Only a lingering taste remains.
Bittersweet.

Wrapped in my warmest wool blanket,
coldness resides in my veins.
My body aches for your embrace,
to revel in warm memories.
It was just a one time mistake...
The ghost of your cologne,
lingering faintly above the detergent’s scent,
makes my nausea strangle with warning.
You don’t love me- otherwise your
scent wouldn’t be on her bed too.

—Betrayal is not a mistake; it's a choice that reveals character.

your own demons
give you strength
when there’s no one
to hold onto
that’s why they’re
so hard to let go.
your demons reek fire,
and your energy flares to life,
angry hatred is stronger than ever.

I see some kids heading home from school,
bent over from the weight on their backpack.
In Palestine, children bear the politician’s schemes on their backs.
And bend further down,
grieving their parents’ lifeless forms.
Children, who used to be whole,
have their limbs torn off,
skin hanging from their faces and hands.

On my visit to the shop,
I see a kid throwing a tantrum over not getting sweets.
In Palestine, children hear cries of the wounded,
screaming for help.
While the world stands silent, aid delayed.
Red capes, a stone in their hands and a imaginary knife in their
teeth, they die as martyrs.

Politicians, no way you’d wield ruthless might,
If they were white children in your sight.

The walls of stone staggered,
as those innocent looking eyes
sought an entry
into my inner world.
If a brick was dislodged,
the whole fence fell.
If a spring flower blossomed
out of an icy condition.
“Pluck it out, stomp on it.”
The manner in which he spoke,
its softness, its kindness a ruse.
Walls of stone crumbled.
Ice dissipated into mist.

Closed my eyes, my ears,
and shut out all my senses.
He reached out,
brought me a bouquet of spring flowers,
and a rhythm of the seasons.
A man like that was worth a chance.

Our of nowhere, invisible hands grab me.
Fingers sharpened to tiny needles stabbing me all over.
Internal bleeding I beg could finish me off.
My lungs burn for life,
but I burn for limited air supply.
My legs itch to run,
but I know better than to try again.
****** footsteps leave traces
for the invisible hands to find me again.