Liberated

He looks at me.

 

Eyes gliding from the top of my

Mucky head

To the bottom of my

Hairy knees.

 

Wanting to stop and enjoy the view

But finding nothing sweet to gnaw on.

 

He can’t destroy me.

 

I am finally free.

Advertisements

A Eulogy for Qandeel Baloch

(This is a rough draft- I’m not finished editing the poem!)

You had all of the

Celebrity

But none of the

Power.

You laughed at men

Who wanted to kill you

Who wanted to fuck you

Who didn’t know that you

Existed outside of that

Binary

Who had never seen anyone

Quite

like

you.

Death waiting for you on their knuckles

Choking you before you can smirk.

Their fathers told them to

Destroy what they desire.

You said it yourself,

We will have to wait 100 years

For you to return.

Until then,

I will light candles next to your pictures

At the ofrenda I built for you.

Come dance with the dead for a night

Among the marigolds.

Your dress spreading the burning sage

Across the sky.

Anticlimactic

On the verge of exploding out of my fingertips

But I lose my grip and the magic drains out of me

Through my mouth.

Making a sound you can barely hear.

 

Almost, but not quite

Has become the rhythm I tap my foot to.

 

Present. Past. Future.

I.

They tell me that my name is Savage.

Their alabaster hands grab at my arms and legs

As they straighten my back and tie cloth around my breasts.

Our contrasting skin colors leave me wondering how to get that perfect shade of

Nothing.

10 chalky fingers press against my mouth to make me forget how to cry

They tell me that they are teaching me how to live in peace

But is this body worth living in

If all I leave behind is an empty bed?

 

II.

They tell me that I was born from the dirt.

They don’t want me to remember my grandfather’s face

Or my grandmother’s spells.

I see their bodies relax when they look into my eyes and find nothing left.

 

III.

They smile when I tell my daughter that her name is Savage too.

Origin Stories, Part II

Emilia was just so boring and typical.

She wanted to move out of her hometown to go to college in a big city, live in a loft and write serious poetry. As she Googled “colleges in NYC,” she adjusted her big horn-rimmed glasses. Though she was thirsty for originality, she just could not stop trying to emulate Blair and Dan from Gossip Girl. She wanted to be an It Girl and a precocious writer at the same time. Both her bookcase and her clothing closet were ready to burst.

Nothing

I am unraveling like ribbons on a ballet shoe.

My skin sighs the sigh it held in for years and hands reach

For the night sky to grasp the sweet emptiness.

Finally, I am nothing

But still something to you-

I want you to discard the memories of me like you would a dirty napkin.

The ripping hurt, I know

Your essence tried to devour me, make me lost in you

Dizzy me so I couldn’t find my way out.

But now

Finally, I am nothing

 

Frequent Stranger

I steal little pieces of every city that I visit/ find the strangest things in the darkest places/ one woman didn’t even notice when I took her good graces/ Took them past the city limit/ Into another unfamiliar town

 

*my attempt at rhyming*