Poetry

because we cannot do this again.

we are tired of giving our lives up 

so you can play at governance. 

we are tired of pretending that war is a toy

you can wind up and watch. 28.5 million lives

The door isn't one I can see,

Yet it grows, shifts, and deforms.

When I started there was only silence,

But everyday its volume grows.

The door started empty,

But over time it crescendoed.

Sometimes driving makes me wonder 

Sitting in a big tin box, travelling faster than a hare

Until I reach traffic and crawl along slower than a tortoise

We spend so, so much time

Moving from one place to another

I don't know why

but something in me loves

to dance

just out of death's grasp

to let an inch decide my next breath

it makes me feel

in control 

as I swerve and dodge the line

There was a girl.

Dancing with the little kids,

and smiling.

He,

the one watching her,

forgot what it was like to be happy like that.

She, 

the girl,

reminded him.

sometimes it doesn't make sense

did these women pay attention to the fact that they were non consensually kissed

or did no one else in the kingdom have the same shoe size as cinderella?

I sit with a smile on my lips, my brother—Abu—

beside me as the kettle begins to sing.

Moomins fill the screen, hattifatteners too.

The TV light painting over my blue.  

I’ve had pomegranates twice in my 17 years.

Each time, I was awed at how 

something with such a mysterious foreign air

 could hold so many intricate bursts of joy. 

All I’ve got is the shell:

I always thought it would be like the movies

Beach trips and ice cream

Field trips and cheering on sports teams

Late nights with fairy lights

My first kiss

That feeling of bliss

It’s not

Before you were sick, you were ignorant. For all the words and sentences you had accumulated, your consciousness was blank; unmarked snow covering scarred earth below. Before you were sick, you were cocooned.

"Happy New Year!"

"I got a little lost; can you show me the way?"

"Inauguration day is just around the corner!"

"Welcome to eleventh grade. You're almost out!"

"Hi, my name's what's your name? 

It’s a skull-shaped pot of wilted flowers on the porch waiting for the tide to rise, pick it up, and take it away to Dreamland, where it belongs.