On this day celebrating
or reproaching love, I can only
recall each year you were still here,
clutching a fragrant bouquet for mom

never mind the allergies that flared
even as she, beaming, placed each
one in the dark green sturdy vase
certain to hold the life within

Now she sits in the gloom
of a room that is too cold, empty
nester forced to befriend the shadows
and suppress the urge to burrow

into small cracks, senses heightened
with the absence of those fragrant
bouquets that never failed to remind her of the fullness of home, of you

So cut me into pieces then
Grab my hair, my head and hands
And bury them deep
6 feet under where
I will not rest nor will I sleep

Tortured within this system
A living doll played by sick men
Men waiting to die like me
Standing in line to die next
Like I have

I have died a million times
Each in the wounded hearts of every little girl
Been sliced in ruin with no words
To speak, to sing or carry this song

No not for me—they move along
The dead can't speak
Only eyes from a mother's son
Oh, how they will keep

Keep and keep and keep
Greedy little calloused hands
Attached to those who
Deserve such bitter ends

You have taken everything
Played with this corpse too long
Decay and decompose what
Little life may I bring

You have swallowed them whole
No sweet, soft sounds
Only hellish cries that grow
From bloodthirsty hounds

And Gods, you have taken
Every little ******* thing
From us—the dead
who can no longer sing.

Where the olive groves wane, flesh rinds rain down at dawn.
Winds carry stories of loss and of longing – another salaam is withdrawn.

Stunted bones wrapped in leather, bodies in tethers,
Crowds rushing to trucks in the vineyard - another Shalom is withdrawn.

Amal torn from irises, “fa inna ma ‘a l-‘usri
Yusra,” Surah Ash-Sharh says. Ya reet for al watan withdrawn.

The figs and the poppies have burned with the bodies.
Shabah and ramad fade, ride the sea winds to Allah - withdrawn.

Seraphim bring their hellfire, glass the grounds of
The prophets. Smoke welcomes new settlers at dawn.

I stand by the river
Then strip off my flesh
Place it neatly by the trees
So the mud can digest it
For their fruitful ambitions
Then I slip down to the river
My bones soak in
The air, the wind, the land
The flesh waits as it gets eaten
By the worms
I watch it all
And shout
“Leave no crumbs behind, please!”
Then the water enters my skull
The wind takes in each bone
And kisses it bit by bit
Breathing it
And I believe I have tasted
Freedom.

Our true self is so far from us,
that it doesn't even know that we exist.

Upon the supernal court,
Love, facing Death,
Spits obscenities and cries:

“Thou shalt be forsaken for thy thefts;
I see thou art but a thief,
Taketh life and giveth grief.
Beauty thou knowest not,
Turning wood to ash, and man to rot.”

Death, as cold as night,
Responds soft, a quiet croon:

“I am not a thief, for when it's dark,
The sun is not taken, but changed for the moon.”

When the Red Death held sway over us all
There is no pain
There is no remorse for life
Only blood flowing down lucidly
And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

When he jumps off the 13th floor
Does he feel the wind
Freeing him
Or does he see blood oozing out
As his flesh slumps in it
Like a sleeping infant?
And he seeks refuge in it
Every time

When he cut his ear
Did the blood rush to his head
Or hands first?
Did he pour it into a cup
Or let it speak lazily?

Do you bathe in the very blood
That forms you
Or eat yellow paint instead,
Van Gogh style?
Do you let the waves brush you
Or build another door
That doesn’t tower over you?
Do you let the shadows watch you
Or do you sip your drink
And wait for all your hallucinations
To come alive?

And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.

The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.

I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.

And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.

I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.

And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.