Listen. I am pure woman-ness. I am chaotic, I’m a mess. I am breathy happiness. I am not your princess.
— Rawa Majdi
_______________________________________________________
A sinking of the chest, heart, or area undefined. Bars, imprisonment, and I knew of nothing else. Dragged by the locks and my eyes finally saw this world. Bombs in the well, a sky too high, or your abusive touch. I was afraid of nothing, anymore.
________________________________________________________
Sleep. Why are you losing the battle to images so black and white? Dwell in my mind before these freaks demand of colorful screenplay. Notorious is the desperate beginning, devilish plot, and cringing end of this film- save the world. Put me to rest and save the world.
_______________________________________________________
Half of my bones were missing somewhere and I lacked the power they say I was to have but I kissed you with a passion known to my own mind and soul. I transferred all my vibes and rhythms to the lips, body, and miracle I held in my arms- you. The energy was too rich, bathed nudity of my authentic self. Affliction of pain for a man like you.
_________________________________________________________________
My life may reside in you, your life may reside in me, and we, both, may not even know this. We have gotten so used to living, we may not recognize how easy it is to die.
__________________________________________________________________
To expect from yourself to give to yourself without disconnecting from yourself could not be so difficult. Lady, you are working all within your own self, you have no external work to do. Self-serve is a luxury so say, how have you lost pieces of yourself while being so solely involved with your own mind, body, and soul?
__________________________________________________________________
You miss your days, don’t you, old guy? As you sit here amongst people of your age, you must think of your old days as well. After all, once upon a time you were famous. Ego must have crawled within your keys and hence, you began to play around with the typist. You made fun of her pointy, flared nose by refusing to capitalize the “w” of her name- Whitney.
_____________________________________________________
“That ocean isn’t far from where I live” you hear her say everyday, hoping she might take you back one day. Laying around her “toolbox” for five years, refusing to produce wave sounds, you’ve stayed stubborn, sea shell. Only I know, being the star beside you, that you’ve forgotten the sounds by the seashore. Today, you listen to her heels tapping by the entrance door.
_____________________________________________________