The Night She Called The Stars Out

After a long day, I like to sit alone for a few hours. On a balcony that has shrunk over the years and had the tongues of hemlocks visiting every now and then. Nobody has stepped on that balcony for months, nobody but me.

If you know what fire sounds like at night, when the cold wind blows on it as wood keeps getting thrown in it; then, you know what heartbreak means.

If you have ever sat at night on your own and lifted your head to the skies, hoping to see a few scattered stars but only finding your reflection in the emptiness of what floats on top of you, then you know what loneliness means.

Tonight I sit on the balcony with my music blasting high and my spine fusing with the back of the chair, making us one. I won’t be able to get out after this. There is a fire under my balcony, and all of the neighbors are throwing in their overused furniture and the books they have never bothered to read… And  I am listening to the crackling wood, the burning paper. I turn my head up to the skies as my tears fail to fight against gravity. The foundations are cracking under my feet, and my thighs are blending in with the blue, plastic chair’s feet. I raise my head but there are no stars around to see, and as the stones crack and I’m about to fall, I scream to the sky to bring out the stars… If I’m going to die, I get a last wish. A shooting one:

“When will this hang-over end goddammit.”

Naked Reflections

My tears feel heavy sometimes

when they hang on tired lashes

that want nothing but to protect eyes

that wonder farther than they should.

His time is timeless

but mine is paced

watched

calculated by the minute

and all spontaneous combustions

amount to words discarded in their immediate fashion

a fashion that lacks structure and logic

but holds more than what is said.

He lays his head lightly on my wide shoulders

trying to put down the weight of the world there

but placing the dust of a crumbling world

on an already crumbling one

merely replaces one tuft of dust with another.

Yet he lays his head there

and I think to myself

about the last time I saw someone crumble to ash

in front of me

and rise again   naked enough to almost be whole

and his nakedness helps mine

crawl out of a hibernating state.

Time is only timeless

when you start counting years

you wasted trying to figure out who you weren’t

instead of accepting who you truly are.

I am self-defined and self-evident

in all that I choose not to do

and when I do something

it stems out of affection

dissociated from the nakedness of flesh

that doesn’t involve a woman’s touch

and what I lack in verbal fashion

I make-up for with eyes that see beyond the flesh.

I see everything so vividly

that nameless colors emerge

circling around question marks

you fold yourself into

so comfortably that I feel inadequate at times

in speaking with semi-colons

instead of cut-off full-stops.

All of this doesn’t foreshadow

the truth of the matter:

It is a struggle to be who you are

when all around you

people are trying to figure you out.

 

 

 

On Being A Mobile Object

*sighs*

I want to not be an object of affection to many people, but apparently, it’s not in my hands. Here’s the thing, if you feel something towards someone; then, by all means, go and tell them that. But, don’t bother with someone who isn’t going to bother with you.

*cringes*

Don’t take it personally. I might kiss you, or even be intimate in other ways. But, I won’t be doing that because I’m interested. I’ll be clear enough, by telling you about the girl I’ve been struggling with.

*inhales cigarette smoke dramatically*

Do not offer me your bed.

Do not offer me a head.

I do not need to be fixed or healed.

Do not tell me what feels better, I wouldn’t care anyway.

Do not tell me you feel bad, because I cried all night.

*Exhales smoke from her nostrils*

Do not speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Naked

I’ve never been this naked

I’m comfortable with myself within her radius of being

The pearl grasps life within the radius of the burning Lotus

The flame of affection burns the white lotus till the end of being

And thus, what I say, do, or think does not define me

 

She vividly sees:

Every flaw,

Every tattoo,

Every insecurity.

 

However, there’s a struggle:

We come from different species.

Copulation becomes hard.

Yet we get along very well

It’s not much of a struggle

It’s who we are

It’s how we define ourselves, or at least try to.

And defining one’s self is an ongoing struggle

So, I take my word back

It is a struggle,

but what isn’t ?

 

It’s happening again,

the universe is shaking.

Time for landing outside of time and space.

My head lands a soft landing on her shoulder

and thus the weight of the world on a single shoulder

Non-existence never smelt so nice from where my head rests

the bigger the thought, the softer the landing

She defies logic and the laws of nature once again

On her shoulder, weight seems weightless

Time seems timeless

I look at the clock on the wall,

the arrow stops moving

I stop moving

Everything in the room is static

I’m resting in two pieces

The sweet abyss of life

Nothing can define me now

I’m indefinable

We’re indefinable.

 

I look at her,

With a tear hanging from her eyelash

She vividly sees all that there is to be seen

I’ve never been this naked.

Five P.M With Rona Shalhoub

Rona had a five p.m. appointment with her therapist. It was a Friday. She knew she was going to cancel at four p.m, to call up her friend Bam, have three beers, and 11 shots of tequila. She laid her head on her old pillow and thought about getting a feather stuffed one. She stretched her body on the worn out mattress and wondered how much a medical one would cost.

Rona decided to take a cold shower. She prepared the shower playlist, placed the post-its with the song lyrics written on them inside little baggies. The first song she chose to sing was Thriller by Michael Jackson. She figured she would be able to hit all the hiccup sounds and screeches, and she did – thanks to the cold water.

She locked the door to her shitty apartment and stumbled on Bam’s foot. He stood in front of her, smiling his idiotic smile. She just sighed, grabbed his hand and they both ran towards the bowling bar at the end of the street. Rona knocked on the opaque glass door. Andre opened a tiny hatch, winked at her, and welcomed them in as usual. Being the first costumers every single day, earned them free beer and tequila shots.

Rona’s Casio watch ticked, it was 5 p.m, and she hadn’t called to cancel her appointment yet. Her phone rung the moment that thought crossed her mind.

“Rona, where are you?”

She thought about an answer that wouldn’t sound evasive or rude. “About to get drunk, Tania. How about you call it a day and come join me and a couple of other friends.”

Tania flicked her hair, as if Rona could see her. “You are no longer my patient. I can’t keep on cancelling on other people for you. You never show up. But, yeah, I’ll join for drinks. Where you at?”

Rona smirked. “In that case, you are no longer invited bitch.” And she hung up.

 

 

 

Raging Hormones

They talk a lot

Drink a lot

Fuck a lot

Nag a lot

Raging hormones…

They moan a lot

Sniff a lot

Scream a lot

Lie a lot

Raging progesterone…

They’re always angry

Always right

Always victims

Always under a non-existent spotlight

Always raging

Raging pheromones…

They like faking

Breaking stuff

Breaking people

Being in control

Being out of control

Raging testosterone…

They’re always sexy

Always horny

Always drunk

Always out of thought

Raging progesterone…

And what foolishness is:

Wasting hope among these

Wasting moments

Wasting ink…

 

Soul La Si

Took a seat by my window, in love with a bird
She will come, she will come again
To sing to me, to never read my letters
She is what I’m drinking about
“Come Nightingale ! Night is here
It’s a full sky tonight
Spill your vocabulary down my cheeks
Your incoherent rythm and your double-swing

Don’t tuck your head under your wing
Don’t pretend to be asleep
I have no guns, just some wine..”

There she is ! See her fly
There is no tomorrow in the sky
Every note of every hymn through her beak
Nostalgia, in my heart
A leak

Let me say, and I am sure
When Shakespeare wrote
“I love thee”
He was listening to your
So La Si