bleeding, three times

I even carried my blood home with me last night. leaving

behind no stain on your too soft bed, despite the slaughter

you had done to my heart and parchment paper uterus.

now watch me as I creep beneath your house premenstrual,

staring at your windowsill: Come see me again, wide open.

Prolifically enlightened, I am only yours to kill.

flattering effects

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the reciprocity

I am a Schrödinger’s conundrum

I want you and do not, both at the same time 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for any of my moves 

when I’m telling you that it takes two to Tango

I might know the steps, yet you sure took the lead 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the fire that I start

I was just about to light another cigarette

to blow some smoke into your face

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the grasp 

by the low-fenced window side

it was wide open and I was close to fall

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the song we sing 

as close as we were that night, you’re not the one 

running in my head, nor breaking my chest 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for my boldness and my courage 

they’re my possessive claims’ only disguise 

washing off beneath your tongue 

.

and don’t you dare try me again –

instead, pretend as if this never was

and we, in fact, did not exist.

as king

as king, do you ever knock?

as king, do you enter her tower

before she has even let her hair down,

or let it grow long enough at all?

as king, is all that ripens, blooms and flourishes,

just for you to pick,

hanging from the tree,

rooted in the paradise you claim to own?

as king, do you treat her like

the medium rare deer on your plate,

like something to be covered in sauce,

to be devoured, like prey?

as king, do you ever mistake

greed for lust,

boorishness for decency,

and bluntness for sincerity?

as king, does your keen eye drift

in boredom as I write,

onto another soft-curved creature,

hedged in the wilderness you roam?

as king, do you ever call out for the queen,

just to hear her voice, hear what she has to say?

and when she answers back,

will you listen, too?

as king, can you sit tight, tighter?

as king can you pull yourself together?

as king, can you begin by

asking?

ventilator effects

there is pressure on my diaphragm

like right before a free fall,

before I cry, throw up,

or laugh hysterically.

my head hums to flickering eye lids

as there’s a sparkly liquid

running down my spine and stomach wall.

it is coming from my head, I think.

 

these sure are just the side effects

of your new ventilator.

It must have been,

the rhythmed blasts of air

towards our locked hands,

heavy breathing,

and our beating hearts,

that cause me so much pain today.

formication

a chain of people holding hands in Lebanon

–dozens of kilometers, I heard–

the book vendor’s voice as she elaborates on some Norwegian novel

–I never read it in the end–

his pink shirt smelling of a wooden wardrobe and Chanel

–it used to intensify toward his wrist–

people singing well on casting shows

–although I really do not care–

Snow Patrol on gravel-grounded morning walks

–sound and pulse and volume–

breathing in snow-pregnant winter air

–I could taste it when I was a kid–

the morning we began this list, high on caffeine and in love

–unlike you, the formication did return–

May be a reminder

maybe you never were

more than a reminder

of the  sugar cravings

I’d oppressed ever since

I was thirteen years old

 

maybe I never was

meant to pick her amber

hair off your cardigan

as you put too much fake

honey in my flat white

 

maybe my body was just not

ready to endure more

winter days in May

that seemed so cold to you

and awfully close to me

 

and surely it’s not you

who’s lying here right now

since you’re 8000 miles away

while I am in my childhood bed

again – clutching a hand that is not yours

posthuman

we multiply ontologies

and contemplate democracy

as though we were protagonists

transcending the anthropocene

we bended the whole universe

to hotheads and denialists

radically–rapidly

we strangled what was possible

whatever we could grasp

merged our bodies with

the running room to be

to live in ruptures, live like rats

in blind spots of the junk

expose the monsters we’d become

lurking in the dark

as incarnations of their fantasies

we’ll be crawling out in swarms

from the shades our childhood beds still cast

χαμαιλέων chamailéōn

I am

the earth.

 

I’m the Lion

who arouses.

 

I am a contrast

to the place I claim.

 

I’m what they call converse,

like a chameleon,

 

Dressed in anti-camouflage.

I am in your zone, exposed

 

to all the offerings of yours,

of which you had not known before

 

you saw me in the crowds — sticking out.

tattoos

falling in love is

like the tattoo

you want to inject

under your skin.

a narrative which

I will wind

around your

silky forearm hair,

your dimples

and your heated chest.

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