Faisal

I can still see the stitches,
little tiny marks that remind me
of the first time we met
and the last time I felt guilt.
This is something true:
I waited in a hospital room
staring at the yellow parts
of my thumb
and hated myself for not
being able to text you back quickly.
I found out two weeks later
that wounds to the tips of
your fingers, on the pad of your thumbs
heal rather quickly.
I found out one year later
that hearts left at trains stations didnt.
I swear I can still see the sutures
and the tiny little holes
that you once kissed and blessed whole
even though i couldn't feel it
and I pretended, just like I do now.
It's funny.
I never thought about the dangers
of loving me, never though about
words being stepping stones
and turning into boulders,
softening into slurs.
We are more than what we've become.
I swear it.
We are stars, picked from the tiniest flames
and molded into something beautiful.
We are little white flags, tattooed and
scarred  and we are little tiny bumps on a page
so that even the blind can feel our shame
and our numbness.
We are tiny little stitches
on tiny little hands
with little white flags
waving surrender.

If you see her...

We carried guilt, folded up
And buried in our closet,
in the shoebox where we kept
Our letters, which were never
Signed 'love' because we
Never wanted to be that vulnerable
Or that taken for granted.
I kept your pictures folded
Into tiny little squares,
Inside a seashell, held up
To my breath like a bullhorn
Calling for last hope.
I tried to bury you..
But I always double back to
Sketch your gravestone and
Pretend you're not lost,
and pretend I'm not lost too.
The things we carried
Are hyphenated and split into
Poised corners of mistrust and
Remembrance, daring our
rigid lips to open up and
say something true.
Truthfully, I never wanted to need you
I never wanted to breathe you in
and use you as my balance beam
when nothing felt like Justice
I didn't want you to hold my hand
and tell me I would never stop writing
There were so many nights when I
drew the letters they laid on top of you
and hoped that they would
reassemble into something more
beautiful. They never did.
So now I carry this rugged note
that only says your name
over and over again
like I'm holding my breath
and dying to wish it true.

Tell her, when she comes, to bring a remedy.

Yes. I bet it stung.
like forcing those last words
to finally slip from your tongue
Don't worry, love
You are no more or less broken
or resilient
than you pretended to be
Before I met you, I was known
by some other girl's name.
You know, the one that made you
feel like you had to fix me
and that one that convinced you
that you could. Someday.
So you see I'm just the same sad song
on repeat and I know how it feels
Believe me. Or don't.
The endings never made sense to you anyway
so you stuffed my
book of poems inside your
book of questions and expected
me to give you all the answers
like they haven't been there all along..
But what you've been reading is
all half-hope and half-lies--
the white kind. They seemed
purer. Or simpler.
But I've never done simple,
never wanted the neatly trimmed
forgiveness and solid lines
I'm attracted to the complications
that formed the boulder sitting
on the tip of your tongue.
I wasn't the only one to sting you
wasn't the only one to leave you
in your dust of mourning
and I won't be the last
So when you ask me why I'm running
I will probably say I'm a fan of history
and I don't want to
break the pattern
'cause it hurts too much to
rip the stitches, love.

Egypt

it's about absolute, random madness
it's about touching fire to fingertips
and trying to write it all down
before it catches your tongue
it's about a frenzy unfolding
molding panic into your lungs
and daring you to exhale

it's the well of doubt, creeping up
and choking out the secret you
never thought you'd have to keep
and the promises you never could

it's the knowing that you know nothing
and finally understanding that
it will always drive you crazy
it's the insanity of fearing the unraveling
even when you know the stitches by heart
and swear every time you know how
to put yourself back together again
it's the 30% chance that your inner self
is gonna seep through the seams
and make a mess of things. again.
it's the dream before the dreaming,
the versus in the verse
the hoarseness in a whisper
the absolute madness

before you realize how much of nothing just happened.