for fear of being one, for fear of becoming one, The Ingrate; poetry series.
The same tree branch can birth
A gypsy, a soldier, a colonel, and a burnt hand
They are all ingrates
Except for the soldier
who returns
after war
The colonel
A loud execution, a pushing out by the women
He sought to protect
The gypsy, a standby
Grit and strength
To sell his body
And the burnt hand
Docile
Scorched by death
Have you tried to replicate a house?
Have you tried to replicate a house that took years to build, in just a month?
You watch your mom long enough you think you’re brave enough
Have you tried to find god in the new house you built?
Your mom has got a chokehold on him
Have you tried to convince your mom that you were a virgin?
She found the pregnancy test receipt
Have you tried to convince a good fuck to date?
Turn a good fuck into good conversation
Have you been so incredibly shy as to
Not text back
Not find god
Not pay your rent
You conniving ingrate
You shy one
You withholder
Are you so shy– is that why you stay back in your mother’s house?
And who is he, if he’s not a ring on your finger
And who is he, a good fuck, good conversation
Where is God? Did you find him at a party?
Does he have a ring on his face?
Have you been so incredibly shy as to
Keep love on your thighs
Keep love in between your thighs
Keep love from me? Your mom?
Keep god
Keep house
Keep virgin
Keep shy
Stay shy
26-04-2025
Under my shirt there’s
Under my shirt there’s my skin
Under my skin is my heart
Under my heart are corners,
that when conjured up run into the surface of my being.
You’re in a corner and you come out at the mention of “relationship.”
Under my shirt is my skin
Under my skin is my heart
Under my heart is our relationship,
a dirty secret.
Clean shirt, dirty secret
Dirty heart, clean relationship.
I soiled you.
On my skin. A crevice.
I fold my mother there
She pinches me
I keep my shirt on
I keep my mother on
When you touch me
You touch my mother
She is disgusted
but I forget that, when I take my shirt off.
Under my shirt is my skin
Under my mother is a blaring wound inflamed like my womb when my period skips
there is no blood just inflammation
Under my womb is my relationship
an entry point into you
an entry point into us,
I use my womb to access you
Mother, lover.
Under my skin is my heart
there is no blood just inflammation
No kinship no wed no offspring
Just the pulsing
Just the contracting upon entering
Under my shirt is my skin
أكلتك وشربتك ولبستك
أكلتيني وشربتيني ولبستيني
وحطيتيني تحت باطك
من بعد رحمك، ارحميني
خليهن يدسوني
سكري الباب
حاجي تنبشي
I can’t keep soiling my lovers shirts
I can’t keep you in a crevice for a lover to find
Over my heart is my skin
On my shirt is my mother
and I am naked now.
15-03-2025
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