WHAT THE SUN DOES
This is how the sun reminds
me of hell, everyday.
It pours its heat on the
soil to burn my sole and soul.
My body is butter.
The sun snogs me with hotness
and I become a lonely woman
whose vagina is awaiting
the company of her husband.
A boy once stared into my eyes
and prayed to me to let him
dip his index finger into me.
But I told him
butter kept under a scalding sun
is not meant to be touched,
you watch it die— and let it
find life again at the feet of sunset.
The boy stared at me again;
this time like he saw dark letters
of rejection brightening my face.
The sun climbed down my body
to create a shadow out of the boy.
BULLETS
I don’t know
what to call this.
All I know is that
there is this attraction
between my body and bullets.
I’ve heard of men
who defended themselves
with bullets.
I’ve hears of men
who won wars within themselves
with bullets.
But, here I am,
thinking of muting my body
with bullets.
This body doesn’t worth
self defense.
This body doesn’t worth
winning wars.
It is an incomplete building
stuffed with broken bottles,
ugliness, dirt, with no windows.
This building can never
own completion because
there will never be enough
resources to complete it…
except bullets; one or two.
When will you understand that
sometimes, gunshots are
noises that stop other noises?
MAR THE MAP
Sometimes,
scars do not heal.
they make us Ill and drag us to
young graves. The scars
on my body are
traps looking like maps,
leading strangers into different cities of ruins. I don’t want their feet there.
So, I try to put a closure on this fissure. But these strange legs
still open them with toes. Sometimes, no matter how many bandages you use to cover scars, something will still open them
and make them strive for air.
I saw a billboard:
“Give destruction to every part of the path leading to destruction.
Mar
the
Map!”
So I… So I… So I…throw
this body into fire like pieces of pitiful papers.
Who wants to see proofs of his own destruction?