Sleepless on the Horizon

Cold cornerstones of this city

Are not a comfortable perch

The wind renders me invisibly disposable

and my heart in its desolation lurks,

waiting around street corners

For the first available turn

to declare its existence

Sleepless on the horizon,

purple, awake insecure.

Scraped bucket bottoms

To catch subway trains

Speeding against the concrete breeze,

Leaving behind specks of urban rapture

I’m running past my feet

Scream into the silence

Where no one listens

As Life bites at my heels

As Life bites at my heels

This world is not my home I know

Despite this I confess

This bruised beating heart needs its hope

In the assurance of eternal rest

Between the parted lips of heaven and hell

the water is so blue

Grant me comfort underneath the stars

A teardrop closer to you

A teardrop closer to you

Nearer my God to Thee

I’ve finally reached the shore

Borne all I could

I paid the price

To leave this body here

To be baptised

in the crimson of the sunset sky

Cleansed until

My tears were dry

No longer

Sleepless

Sing lullabies

Sink safely down to sleep

Sink safely down to sleep

Sleepless on the horizon

Your eyes they search for me.

Your eyes they search for me.

My Name is A Form of Resistance

My name is a form of resistance
Against the anglicanization
and exotification

Of a body and a struggle

You don’t even have the

Syllables

To comprehend.

My name is a form of resistance

Because my mother

Named me for my Homeland.

She named me

to belong

No matter where

my feet would find me.

My name is a form of resistance

Because I was blessed in birth

To embody an oral history
that was kissed to my forehead
like a prayer
joining

Air and Earth
to Flesh and Blood.

My name is a form of resistance
Because it means hope and aspiration

in Sanskrit

across the Crimson scars you have left

on the faces of those

who have tried

to Rise.

My name is a form of resistance so

just because

You cannot pronounce it

Does not give You the right

To dismiss it

Or erase it

And then make me feel like

Suddenly

It doesn’t fit.

Because I respond to my name,

Battle cries,

I take charge in my name.
I am blessed unlike those

Who don’t need a face and story

To ground them to a history they see

Everywhere

I am visible in my name

So no,

I don’t have a nickname.

For I will not shorten

Or adjust even a bit of myself

To fit the capacity

you have

To stomach Me.
And my nine letters

Can spell

more defiance,

more passion,

more fire

than you will ever be able to extinguish.

My name is a form of resistance

because I was named for a purpose.

And like all things that have a purpose,

I will not rest
until mine
on this earth
is fulfilled.

So I will tell my stories,

I will them for they need to be heard,

And I invite pride to come into the hearts

Of those who wait submerged

For my name is a form of resistance.

And in it, I am empowered,

Loud, and clear.

eight days to 20

I am so scared. 
So afraid of failure, 
of obesity, 
of someone looking at me 
in repulse and disgust, 
mortified to find 
the blemishes on my skin
and even more repelled 
by the open sores 
of my heart.

I'm afraid of being misunderstood,
understood perfectly, 
being laughed at for being 
eccentrically extraordinary, 
and at the same time in my hovering frame, 
traditional values are the bones
that make me, I'm afraid of being boring
and old-fashioned. 
I'm afraid of that rancid undertone in your voice,
laced with scorn,
when you say, "It's okay, I understand. 
You don't have to if you don't want to."

Sometimes I wish I could skip out 
on parts of life altogether;
much like an acne-scarred, 
buck-toothed, 
fat, 
bulimic, 
awkward 
tall girl 
wishes 
she could skip out on high school. 

But where is the fun in that? 
Relief is only momentary, 
temporary 
and solitary in such things, 
and 20?

20 is coming my way.
Whether I like it or not.

made to love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6SGeaQrIU8

hey you,
help me.
peel the lethargy from my body,
reveal strips of unblemished skin
transformed under the pressure,
the heat of experience.
smooth.

you, 
wipe these wounds clean.
please.
wash them out, blow kisses with that 
soft fabric, your fingers
feel like peace to me,
my gashes are closing,
your sweet kisses
sealing them.

stroke my limbs,
ease them down,
draw their length in the pull
of your lips,
contour them
in the movement 
of your hips.

rejuvenate me.

my bones,
my bones remember now
what they're holding up
my frame is clothed,
my shoulders covered,
my legs wrapped,
my arms entangled,
in you.

with the air that
exits,
a wish escapes,
a sigh hits the roof of
my parted mouth,
eyes shut,
still awake,
to hear
to listen to the sounds
of your presence
regardless of the form it takes

i will stay awake for you.
do all or nothing for you,
healed,
i lay afresh,
i've been waiting for this.

with patience,
i've been led out of the abyss,
as you tended to me,
your sustaining touch,
holding that kiss.

in the morning when i wake.

i'm willing to wait,

wait for love.

i realise the curves of my body

don't match the curves of my mind.

i realise the strength of my conviction

doesn't amount to the time,

or dedication and commitment

he'd deserve.

not yet at least,

i don't to keep anything in reserve.

i want to be able to pull it out,

like a love letter on a bridge,

handing it to you,

with all of me within

it.

i want to be stronger than i am now,

to know that not every moment is special.

moments happen, but there are some only that are special,

some only that stand out.

i want to be able to appreciate them,

without trying to sap them of their magic.

i want to be able to wait,

wait for someone to press play again.

i want to be able to be okay with waiting.

right now,

my impatient young blood

still has a lot to learn.

i need to be a little less kind with my time.

i won't ever get these years back.

i want to lose myself in trying to 

discover all the hidden parts of me,

scattered all across this city.

i want to say with confidence,

i love you.

not to the silhouette of a man against a wall,

a paper curtain reflecting the sincerity of the moment.

no no, i want to be able to say that to myself.

so one day when i look back
9 months heavy,

9 months thin,

i'll be stretched over the depth of those memories.

i'll tell my kid i lived to see myself grow up.

how many adults do you know that can say that?
how many adults remember when they grew up?

that's the thing.

i want to be older, wiser, calmer, better.

but i don't want to be bitter, lonesome, jealous and hurt.

i want to say that i gave myself the time i needed

to grow into a relationship, mamahood, and that 9 to 5 job.

i want to be happy whether i'm average or super-sized,

i want to be happy where i am.

right now,

i'm too discontent.

i can't stay in the same place for too long.

so i'll move, like a vagabond with a secret,

i'm journeying far beyond all my years, and yet

i'm standing awkardly, two feet curving into the

pull of those broad shoulders, those scarred knees.

i'm here, i'm taking myself along with me, on this road i'm on.

i made a promise not to be deserted a long time ago.

but what about the promise not to desert yourself?

what about the time you need to give yourself?

to wait,

to be willing to wait,
for love.