Why care so much for someone who hasn’t done the same for you? As a feminist offering to the project of abolition, Saidiya Hartman reflects, “Care is the antidote to violence.”
how much time / does the wind give us? / do we still run? / who sends the wind? / does it carry the bombs? / or do they come after?
i want to banish the shame/ write it in a book to be banned,/ take the banal, grow a banana/ tree of new knowing
When I look back, I think about all the times Gatorade has let me down in my life.
It’s funny how ppl were saying that the peaches in Parasite / were some serious motif & symbolism of prosperity’s toxicity
Left home at sixteen, said you wanted to go see the West. Grandpa didn’t stop / you. Figured you might die in some jungle across the Pacific.
i love you / too much / let us reason in dissonance / play mozart on mondays / barefoot & / the wisteria i grow wild / the hands i keep sharp—
somewhere a tiger loosens its throat or so she imagines / the rubber trees looming she lifts her paring knife to the day’s throat
Where did you abandon the snowflake on which I wrote my secrets?
A girl labelled comfort / wartime ammunition / recalled her father who built / her home on / a graveyard
Gas station glow past 3AM, the glassed look of a man who’s been sitting for too long, hot dogs slumbering behind a screen, their skins plump and pink.
we inherited sickly / roots our ancestors couldn’t plant / deep enough to / grow
I stow away the sentences in which there is no you in my drawer right after writing them I remember the time when I emptied the bottom of my drawer for you There I found stuff like a key that became useless forever
Love letters spill / down the narrow stairs as I leave. I think I would like nothing / to miss her like I do, hence this tenderness, hence my hands smudging / myself.
One day you’ll be married. May Allah make your naseeb good. May you find a man who prays and follows the deen.
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.
Where did you abandon the snowflake on which I wrote my secrets?
how much time / does the wind give us? / do we still run? / who sends the wind? / does it carry the bombs? / or do they come after?
A girl labelled comfort / wartime ammunition / recalled her father who built / her home on / a graveyard
i want to banish the shame/ write it in a book to be banned,/ take the banal, grow a banana/ tree of new knowing
Gas station glow past 3AM, the glassed look of a man who’s been sitting for too long, hot dogs slumbering behind a screen, their skins plump and pink.
When I look back, I think about all the times Gatorade has let me down in my life.
we inherited sickly / roots our ancestors couldn’t plant / deep enough to / grow
It’s funny how ppl were saying that the peaches in Parasite / were some serious motif & symbolism of prosperity’s toxicity
I stow away the sentences in which there is no you in my drawer right after writing them I remember the time when I emptied the bottom of my drawer for you There I found stuff like a key that became useless forever
Left home at sixteen, said you wanted to go see the West. Grandpa didn’t stop / you. Figured you might die in some jungle across the Pacific.
Love letters spill / down the narrow stairs as I leave. I think I would like nothing / to miss her like I do, hence this tenderness, hence my hands smudging / myself.
i love you / too much / let us reason in dissonance / play mozart on mondays / barefoot & / the wisteria i grow wild / the hands i keep sharp—
One day you’ll be married. May Allah make your naseeb good. May you find a man who prays and follows the deen.
somewhere a tiger loosens its throat or so she imagines / the rubber trees looming she lifts her paring knife to the day’s throat
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.