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Love

You see me. In front of you I shed my perfectly sensitive skin scale by scale and lay skinless. My bones crumble away like chunks of shortbread and I resemble something of a puddle with a heart shaped brain pulsing against your skin.
You're a constant, a body of concrete, a dish with a hole the shape of me.
I want to evaporate into your chest.
Recent posts

The Last Return

Sadness.
The colour of honey in his eyes now comes with a bitter tinge of sadness.
How could the universe allow his heart to bear the pains of this world when the pink blush on his cheekbones tells me he still possesses the pure and delicate love the rest of us left behind in our distant childhoods, or maybe never had.
I want his sadness to leave his face and come into mine. If that means his love can stay in the light that sheds from his honey coloured eye.
Sadness.
The red muscle pumping blood in my chest, the colour of a puzzle of missing pieces. He, everyday further from my reach, and another missing piece falls into place.
How strange it is, to create, a whole puzzle that is not there. How strange it is that because of his missing, there isn't even a there anymore.

He sits silently, looking at his feet. I swing as if the sadness falling upon us is not a big elephant in the park. But we know it is. Because his eyes become darkened when he says: "Really, I'm fine"…

In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…

Before the storm

Your dress, it’s pink with roses in it.
It reminds me of the pink posters on the road to Tirana,
when I had a good laughter dancing in the main street,
6 AM run; down the lake road with Anna.

The coffee in Chéri ,
when we skipped a lesson or two…
Physics, made me feel numb
so I bunked it, together with you.

Then midnight cocktails in the Old Block clubs,
a hot colored top and ripped short jeans.
We gave up on heels for sequined flip flops,
a Mojito, a dance, and dreams

On the beach on a summer weekend
playing volley till the sun goes down…
Then to bars listening to some old fashioned band.
The waves caught us dancing, underneath stars.

The dress, the beach and the music of the old band
as we come out of the sea when the sunset burns red,
dark waves of hair play with the wind and sand,
the warm, salt-smelling air playing with my head.




Between pages

Between the pages number seven and nine, snug between familiar names is mine.
I have a page.
A page that feels velvety underneath my fingers that flutter like butterflies looking for nectar.
A page,
milk coloured between number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I was number 27 but most others did not find much hope in writing.
So I became,
the white page between number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I repeat myself.
Number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I repeat myself.
Number seven and nine...
black
lace.

My fingers looking for nectar, tracing invisible velvet lines. The nectar of days past
when I was just a page between...
For us who did find hope cuddled up between numbers and pages life had other things in mind.
I mean,
there's not really that much hope anymore
for numbers seven and nine.

My grandmother, Aphrodite

We would dance in the kitchen, wrapped up in the smell of boiled vine leafs. My grandmother and I.
We would start the days arguing. "Sadik, - she would say, at seven in the morning, - the world has not seen such spoiling of a child. Let her be cold. Let her dress herself for heaven's sake."
And so we would go on for years. Two heads of wavy chestnut hair and dark round eyes, always in conflict. Two stubborn heads, fiery heads, proud heads.
We would dance around the kitchen. Me, my grandma, my mum and my aunt, each taking turns to waltz around the house with my granddad.
My grandmother, was not like all the other grandmothers, soft and sweet and naive. She reminded me of the two headed eagle stamped vividly on the red flag of our country. Strong, eyes piercing the life of me. I could, I cannot lie to my grandma.
One look and I am undone, solved like the most simple puzzle. Her dark eyes, pierce the life of me.
Her dark eyes seemed to skip the fact that I had a face and ev…

Impeccable

There were holes in my underwear. I could relate to it so I never liked buying new ones.
Back then I could relate to just about any broken thing, a stick in the jaws of a strong dog, a vase... urgghhh the sound of breaking glass makes me cry. It always has, it's like an automatic response, tears just start crawling down me.
Sometimes I would break things on purpose just to make me cry, that's why you will find in my old home a cabinet full of glasses with no match. The few that didn't break.
I find it hard to break on my own. A hug and I can cry to fill a river but when I'm alone, I don't cry. When I was a child I had to learn how to cry. I never internalised it. Screaming, that came naturally. Punching a wall, that hurt a little bit.
Crawling, I did that a lot, I would crawl through my anger until the feeling of hopelessness and guilt and something more earthly and immediate mixed with it, went away. The feeling would go and the stinging would come pouring upwards…