My body is a walking museum

My body is a walking museum.
My bones heavy with hands running down my spine
and when touched, it does not break

It is made up bricks and bricks of catcalling
“sluts” and “whore”
molded into walls that held my back.

These thighs are reviewed one, two, three, four, five stars
Like an open hotel, a service, a merchandise
ready to be sold
on demand
in a market

And my eyes, a call for attention they say
It speaks ‘yes’
to passerby,
to schemers,
to the libido of men,
to the sleepless sexual drive
whenever and wherever

These breasts hide in plain sight that invites
to be seek, to be fondled
seduces the neighbors conclusively
without its knowing

And the beasts of the day openly sniff these shoulders like a bee
like a mosquito ready to attack in a blood-smell
All you
daylight bullies,
cat callers,
and predators
who accuse us provocative no matter what we do or wear,

Bury me.
Bury me and see how I dig myself out of the heap of soil
Bury me
and watch as I crawl out of your verdict as an object of your egoistic desires

Bury me
and look at me fly
because these wings are too strong and
too big for your shallow opinions to bring me down

The big breathing world encircles me in its grip,
but watch me break the clutches of your mouths and bodies
for you hit like rain and it falls formless.

Watch me,
a towering blossom of a tree,
sip down these waters and grow into miraculous beauty

For this woman is breathing



and her artwork is not for your touching.



I know, I know. I should not drink coffee and think of you. I must not go to places and imagine how it feels to travel with you. I read about great books and I can’t wait to read it to you. A 10 pm stroll on the riverside would mean ‘If you’re here, we’ll hurt our stomachs and catch our breaths¬† from laughing too hard on silly things but the bracing air will refill our lungs for us’.

Old jokes are funnier. Meals taste better. Even sadness seems lovely when I’m with you.

This delightful suffering is begging me to write so I wrote this. Remembering you.


She speaks of dancing like women speak of their true love.
Her eyes shimmer when she talks about how the wind whispers a sweet tune as she glides.
Or how her feet sways involuntarily when a song plays.
Or how her eyelids flicker, her stomach swirl with every rhythm.
God, she is his music.

“Will you dance with me?” She asked him.
He took a last glimpse on her bright eyes,
shed a last teardrop, turned his back on her
and steered his wheelchair.