My eyes are 2 professional pickpockets, stealing everything to store away in my mind.
The tilt of his head cracks gravity in half.
10,000 tiny particles shatter between us.
Everything I was, everything I did, everything I am, was forged from the twins of their action and inaction.
Maybe it was enough to have learned that love was the unexpected weapon, that it was the knife I’d needed to cut through the Kevlar I wore every day.
I’m caught in colliding currents of confusion, so desperate so desperate so desperate to be close so desperate to be far away.
If you don’t eat, or if you miss a meal and find yourself hungry, feel free to shed your tears in the shower. And then learn to set a schedule. Don’t bring your complaints to me.
And you and Kent need to sort out your drama ASAP.
I realize I’m paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs.
I’m the bird and I’m flying away.
I’m wearing a dress the color of dead forests and old tin cans.
The tortured mind is a worse fate than a bullet in the train.
No more Christmas, no more Hanukkah, no more Ramadan and Diwali.
It didn’t matter how unaccented my English was. It didn’t matter that I told people, over and over again, that I was born here, in America, that English was my first language, that my cousins in Iran made fun of me for speaking mediocre Farsi with an American accent – it didn’t matter. Everyone assumed I was fresh off the boat from a foreign land.
My heart is a water balloon exploding in my chest.
Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.
And not only in love, but beyond salvation.
I’m not sure I could ever say no to her.
I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. My lungs feel too small. My heart feels both fast and absurdly heavy.
By coming to kill me?” He almost smiles. He drops my wrists and instead wraps his free hand around my waist, pulling me close. And then, a whisper against my ear: “This might be my favorite way to die.