8. // REEM

in , , ,

i wonder about the wooden rooms and the haunted hotels of baden-baden right now, for no reason, just a pointless thought, a travelling beau on the back of the mental asylum. i would hold his hand and never let go if he asks me to, bum bumming with him forever (3 years because after that i die).

ASH // SHAIMA ALSSLALI

in ,
ASH // SHAIMA ALSSLALI

“Look, it’s simple; books are just like films. By the time you’ve had so many bad ones, you know what you want. There is no wrong literature, you need the whole package. You’ve got to go with the flow.”

“Well, if you’re so convinced, why don’t you deal with the flow yourself? I’m about done with you and with this situation.”

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INTIMACY ISSUES // FARAH ALWUGAYAN

in ,

don't touch me:

we hugged for 37 seconds
i felt my blood rush from me to you and back again

46 heart beats hounding against each-other
'i win'
'no, i win'
i heard them fight about who's louder
and they kept on beating louder

you put your arm around my waist
and felt my skin for 6 seconds max
you held me like a trophy
your hand movement was too delicate
like maybe you were dusting off a feather

i felt a twitch in your leg
and a shake back from mine
my body was crying:
'don't touch me'

i gently shrug back
and i could see your eyes
light up
and you could tell i felt comfortable
you simply smudged my face with:
'intimacy issues'

VEGETABLE SOUP // JOHARA ALMOGBEL

in ,
VEGETABLE SOUP // JOHARA ALMOGBEL

It was a Nice Kitchen. Not to say that other kitchens weren’t nice, they were, they just weren’t quite as Nice as the Kitchen. All wooden counter tops, and lovely white cupboards, with little nooks and crannies, and filled with spices and shiny utensils, and a positively enormous refrigerator and large windows that let in the light with the prettiest view of the garden.

The ruler of the Kitchen was a woman, a kind, wonderful Deliverer that made great pea soup. Her name was Mother, and she had four unruly loud children. Of course, that might just be my point of view, and what am I but a poor pickle in a jar? Anyway, those boys were always everywhere, in the cookie jar, over the fruit basket, stuck in the Fridge… it was very dangerous in those days. The children are all grown up now, off to Soil knows where, where they are no doubt terrorizing the food community. Mother is also away, perhaps visiting another Kitchen, as she frequently did. How do you know all this, you ask? Hah! What a typical question a human would ask. You see, as befitting my status of a Preserved Vegetable, my jar occupied a very lofty position Up Top, on a shelf where I can see the entire Kitchen.

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POST-FAJR SIGHS // REEM SABRA

in ,

But it has been too long, and I cannot do without my mother’s rhythmical strokes on my hair, without her soothing ‘ya sett el banat’.

And with the weight on my shoulders getting heavier, I am walking around, back hunched over, bowing more and more, with the corners of my mouth being dragged down on both sides with every word you utter, like pulleys, and the words weigh too much, too much, and the space between my eyebrows shrinking, like two enemies closing in on each other.

Ya Allah, I do not ask that you give me a lighter load, but rather a stronger back.

Ya Mujeeb.

7. // REEM

in , , ,

love is too much for the imaginary world- it waves in and out in forms that you don't notice/ cigarette smoke, waves from strangers, grass toes, spitting gross beverages out of car windows, rolling around all sundays in large grey jackets, relating to film noirs ("the stars are ageless, aren't they?"), poetry reading at inappropriate eight in the evenings, the smell of your skin. awkward stuff like that. i wash myself clean, i do, but it comes back with a talent- where do i run from that?