You knew you liked her when
she was talking about her life one day
and in the street the drunk women were fighting
and the young men were playing house music
and there were Muslims praying amidst all this
and the taxis were honking their horns all around her in a circle of chaos
so she went back inside in all her calm
and where the two of you are now, in a different town
and different time, there are dogs barking outside
and you love the way
her name feels behind your mouth.
She puts cinnamon on tomatoes
white pepper on carrots
mustard seeds on unlikely things
and takes wine and ice with breakfast.
She sits awake at night
and dreams with open eyes
so you are not afraid to tell her
every time you want to run.
There was a time when fingers on
white walls made you nervous
a time when you didn’t pray so much
a time when you worried about what the men in the street had to say
a time when you weren’t yourself
they tell you you’re an abomination to God
how so? You speak to God more often now
than ever before.
She sketches jellyfish
smokes a broken white pipe
and you feel like an instrument
that she’s had for years.
You pool pennies together
for dinner, most nights
but you’re happy.
You are. You’re happy.
'she puts cinnamon on tomatoes'
Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’
now available at amazon.com(via yrsadaleyward)
to their veins.
Sometimes, I am one.
I know girls who apologize for asking
to go to the bathroom in class,
who apologize for everything
because they feel like they are taking
up more than their fair share of space
on this planet.
Everything starts with an I’m sorry
and ends with one too,
constant bookends that we don’t
even notice anymore.
We delete her apology the way we
delete likes and ums from speech.
I know girls with ten times more apologies
and I wonder how often they hear
You’re more than okay. "I’m sorry" - Claire Luisa