Little Things,

They push me over the edge

When it all comes to light—

Turns out that is just all it was

A little thing...

It was inside out—

my flesh burning.

I’d always wondered what it felt like

to put my finger on the edge of the

flaming stove in my kitchen.

But I was filled with cowardice,

so I’d never dared.

Maybe it would have readied me

for this moment when my skin is sizzling apart, piece by piece.

I pretend

the flame is so soothing,

its ashes a cover.

As its end comes,

my life flashes before me.

I was b...

The rot started ground up–

as most things usually do.

We refused to nip it in the bud;

it festered, deceiving,

Waiting, rotting,

until its time came.

Now, we panic,

as if we were struck unaware,

unwarned,

when the stench of the decay,

should have woken us up

thrown us into a fit of riot,

protest.

We knew.

We knew they were killing us

It began with those too far,

too far for us to...

I’d write a love letter

But my words

Could never capture

The love you deserve.

Dear Palestine,

Dear Gaza—

I’m sorry

For my silence,

My complacency,

For letting your suffering

Not shake me more

Than it should....

Like water,

you’re hotter than the sun

when it warms the ocean.

You flow

better than a dolphin

whose home has always been water.

You drop gems

like rain

blessing us with every drop.

Your splash

echoes across the world,

ricocheting,

and we all drown

in your tide....

I deserve it. Every cruel word thrown at me. I had worse to say about myself. Still, I flinch—my insides freezing, a deer caught in headlights.

“What are you all doing here?” I demand, not caring that the caramel-brown eyes I won’t meet are seeing right through me.

I fix my gaze on Inan instead. I’d rather face the hate in her eyes than whatever is in his.

“We are going with you.” His voice...

I make my way to the train station, lugging my suitcase behind me. The air is still at this hour—alive only when we were. Though I can’t see clearly, I smell the dead flowers and plants around me. Our once-bustling garden of lilies, tulips, and orchids has withered, browning like old photographs.

The tulips were the first sign. Their stench—like rotten eggs—clung to the wind. The whole town of fi...

“Remember that time I told you

I dreamt of a dead body

Lying in the middle of the road,

Blood everywhere,

And everyone walked past it

Like it was invisible to their eyes,

Except mine?”

“I told you to stop talking such nonsense.

What if them people hear us?”

“I had it again,

Sister.”

“I won’t have myself on the hanging tree,

Neck twisted unnaturally

For you!”

I feel the air change

Before they w...

In some ways, it was nice to be the one leaving, instead of the one being left.

Lumba is in me as much as I am in it. If I stand at its beginning, I can map each of my memories to a corner of this dying town.

Home—a peeling, moldy brown, single-family house.

Family. I inhale, holding in the stories building up inside me.

My first ice cream—vanilla, swirling, dripping down my chin, my tongue...

You see this house

Its blue bright brick walls

Standing tall

Its windows, all nice and dim—

Just the way

I like it.

I built it all by myself.

One day

I woke up—

Decrepit,

My bed, a pavement

On the street.

I cried to anyone

Who would listen,

“Am I not human too?”

Then I remembered—

Before houses became artificial,

My ancestors put their hands to work—

Started with clay for huts,

Moved to sticks a...