fray narte 🧚🏻‍♀️

it's getting too old staring at my wounds but i just can't let it die

how can you love a cruel man, mother? nevermind, i am your child. i loved him all the same.

am i as difficult to love as my father? god knows i loved him in spite of my heart eating itself up

the ghosts of the poems from my girlhood beckon and force themselves out of my throat; i bleed all over my teeth and smile brightly, swallowing it back like the good girl that i am.

will water scour my marrows raw and leach out of their nesting pits all of my mother’s rage — my father’s violence until i am no longer their daughter?

Published in Issue Six: Daughterhood of Astraea Zine

My mother’s white, quiet patience sways, tantalizing before me like a well-lit crystal chandelier in my grandmother’s house. I never take a bite of it, an ever so-careful child, my grandmother used to fondly describe me, a picky eater; I never grew bigger than I used to be — still so small and scrawny, a shivering child left crying in our bahay kubo, awaiting my mother’s return. She comes home and laughs at my innocent anxiety.

It is a promised heirloom, it seems, my mother’s white, quiet patience — well-kept in my late grandmother’s bedroom where my father can never find for his hands to choke and tear like an old 90s letter — I was in her womb and he was in Egypt down with the mummified pharaohs; she sent him poems and I got a tiny glass pyramid, a snow of gold dust I spun it — turned it upside down until it broke, bathing me golden like a tiny sun. I hid in my late aunt’s room, next to my mother’s mute patience, it spills like milk, drenches like tears, blinds like a ray of light.

I can never inherit my mother’s patience but I wear her skin now; twenty years, I have grown bigger, taller and her sorrows and regrets fit me well like a brown, fur coat, a pocket full of resentment, of repressed aching, of fingers numb from writing poems; my mother was a poet, I know this now; my father — an ordinary man, his chest is a hollow chamber in a pyramid far, far away in Giza. Sometimes, I think he’s still there, lying next to pharaohs for all of perpetuity. Sometimes, I think I have inherited his mystery his tendency to perplex the eye, like a pyramid of secrets and secrets, the archaeologists have given up after unearthing empty chambers after empty chambers, Maybe there is nothing here to see but dead, young, unloving bones next to earthworms burrowing on my mother’s poems.

I can never inherit my mother’s patience; sometimes I think she has left her aching somewhere in our bahay kubo, in my dollhouse, perhaps, and I have picked it up like a spiral seashell, like Barbie’s tiny suitcase looking pretty in glitter, swallowed in a single gulp, it’s still here inside me, growing and poking and tearing and disfiguring, I refuse to spit it out. How do I carry it when she herself has not? I scratch my limbs at the injustice.

My mother’s white, quiet patience sits in Lola Glo’s room, like a ghost that never haunts but I wish it did — sometimes, I still wait for damning screams, for broken windows, for love poems burning in hell for its sins, taking me down with them. Sometimes, I still wait for her to leave like a Macedonian queen fleeing Egypt and never coming back.

Then, I would have nothing to carry, nothing to wear, nothing to ache for at starless nights — no poems to open and seal like a stone entrance to a pharaoh’s chamber. My mother’s white, quiet patience is an unlit crystal chandelier, a few feet on top of my head. I laugh and spin like a tornado, like a mad girl, swinging and raising my arms like I was five — I hit and shatter everything in sight then blame it on the fairies. I eat the fine, hand-cut, polished crystals, I bleed poison on my tongue, and my mother is Cleopatra nowhere to be found.

Everything is an accident, even my intentional carelessness, now paper-white and porcelain-clean. Everything is forgiven, even my father’s loud, beer-laced cruelty, even my hands, closed in a fist. My mother’s smile was bright and comforting, but everything is an earthworm feeding on her poems. And every poem is a poem till it rots

beneath a far-off, sun-swept Egypt.

i have settled down to missing you

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

― Franz Kafka

"the world is entire, and I am outside of it, [crying]"

— virginia woolf's "the waves" // (1931)

i always was a little outside life.

— dame edith sitwell