like someone who has been cut open.
Dragging your guts a metre into a verse.
They say heartache.
We, poets, say alchemy.
We can make almost anything look beautiful,
the suicide bombers inside our chests.
waiting for a boom.
your grandfather was expelled from a country
that could have been your home.
He fitted all his hope
into a check-print duffle bag,
abandoned all his hard work.
This is how it starts: the act of leaving.
Since your birth,
It has been 21 years, 6 countries,
and the loss of your own tongue.
One thing this has taught you:
Guilt is too heavy of a thing to carry around,
never carry it the way nomads carry home on their backs.
You were born with a silver spoon
but it never made its way to your mouth.
This is because
it was 2a.m and you had no father at your birth.
But your mother is the type of beautiful
that makes you imagine the entire world is soaked in God.
We, poets, can make almost anything look beautiful,