tah-mae

[tah-mae]

whiskey neat.

I haven't felt this sober since 17. With sobriety eyes and mind I witness atrocities in my soul. I'm no longer amazed by humanity. Broad shouldered contradictions and prickled legged inconsistencies. But still profound are the thoughts of clouds when they peel back and pour down. Her secrets just as lamented as before.

[tah-mae]

let him cook

i let him cook for me. even when my blood was itchy under my skin. i let him serve me ineptitude on a platter until i was full and dissatisfied. even when my distain became the blankets i slept under. i let him rub my back and put a dragon in me. even though there were moments my mind fractured so i pieced it back by filling in the cracks with gold. i let him slip in and out of consciousness slow and then faster until he became. even after i gave birth to unreconciling truth and hypervigilance because of realized strength. i let him die on top of me with all his heart. even though i was still breathing.

[tah-mae]

“How can I disappoint my mother? Or Eve? How can I not live on this earth and not persuade men to their death. Darling for you, I will bleed like a pomegranate.”

— I Hope For Heaven by Royla Asghar 

[tah-mae]

the murder that made her

She is an indirect proportion of demise for me. I look at her through squinted side ways glances so as to not allow the impurity of her soullessness match mine so perfectly.

[tah-mae]

writing til' forever

shallow pools of water are not lonelier than me, they don't have the depth. they can only reflect a surface of thin glass like pictures. empty but haunting, same as my eyes.

I've cradled the thoughts of death like swaddling an infant, swaying it lightly in my arms and nurturing its youth like a bizarre euphemism spoken quietly.

[tah-mae]

I waited for you for almost a year. Thirsty for you I became dry mouthed and wanting the quench of you on my tongue. Finally satisfied with the beconing of your shape, consuming you into my cortex.

[tah-mae]

Your body speaks the language in a tongue I’m not familiar with but I’ve heard before. I’m desperate to speak these same words. I could mime them gesturing with my hands what it means to me but it would be lost in translation.

[tah-mae]

“At times I needed my friends, more than I needed myself, more than I ever needed a man. You see, I would get so homeless without them. So unpoetic. They were the love of my life. I was so goddamn melancholic withiout them. Sweetly pathetic without them. They were my temple, my place to go when I needed forgivness. Chocolate and kisses, soft touches on my body. I would have chosen them over and over again. Our phone dialogue were movie scripts, manuscripts of hours, hours of poetry. They were my muse, and they knew it. Till the bone. I wrote them down like I owed them all of my poetry. At times they used me, and I was there to be used. At times I used them till my sins were theirs.”

— My Girlfriends Were The Love Of My Life by Royla Asghar

[tah-mae]

God gave me a mother tongue, so I can speak to Him in my prayers, while you listen to me I whisper dreams of my heart The mother tongue, I am calling God. I am calling my mother attempting to tell her about a women's pain I am the woman She is the woman Only the mother tongue knows the suffering of a broken heart Of a heart that contains its blood Now, a heart that closes like a fist That beats you like a fist I keep looking for my mother's eyes only to find my own eyes I ask for her food, It is the only thing that reminds me that I am a gentle soul that I am still someone's daughter I am still a heart that belongs to no one but me That I loved once That I am capable of love Even though I can be unlovable I will always be like this, Like I could drown someone in all of my love Like I could take it all away. A promise I intend to keep; Once my heart is more red than the sun I will create a new era For us. For me.

- The New Era by Royla Paula Radita Asghar

[tah-mae]

This line!!!!!!

"In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me"

I ran away just to face my own horrors. I ran away from my passions, the same way millionaires run from their debt. To an European island where all inhibitions are free, the weather is hot, and love is dressed in a beautiful gown, speaking with an unknown accent, selling poems and dreams by the Riviera. And there I was, most beautiful, most youthful, but utterly heartbroken. In debt with my heart and my soul. I could not meet anyone's gaze or tanned skin, even as they served me sparkling water in a wine glass, thanking me for merely existing. In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me enough to delicately tend to the immense hurt within my heart. Yet, on an Italian island, I found myself peeling lemons and savoring them with sugar. A metaphor for my life. That's exactly what love tastes like. The ache descends upon me like sweat on my back, and all I can think about is how it feels to be genuinely caressed on the parts of my body that only my poems have witnessed. I'm on the most beautiful island. And I might not be the most beautiful thing here, but my heart is. With its cracked surface, fractured interior, diamonds scattered on the floor, and colorful glass veins. Finally, sun rays break through; finally, the yearning for him finds its place. Finally, tears fall from a seductive woman confessing the sins of love. This confessional, this heart, has finally shattered, and the entire island trembles.

#1 Capri from The Italian Collection by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

[tah-mae]

Sometime I feel my mothers sadness. It leaks out my pours with the alcohol I’ve been drinking. I sense it in my siblings when they feel they weren’t loved enough.I hear it in the bending of my knees it sounds like a chorus of car horns in the night, crickets on alto. Sometimes I feel my mothers sadness.. it feels like tightening wrenches on the discord of the wires in my mind.

[tah-mae]

“He wanted to fight, but never for me.”

— The Short Poems Series by Royla Asghar 

[tah-mae]

Penmanship

Writing me like love letters, indentations of this pen sinking deep. Spilling like ink, wells in the ducts of my eyes when felt in the back of my thighs, pounding. Leaking springs and clicks in between things and licks, resounding.  

[tah-mae]

The Girl Who Cried Love

Her mouth makes love and it hurts. Return to me the language of her ancestors, I want to be the syllables in the accents on her tongue. The way her mouth moves when she speaks is beauty. Take me to the wounds of her heart. Her heart beats love and it hurts. Take me to the cities of her veins, I want to be the blood that flows, trickles down, bleeds from her buildings and fortresses and drowns.

[tah-mae]

“Let me die having been worth loving. Let the need for love be enough.”

— Dave Harris, from Patricide

[tah-mae]

This exhaustion isn't fatiguing, it's devastating.

me

[tah-mae]

It’s so cruel...what your mind can do for no reason.