Yasmin Belkhyr

“Well, of course I’ve tried lavender. And pulling my memory out, ribbonlike and dripping. And shrieking into my pillow. And writing the poems. And making more friends. And baking warm brown cookies. And therapy. And intimacy. And pictures of rainbows. And all of the movies about lovers and the terrible things they do to each other. And watching the ones in other languages. And leaving the subtitles off. And listening to the language. And forgetting my name. And feeling the dirt on my skin. And screaming in the shower. And changing my shampoo. And living alone. And cutting my hair. And buying a turtle. And petting the cat. And traveling. And writing more poems. And touching a different body. And digging a grave. And digging a grave. Of course, I’ve tried it. Of course I have.”
― Yasmin Belkhyr

“All I really want is for someone to touch my mouth and mean it. I dance in dangerous fables, walk a woods with trees white as bone. It’s always winter and I’m always pressing my face against something warm with blood. I know how men love to give answers, tell stories. In this one, the girl dies in reverse – laughs then births an arrow from her chest. Later, I find my body bathed in glass; grey light swims lazy across my skin, a kind of honey. The clouds surrender then weep. In this endless soft of snow, I lack the patience to haunt. Instead, I hunt, every footstep a grief. I touch my hands to my lips. I leave nothing in my wake. I never ask the same question twice.”
― Yasmin Belkhyr