Letters From Medea

by Salma Deera

in your dream, achilles comes for you with the rage of every fury in tartarus because you sent your love to war and he came back to you, unharmed.

those days are over. your name can only exist in your own mouth now. say it over and over. say it until it doesn’t sound like a name, but just a sound. the promises he made you are just sounds now too. remember that.

there are days i wish these gods and their lady macbeth hearts would be quiet.

i don’t mind bruises if it’s your mouth that makes them.

you forget that loving someone isn’t the same as knowing that they dog-ear pages in books. (it’s okay. i’m sorry nobody explained this to you.) but fine, you love someone. and you’re adamant about it. now here is a question: when does love stop being love? it doesn’t you say. one day, it just stops speaking

the center of every poem is this: i have loved you. i have had to deal with that.

i want to tell you that i think you have the only hands that i’d like to hold in the cold because you’re the only person who knows that i can’t say words like ‘i love you.’

and i’m not saying that this is love, but i’m not saying that it isn’t either. put it this way: i want to be the song you sing in the shower.

‘do you love me?’ you whisper. ‘how dare you ask me that?’ i reply. we both know i’ve been yours for the longest time. it isn’t right that humans can cause this hell.

a quiet, unnoticed thing that bruises easily–