Letters From Medea

by Salma Deera

and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy, because life is pale without it. we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival that comes with it.

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

you are suitable for my skin type- my life type my heart type.

think a map made of crayola. i don’t mind bruises if it’s your mouth that makes them.

the storm before the storm

this is what i live for: to scream love. to dare love.

i want to discover myself. i want to destroy myself. i want to be a secret that nobody but i can ruin— i don’t care for being married. i am going to be the sun’s mouthpiece.

my curse is that i fall in love with men who believe in gods but not in me. who will call their love titanic while intending to sink anyone who tries to touch it.

say there’s a whole room of people and you’re somewhere in the middle of them all. i walk in and i see you, but you don’t suddenly become the only person in the room. god no. you become the room. you are the room.

i want to be the song you sing in the shower.

but one thing in me remains unchanged: i have you all on your knees.

look, i want to find the square root of your thighs.

devour your kings

i am not an open book or a closed book. i am a library. i am alexandria. bricks, wood, ink and cement going up in smoke. i take heavens with me.

a small truth: you move me more in a moment than the earth moves in a year.

there is nothing small about the hells i have worn for you.