man, and she who was but not a woman.

and so tell me how there isn’t a tongue in my mouth but just yours, that lashes against the wind in this mumbai monsoon- ripping at the vitrics on the windows, as it rains just more than sea water. because you- you were born in midst of the heaviest of cherrapunji rainfalls, with your wide eyes (reddened with age, anger, and ale, though you’d never agree), and your god, and this anatomy that most around you (namely her), call male. you were born with the sky falling at your feet, and so all too- must.

there’s a blatant dissonance between your sky and mine because mine holds on to itself even when it shatters, while yours submissively impetrates.

we belong to none but the sky above us. we learn from none but the sky around us.

and so your god, and your mother, and your woman (her), and your sky- they’ve all taught you to stand on bird bones and faery corpses, because you are man. and man- with his red eyes, and a broken earth draped on his shoulders- stands above all.

he wears crowns on his toes, because all men are kings, and the game plays itself in this black/white world as long as he lives.

all hail the king.
long live the man.
lord bless them all who bow before him.

because they who bow, their tongues beg; they who stand, theirs are ripped. they were women when they kneeled, they were beaten when they did not.

she is a woman;
i, am lesser than one.

yet you are more inhuman than me, and she is more human than you; i am but a wild wood creature with nails pierced through her lips that she with her humanity, picks at, and you with your god- hammer.

••ra’ahe khayat


forgive me if my words bruise with their jaggedness, but anger must not be sanded down- even when it is silenced. it must be let out, even if you are punished for it.

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