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Just add water.

I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
I wasn't born out of fertile earth or wrapped in sweet greens, I was, very much, a child of mud, sweat and dust. Tirana, this vicious parent with bullets between its teeth and a bleeding tongue.
I wrote a book about you father, but it wasn't really about you.
Tirana this prison of sorts, beautiful, and charming and disturbed. My bipolar hometown, my little slice of hell. How I miss it. It gave life to me and slipped a pen between my fingers and a taboo between my legs and it told me to choose.
I do not think about taboos father, I am too careless, too temperamental for that. I am rough inside like the hot concrete that birthed and…
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I'm not holding on to the past. I'm scared of the future.

He's a wall made of flesh and skin and bones, hidden somewhere in this cold little brain of yours.
He's a wall that bleeds into your ears and slips down your throat. You are paralysed against him, the wall.
He holds up your fragile limbs and protects you from the outside world. The sun never touches your skin.
But that's ok because you don't want to know the feeling of heat and yellowness laying itself upon your naked shoulders. It is safe to only be naked within closed doors, on single beds, behind the wall.
He's an invisible wall protecting you from wanting more and it's pretty difficult you know... To let go.
Let go of safety in the shadows and reach out for more.

Down the road called 5th of May

Down the road called 5th of May I've seen the biggest outdoors market.  Green tents look like the pieces of glass I found last summer on the beach, but big, big glassy umbrellas underneath which, vendors shout prices, laugh and play loud music from their shops.  Green tents on one side of the 5th of May, underneath, colourful bags, shoes and dresses. Endless glitter, barbie dolls, cheap. Perfumes, jewellery, meatballs within a square meter of street.  250 lek for pink slippers in a stall selling mops. Something smells burnt. Meatballs. Cough. Springtime in marketplace. White buildings on the other side, don't lean against the dirt on the walls. But I want to be in the shadow! But dirt! But... the boys.  What boys?  The poor boys, dirty shorts, white vests, two bananas 50 lek. That's too much. No. It's too much.Tell them to go away. But. Cheaper.  A minivan, more mops, a donkey leans against a blue Mercedes A class. What does the donkey eat in a place without grass? Corn…

Silent hearts

You, will always be silent Zemër. Your silence keeps you safe from the world that wants to bite into your skin and drink your blood until you're dry. Your silence, Zemër, I envy so much, yet heavy, it traps you like an armour done wrong.
Zemër, you're a ship that never sails, a plane that never flies, a war that never starts. Zemër, you're the most precious, the most wanted, the most loved and loathed you are and you, you're safer when you're silent.
Zemër, you're safe in your bodysuit of fake giggles and foreign eyes that look down at your legs, because it is easy to conquer eyes like that, it is even easier to let go of eyes like that and you like letting go Zemër.
You thrive in hard work, behind a desk, typing away at words that you say have real meaning to you but you never spare a comma for what really matters Zemër. You never turn down a party Zemër, because you know, my honey, that your silence needs noise and sweat and a mean black lipstick to surviv…

Strength itself is not strong enough when faced with a dirty toilet.

I am hiding from the mess somewhere it won't find me.
The toilet is broken and the bath is yellow. The bills are wrong and you're not helping.
Our plates are piled up, dirt in the sink. A couple may be in my room, but I'm not cleaning.
I have too many clothes, you have too many moods yet, I always wear the same two tops and you always choose to sulk and suck the sunshine away. And you make more food, and you drink from a dirty mug. It hurts.
I am leaving tonight. You won't find me dancing in my room to strange music. You won't be able to laugh and talk to me. Feel free to eat the pizza on the fridge, I am leaving.
Fixing the toilet now may save you some money.
I hate mess so I'm hiding. There's nothing I can do.

I'll give it back

It's a sunny day in London. We wear matching shirts and denim. White shoelaces on black converse and golden bracelets with our names on them. It's a sunny day in London, cross legged on a bridge, I am not afraid with you by my side.
We're uncatchable, untouchable, unreachable.  You try to take a picture of me, all smiling and looking happy like ice cream with sprinkles on top and a flake but I lose my blue scarf that I loved so much. Eaten, soaked, taken by the river and we run in the wind and I will get a cold and won't be able to sleep at night.  But you're there. You'll make me a cup of tea and let me sleep in your bed, you will make a pillow out of your jacket in the small sofa in the kitchen and you will look funny sleeping there because you are so tall!  But first you'll sit with me and talk to me about your troubles and dreams until I fall asleep. Words half spoken, we still understand each other. We will engage in deep debates and forget about the c…

I read a poem

Poetry came to me when words made ugly sounds and gossip weighed me down and distorted my curly hair. Words melted me and shaped me into suffering too soon and I thought I would never look back on my childhood with a smile.
But poetry came to me and held me in its hands. Poetry sang lullabies and told me my hair was soft and brilliant like crushed velvet and my dark eyes were like two black olives of the ones that grow in the south next to the figs that coloured my hands sticky red.
Poetry came to me when I cried for the first time and it felt as if something had broken inside my eye and it would never be dry again, but poetry told me tears were precious diamonds in liquid form and one day they would light up a whole life.
Poetry fell on me like leafs from a cherry tree on a windy day in Autumn and it told me love was there, in that very moment. It told me love was beautiful and magical and pure.
Poetry, came to me too perfect, too good, too pretty. Poetry challenged me to love and be…