Day 16: Self-Incriminating Autumn (30/30 Challenge) ~ Alyah Al Aswad
What good is a day,
in Autumn?
When her arms are smeared in thick jacket,
and her sweet fingers are clothed.
She takes my garden rake for a hand and trots down the sidewalk.
We brush through back allies lined with garbage cans and my favorite hookers,
we lend cigarettes and compliments,
we owe money and drugs to the little piece of Paradise you scratch and smell in the last puff.
Autumn is one hell of a horny season.
Earth is lusting for a sunset. He dresses in her favorite colors,
so she could notice. It takes her a day to notice.
It takes her while to process.
And when he least expects it,
She plunges into his autumn blush
as if she had missed him,
as if she had been in a lousy mood for centuries and needed distance,
needed space,
in Autumn?
When her arms are smeared in thick jacket,
and her sweet fingers are clothed.
She takes my garden rake for a hand and trots down the sidewalk.
We brush through back allies lined with garbage cans and my favorite hookers,
we lend cigarettes and compliments,
we owe money and drugs to the little piece of Paradise you scratch and smell in the last puff.
Autumn is one hell of a horny season.
Earth is lusting for a sunset. He dresses in her favorite colors,
so she could notice. It takes her a day to notice.
It takes her while to process.
And when he least expects it,
She plunges into his autumn blush
as if she had missed him,
as if she had been in a lousy mood for centuries and needed distance,
needed space,
space, quite literally.
She plunges with the force of a girl who was damn-sure glad to see him wait for her,
in his low,
wait for her to come down from her high.
I am not celestial.
I am a small person,
She plunges with the force of a girl who was damn-sure glad to see him wait for her,
in his low,
wait for her to come down from her high.
I am not celestial.
I am a small person,
walking with a shy girl, lost in a labyrinth of guilt,
and the hesitance of a smile.
and the hesitance of a smile.
The girl and I lay in a pile of leaves on an outer-bound field.
She looks at me as if she had been waiting for me to notice her,
as if she had discovered a cracked piece of the sidewalk that worries about her,
I look at her back, longing for her to become the suicidal ball of gas,
come crashing at me at 7pm.
But I do not say a word,
because I am too small,
and I am no good for anybody.
Because I was told I should only feel for women who feel for women too.
Because what good is a day in Autumn,
when its prone to an end,
and you cannot even say
She looks at me as if she had been waiting for me to notice her,
as if she had discovered a cracked piece of the sidewalk that worries about her,
I look at her back, longing for her to become the suicidal ball of gas,
come crashing at me at 7pm.
But I do not say a word,
because I am too small,
and I am no good for anybody.
Because I was told I should only feel for women who feel for women too.
Because what good is a day in Autumn,
when its prone to an end,
and you cannot even say
You do not want to be alone in winter.
This blog documents the memoirs of a Queer Arab Muslim Woman, who holds an interest in the advancement of LGBTQ awareness within Middle Eastern societies. Alyah Al Aswad is a young writer, activist, poet and spoken word artist, based in Amman, Jordan. For bookings, interviews and blog sponsorship inquiries, please contact the author at riversoulx@gmail.com.
