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Pressure of flesh on my forehead

Cruel exposure
when wistful,
they split,
when brutal,
they tear,
under the midnight sun.

Under the furious flurry
of gossip splutters,
lace rustle and ties rasp,
She’s beautiful and
her body of smoke swirls
dancing on my lip
with the sardonic smile
of a transient twinge.
Her orange peel –
blue when its shivers,
tired of the spikes in her skin,
seek blurred curves of Cuban reverie.
Sugar on my shoulder,
bitter in my mouth
when she stares at the window
where rain is dripping
when her eyeliner thickens
and her apple is numb
when her finger is cruel
when she softens at the close
when she laughs
when she doesn’t
when her hefty silence insists
“Are you?”

They blink
and the flash is short,
for they brush,
never merge.

Cold quiver
“The window!”
It’s locked.
Pungent taste down my throat,
taste of mornings and afternoons
and a crackle.
I try to unravel the blanket
rolled by unconscious stabs,
but no.
The curls of my lips clench
when the mirror, derisive,
discloses its reflection,
mere portray of my hunger.

Gya is a queer feminist who lives in a pink bedroom in the “2aryeh”. She doesn’t notice the curious setting as she remains in her bubble of unknown poets and mysterious femme fatales. If she’s not busy laying a poem in a cafe on Hamra street while sipping her French Press, she is most probably daydreaming about someone somewhere. Tough life that is. She looks innocent almost all the time, yet being obnoxious is one of her main daggers (or so she was told). Gya likes to live life to the fullest. She can't be put in a box, even if it's pink. She loves strong feelings and colors, and expresses herself with both her body and mind.

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