a hunger strike at god
I strangled my faith / to put it up on the wall: my heart hitched / in its throat,
cold hands tinged / with gold. I unravelled its hair / to drape over the windows,
so nobody can tell / unless they are let in by the bees / buzzing in my mouth, the ones
not dying / between clenched teeth / (they were lost.) / This is me telling myself
that every woman is wolf / not rabbit. see, look at the arrow / in its chest for good measure.
see, this is me / hoping for salvation / remission.
someone's lover dies
and anger unspools from my body and red string ties itself to a boy. a man. a tree. it can’t make up its mind about love. cowers from sharp items, the needle. my nails. my voice when it says stop. what a word we hate. word like blood. work of blood. they say blood is only worth something when its yours. it’s almost true. I feel nothing of the bark breaking off a tree, or out of a man. almost. then I watch them pour out, sap-like, thin drizzles of thread.
Farah Ghafoor is a fifteen-year-old poet and a founding editor at Sugar Rascals, an online teen literary magazine. She believes that she deserves a cat and/or outrageously expensive perfumes, and can’t bring herself to spend pretty coins. Her work is published in places like alien mouth, Really System and Synaesthesia, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com.