You ask me to bring my whole self into the room,
and I wonder if you know what you’re asking for.
See, some parts of myself haven’t spoken to each other in years.
Some parts have yet to meet, and fear the day they will.
You hardly seem prepared for that kind of reunion.
Some parts only emerge from their shells to the call of their kind.
(They’re adapted to survive that way.)
To pry them open for your viewing would be death.
Some parts of me aren’t made for rooms like this.
They’d scratch up the floor with their jittering claws,
Dent the ceiling as they leap too high,
Fill the space with unruly screeches,
Until you’re sorry you invited them in.
And maybe my self isn’t a whole,
but merely a part–
a part of many
that is fully alive only when rooted into those circles and lineages
that have shaped and are shaped by it–
It can’t really live as an uprooted centerpiece at your table.
You tell me to bring my whole self into the room,
and I wonder:
What do you think you’ve done for me
that I owe you such an impossible feat?
You’re good at molding
to fit each container, but
What are you made of?
Those who came before you
believed what they could—
what they had to—
to get you here.
You owe it to their legacy
not to fossilize their words,
but to plant them;
To grow and dream and expect
what those before you
never knew how to imagine.
You have the audacity
to sigh and roll your eyes at me
when I seem a little distant
or take some time to come when you call for me?
After you hid me in your closet
refused to be heard with me in public;
After you left me
shunned and neglected me;
And after all those years
When you wouldn’t speak with me
even when I called
you expect me to leap back wholeheartedly
the moment you want me to be your little side bitch?
Well forgive me
if I take some time to warm up to the idea
If I have some trepidations
about touching your lips again.
Because bitch, I am beautiful.
Do you know how many artists
have drawn testaments to my infinite curves?
How many poets have blown their minds
just trying to channel the shades
of sonics and meaning
resonating from my every syllable?
And the bits of me that felt too rough for your mouth—
that’s the stuff that music is built upon.
You had your chance with me, but do you even know what you turned down?
Nadia, ya habibti
You say you miss me
And I want to believe you
We can talk, and see where this goes
But I have to take this slow.
If you see every age past
in either dark or golden
you’ll think this multichromatic chaos is new.
But nah, this same shitstorm’s been swirling
solidifying and splintering–
its past forms you could never
replicate precisely nor erase completely
even if you wanted to.
I miss what the person I was then
imagined the person you were then to be.
(The way that fantasy felt inside
that mind I’m glad I don’t think with anymore.)
Said you’re all out of singles
I said try double-dipping
And you reached for a line
But hands were Freudian slipping
I tried playing it smart
But the dumbbells were wringing
With the wait of the time
Because my pendulum’s swinging
On your side for a second
In your way just to change it
Now I’m force to be reckoned
With a chemical agent
Sure you’ve seen and you’ve conquered
But now you’re dis-oriented
You hardly knew what was coming
But you softly relented
If we’re a joke where’s the punch
Line of kool-aide to inspire
These shits and gigs leave a byte
Like ha ha B B gun fire