Panoramic.

Window shopping often combined
patience, and flipping price tags to find
out what cost too much, or not enough.

And the identifiers on cleaning products
had saved my life on more than one innatentive moment. 

Without nutrition guides to remind me
that my thighs are getting wide behind me,
I'd have ballooned at least a decade ago,
since sugar and I were quite the delicious duo.

But a label that has always irked me,
as though it were meant to hurt me,
was the one that could prevent me,
from potentially meeting a kindred spirit,
simply because they did not fit within the margins of my sexuality.

Never one for restrictions, do not prohibit me unless you'll suffer my performance, labels are for soupcans, so why do I need to be butter basic boring?

Taught to love and see beauty in all of the human race, it seemed much simpler to satisfy my carnal desires with men, than to appropriately court our counterparts for a coveted first date.

So, it stayed this way for quite some time,
as I thought I'd silently assumed a side,
until I realized energy, and chemistry meant more to me than body parts outside.

This internal identity crisis induced panic subsided once I embraced the panoramic; why limit myself to appease the rest, when I could be inclusive of every gem that made me sparkle best?

Fuego Was Her Name.

Fluidity, that laps away at
favourite finds; a predatory,
poisoned ivy vine, that spreads
like somber hues, and sorry news,
a secret song of sadness,
that snags on softer fabric,
catching it inside its icy-grip,
that tears and rips, like turpentine.

Anger like this, is guillotine,
that races wildly to cause a scene,
enraged by novelty, an offence
much worse than commodity.
And as it melts, to ooze out
from the room, just to retreat.
It swallows the signs, and
all the lights that line the city
streets.

I swear it gets so vibrant bright
and blinding white that you
would think the world had
self-combusted, caught on fire,
taken up pyromania-inspired
admiration.

Scarlet reds then black again,
orange-dead, like ashen dread,
burnt orange, just like the sky
during an atomic bomb,
yellows so bright and stark,
it starts to spark, then white again,
like roasted dust from cigarette butts,
and all the ash is all that remains,
of stories told, and memories of
all the nights we'd ignite, under
the lights that line the city streets.

Aquamarine.

In the water, I am beautiful;
serene, when its sirens sing
me into seabreeze slumber.
But its rage can wreak havoc
that roars then rips through
roads and rocky mountains.

Elemental eloquence, its
ecosystem is a universe of
underwater excellence.
Aquatic artistry is evident in
every detail, from insignificant
algae to blue whales in all their
breathtaking magnificence.

Capable of capsizing acclaimed
ocean liners that could never sink,
or erasing entire continents
whose Atlantean existence still
remain an unsolved mystery to this day.

Poseidon's power knows no limits,
he could be both—the calm, but
also the storm.
Seamonsters, spinning cyclones,
tsunamis, and hurricanes could
just as simply become seashells,
sandcastles or skipping stones.

And in spite of all its splendour,
we must always remember that
no shipwreck or buried treasure
is worth risking the wrath of rivers
or the ocean's unpredictable nature.

Loose Rap.

I wrote you a four page letter,
we've been back, back, and forth, and forth,
I really needed somebody,
and you showed me my worth.

We rocked the boat like
we were one in a million,
and you made me feel like
I was more than a woman.

Hot like fire, when we started,
and our love's still off the charts,
we might need a resolution,
if we can't reach the stars.

You're the one I gave my heart to,
so you better not let me down,
if you can't be the one I can give my all to,
you've got to tell me now so I can bounce.

Are you feelin' me still,
or do we dust ourselves off, and let it go?
Were you just another one hit wonder,
or are you feelin' me, yo?

I can be your babygirl,
you know I'll hold you down,
but if you can't be straight with me,
I've gotta get back on steady ground.

Spectre.

Losing you left me weightless,
now I float through life, a spectre;
a phantom made the day I woke
to find you'd slipped away.

Fairground.

Read between the lines—

the words often left unsaid.

Worries that weaken the warrior,

exclamations of love that go 

unheard because they begin 

as quickly as they end.

It is a shouted sermon of silence—

like bated breath in a flute, 

it hardly makes a sound.

These memories were melodies,

but now they're the ghosts 

that haunt the carousel 

of our unfamiliar fairground. 

Cycles.

Set ablaze by an array of greys,

that grazed my grace like the gaze

of glazed, but gloomy, Sundays.

Every memory had a melody,

albeit one that made me muddy,

then melted away my better moods.

Trauma so toxic, it got sick,

then terrorized me ten times a week, 

just to teach me about adversity.

Until one vibrant dawn when I screamed,

"ENOUGH!" And shed the soiled skin 

society sentenced me to keep.

My spirit rose anew, reborn, again,

rapt in raging red, unyielding yellows,

and emancipating orange flames.

I suppose I should've shared that I am

still the same cyclical phoenix who strives to stay alive, to survive, to thrive, who's surely 

soared in every timeline yet.

Love Letter to Little Me.

Dear little Kashif,

I want you to know that you are loved, that you are worthy, and that you are worthy of love. Regardless of how invisible you've let the vindictive voice within you convince you that you are; the opposite is true.  You light up the darkest rooms, and illuminate every unlit space you enter.  

On the days you feel you are unimportant, when your every effort is met with rejection, just remember that you matter!  

Your brilliance is unmatched, and brings a breath of fresh Rocky Mountain oxygen into every organism or atom it enlightens with its existence.  

So what if you feel each emotion with such extreme conviction, whilst the other guys are brainwashed to believe that boys don't cry? And so what if you prefer playing house, with Barbie dolls instead of hitting sticks with balls?  Your way with words is a sport that other sorts will never even attempt.  

Although society may question your flamboyance, and balk as you bake your own identity into your own characteristic confection, you have every right to take your time as you try on different masks until you find the perfect selection.  

I believe in you, and will always celebrate the parts of you that you would rather conceal; I encourage you to let your rainbow paint their blank canvases with vibrancy and colour.  

Accept the uneasiness inside you, it will ease as you grow wiser; confidence will one day claim its stake and conquer all of the awkward chaos.  

So be gentle with the sleeping giant within you, and trust that he will rise up singing, you are a star, and baby, you are beautiful and brilliant. 

From the future, and with the utmost love, encouragement, and adoration, that you always wished you had, your best friend from the start, Big Kashif.

Chronic Couture.

 I used to bend. 

Melted into velvet 

backdrops, like 

couture.

A formless figure;

easily posed, 

with fickle bone, 

that floated across 

the stage.

The marionette me

even made the frigid 

melt. 

But now, I fray.

My timeless youth

no longer ticks, 

as sickness seared me

with its brand. 

Torture, in tremors,

& aches so great

I quaked, 

like the open mouth 

of a bellowing 

grave.