my lover

he once told me

that he would like to be tattooed onto me

but between my ribs pounding with the octaves of his words

my skin delirious for his curious touch

and my mind

immersed with the thrill that he brought forth

I forgot to tell him

I forgot to tell him that I didn’t like tattoos

– Meysa Addeh


The day the Earth set me forth,

flowers blossomed in my mother’s chest

and ivy tucked itself beneath her tendons.

Perhaps, that is why I forget good men for anarchists

I was born neither one thing

nor the other.

– Meysa Addeh

T. S. Eliot

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.


I am a writer

and I’ve always known it.

Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired

against my urge to pick up a

pen. I carried it around

like you carry relics, my pens

remained tethered to them,

I write now.

Perhaps because I am not much of

a talker.

– Meysa Addeh