I hold memories of my mother


I tuck them away in

my woeful womb.

She says that men and women are at war

have always been at war.

Look at me

she says.

I look.

Look now

at your grandmother.

– Meysa Addeh

The teeter

I have soft spots

for broken things

broken people.

My finger

teeters around their wounds

sometimes the wounds

they tell tales

and sometimes

the wounds

they swallow my finger


– Meysa Addeh


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


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