Arta Afshar

Edition VIII

The Beginning Until There was an End - by Arta Afshar  (Photo by Ahmad Minawi)Graphic by: Ahmad Minawi

The Beginning Until There Was an End

By Arta Afshar

It’s pretty awful actually,
slipping through the cracks of you like
it feels good to be home.

I’ve had the strangest feeling that you’ve killed me once before,
ready to burst from this form
in sight and out of mind.

But what about the words she sang sweetly as you walked away?
Should sorrow signify the shattering of your strength?
Still, you shake the cold off your bones and continue on,

For what?
Was it worth it?

Still you remind her that everything burns,
it’s just a matter of how long you hold it to a flame,
when you forget what’s harder,
your fists or your heart.

You’re fine with destruction
until it’s your world crumbling down to ashes.
Slip into my veins,
let me show you where the river ends. 

Edition IX

home-by-arta-afshar-photo-by-lilian-hakimPhoto credit: Lilian Hakim


By Arta Afshar

I used to live here,
this was my home
and I cared for its heart.

Fighting against the blood loss and common sense
because for five minutes you felt like home.

You felt like home,
you were just another bed space for junkies like me to die in,
but it doesn’t hurt because I decided it shouldn’t.

But are you worth what I’ve destroyed in your name?

Words are empty now,
your unspoken ideas on love never grabbed my attention
because you never truly understood the true concept of it,
you couldn’t care less for how I felt about you
but you were always there,

now I’m 5000 miles apart from you
and I finally feel like I’m home,
but you still wouldn’t care.

Edition X

you-had-me-by-arta-afshar-photo-by-oscar-keysPhoto credit: Oscar Keys

You Had Me

By Arta Afshar

Remember when you met me and my body was split open on the table?
I had apologized for the mess
but hadn’t figured out how to repack my guts.

I spent years with other hands in my chest.
Shoving and taking indiscriminately.
If that’s how they met you, they don’t know any better.

I’m pretty excited about the anesthesia wearing off.
I’ll take the pain of movement over paralysis any day.

It’s been a long time I haven’t seen the sun.
I tell stories from before because I don’t want to forget myself.
I have no boundaries because I was alive,
deferred agony and all that.
Shrugging back into my skin, picking up my guts, rearranging and trying to feel what works.

I don’t give a fuck if I’m not good looking to you;
I’ve lived through the death of myself.
No idea what’s coming next but I’m walking towards it,
I’ll be sprinting the second I’m strong enough.
I won’t let you waste my time. 

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