My skin feels heavy on my bones,
an altar of withering daffodils.
Somewhere in Somalia
a boy moulds himself into haram
salaam alaikum
and he goes out in search of nothing,
finding home in bodies that
don’t belong to him.
To become is to journey through self;
to mutate into forms, we may not understand.
You begin at where you’re most vulnerable:
a chronic addiction to being alive.
Living is an abstract noun,
or a map to journey unto death.
My mind is populated by
a complex emptiness;
a mathematical concept
on dying bodies.
Somewhere in the distance
a woman is calling the names
of those that would die soon.
Read – Adoring Tanzania – A Poem by Halla Immaculate, Tanzania
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