Copyright © 2019 Nur Hassanain. 
All rights reserved.

Abandoned Lands

Each time you try

to synchronize our footsteps

on busy pavements

as you look down

with eyes that label me

as your property,

I stutter on the following words.

“Ask any night woman,"

I want to say,

"Touch is no sanctuary."

You might think that

your tongue is a paintbrush

and my breasts are a canvas,

but look again.

Because maybe before 

you make them go hard

you ought to take another

look at your passport.

My body 

is a country 

that does not 

issue visas for free.

& money is free;

you can't rent a country.

Your words are free.

I put words together 

for a living,

so they can't fool me.

Please, don't confuse 

loving me

with 

desiring me.

Because maybe the ‘spark' 

that you label as 

TNT between you & me

is merely the tip

of a half-lit cigarette.

And as cliché as this may sound,

You've got to arouse my mind

before you think 

of traveling inside me.

Call me talented, 

intellectual,

different,

magnificent,

but not pretty.

Because I've seen pretty women 

with beautiful bodies 

for countries.

But if you've ever really looked around

you'll see that some land has

ruins for buildings

shadows for people

and smoke for air.

So this is why words like

"pretty"

never made my knees go weak.

Our synchronized footsteps

& interlocked fingers

are not close to 

where you or I want to be.

And if you still think

my chest is a canvas,

test the strokes

of your brush

and you'll see

that no art can be made

without the color

of a visa entry.

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