Talking about the weather by Myrna Al-Tajuri

I don’t like to be perceived  

my favourite Aquarius quip  

said with a chuckle and my whole chest –

for eyes on my skin, small hellos and howeyas 

in smoking areas and bathroom queues /  

imagined passengers in passing cars  

feel like scalpel incisions –

the flaying of a beast. 

I crumple into nothing 

under floodlights of sight.

sometimes grinning back from behind 

my woman mask –

sometimes assembling passable chat –

more often slinking away  

the Irish goodbye  

eventually /

don’t take existing so fuckin’ seriously  

to me from me –

because that, dear self,  

is merely being looked at –

an address, an invitation 

to the banter table –

apocalyptic nightmare for

this introvert.

I grieve the loss of once being up for the craic /

down for connection /

well able – sure look.

a true peeling back of my surface /

a burning of these walls /

the act of sincere perception –

to be understood 

shakes me to my peach-pit core. 

I resist so deeply your searching 

gaze / tone

 in an act of learned self-destruction.

I yearn I yearn – my yearning the moon  

pulling the tide / the push / an inner dance between two desires –

to be consumed whole  

flesh sucked from bone  

the marrow of my knowing a meander in your throat – forehead to forehead –

intimate friend.

I long to be cradled by another brain  

a solemn nod – I gotchu 

silence – cosy / complete.

in conflict with the seductive roar of isolation –

fortified by flashing neon memories –

the cringe of fleeting eyeballs raising hair on my arms.

the siren’s call to give in to inner voices /

make a duvet cave – hide away /

 nurse ancient wounds 

and wish for days in the sun with another she – my happy self.

soft laughter at bus stops /

the ease of saying nothing but knowing all /

the magnitude of souls mirrored back between us. 

I can’t decide –

come be alone with me /

come be alone.

we can even talk about the weather – 

for nestled in the contours of your words is me –

home.