This too shall last
Riya N. Hamid/20/NYC This is a space for miscellaneous brain spillage in the form of poetry and the occasional appreciation for film. All writing belongs to me, unless specified otherwise instagram: riyahamid Creative Commons Licence
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(accidentally deleted)

i met you on the night of my birthday. i had a boyfriend. you had a smile that felt like quicksand.  you hugged me as tightly as your jeans hugged your willowy legs. i didn’t even know you. we were the only straight people in a crowded gay bar. you bought me four different drinks because you didn’t know what i wanted. i didn’t know what i wanted, either. you said you loved me the following morning. i didn’t think you were crazy. what was i doing in your bed still? on new years eve we drank two cans of dr. pepper. your lips had ended their friendship with alcohol a year ago. your liver was home to bottles of lexapro. we sprinted aggressively for blocks after blocks in park slope wearing nothing but our underwear when the ball dropped. it was 30 degrees outside but my ribcage was holding in a radiator. we got drunk from the frigid air violently attacking our skin. you told your dad you wanted to marry me. he was concerned about his will. you cried like a maniac at the NQR union square station. your body trembled like a dog rescued from a lake. people looked at us strangely. you taught me to order avocado with my turkey burgers. i was convinced that my tiny fingers against your head would comfort you. they didn’t. once, i got intensely stoned and you tickled me for what seemed like an eternity on your kitchen floor because you wanted to hear me laugh for a long time. i didn’t realize that then but i do now. we would chase running trains and wave at passengers for fun. your mother was raped by a catholic priest. she was manic depressive. she asked you to kiss her once. you liked being softly kissed on your eyelids before you went to sleep. once, you were convinced i was making eye contact with your best friend’s boyfriend in a way that made your stomach twist and turn like a dirty rag against bathroom tiles. we rode the train back and forth until i managed to convince you that it wasn’t true. i don’t remember your smile anymore.



a fake love poem


i stumble out
of the train wearing
lethargy on my face like
a little girl wears a plastic
tiara; my eyes
from lifting bags that are too large &
too heavy for them. i panic for 
a millisecond while patting 
my thighs to be certain that the
gloves that i accidentally stole
from you are still warm
in the hems of my
pockets. i own articles of clothing that
are scattered in different
states & continents; i leave
favorite novels on park
benches after finishing them because
my brain is the sort of 
disobedient child who enjoys running
away from
home. i do not care 
about gloves or things that can be
purchased in department stores— but
i care about your gloves— two
little grey things, held
together by threads as loose
as my memory, because 
they belong to you and therefore they are
a part of you and i would never want
a part of you to be left abandoned
in a moving train heading
to a strange quarter
in canarsie


i wear your 
body like i was born with it; your
arms are a bonfire in
january’s empty
stomach; the sound of your
laughter can fill a room brighter than
fluorescent lights ever can. you 
are energy efficient; river
water against light
fingertips; the sound of wind chimes
on a wealthy person’s terrace
during the springtime in 
provence; eyelashes dancing
against skin; hot chocolate
near christmas time. you are
a painting and my eyelids
are the canvas & you flow 
through me like
blood &
water & 
i love you,
i love you,
i love you
"Olive, it’s daddy"

"Olive, it’s daddy"

Top 5

Top 5

In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Charles Bukowski  (via chrissy-b)

(via chrissy-b)

Source: seabois
She is a tornado.
He is a man. He is solid and humble.
She tells the story three times, convinced
he does not understand. He is trying.
The story is about an elephant and a mermaid.
No, the story is about a millipede in a thicket of roses,
a prized buckskin horse and fifty lashes.
She is talking gibberish. He is trying to understand but she
is thunderbolt. Her tongue, a spear.
The dog is hiding in the back corner of a dark room.
The man wants to sit with the dog. She is melting.
Her face pools in her lap. Freckles pile at her feet.
There is nothing in the room that has not been hurled.
She is science like this. An atom, separating.
Finally, the story comes, like flood. Its mud seeps in
from under the doorjambs, rising. They are standing
ankle deep in water and rot and he understands now.
He is a spiced wound. He wants firearms. Hit-men. A brutal justice.
All the while, the window is sitting with its mouth open,
spilling their hot storm into the courtyard
where the neighbors have come to their sills,
elbows propped, hungry
like vultures.
Jeanann Verlee, The Telling

I’m in Love

she’s young, she said,
but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,
and look at my wrists, I have pretty
o my god,
I thought it was all working,
and now it’s her again,
every time she phones you go crazy,
you told me it was over
you told me it was finished,
listen, I’ve lived long enough to become a 
good woman,
why do you need a bad woman?
you need to be tortured, don’t you?
you think life is rotten if somebody treats you
rotten it all fits,
doesn’t it?
tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a 
piece of shit?
and my son, my son was going to meet you.
I told my son
and I dropped all my lovers.
I stood up in a cafe and screamed
and now you’ve made a fool of me…
I’m sorry, I said, I’m really sorry.
hold me, she said, will you please hold me?
I’ve never been in one of these things before, I said,
these triangles…
she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all 
over.she paced up and down,wild and crazy.she had
a small body.her arms were thin,very thin and when
she screamed and started beating me I held her
wrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred,
centuries deep and true.I was wrong and graceless and
sick.all the things I had learned had been wasted.
there was no creature living as foul as I 
and all my poems were

— Charles Bukowski


here i am, smiling
with you while his cum sprints like
a thief down my thigh
- rh