THIS IS A RADICAL REQUEST TO LOVE YOURSELF
I am a tree
I am the roots
I am the soil
I am the soil where New will flourish.
I am what I am
I will protect it
I will build a garden around it
I will water the soil with my teardrops
I will let the light in, I am not afraid of its brightness
I will let love find its space and pace, I will not push it away.
I stand on firm ground
I smell the blossoming of life,
I dip myself to take baths in it,
I let butterflies land on my shoulder blades and teach me
how to stay still.
I am here to listen
I am here for the river and the wind to navigate through me
I am here for life
the life I create, the life I belong to.
PETALS
I looked inside my heart; it was full of flowers
soft pink yellow white petals
stacked on top of one another
How I haven't dared to see them before
FALLING
People fall in and out of love like this,
all the time.
I didn’t fall out of love with you.
I fell out of love with myself,
when I was with you.
NOTHING SPECIAL
Unlike you think, your love is not special
Unlike you think, your pain is not special
Unlike you think,
you are special.
FREE
I am going to grow a bush
bigger than your back garden.
I’m going to cut my hair
and letting it grow like a sunflower.
My dreams will sprout new seeds
unknown of their strength and power
I will not drop a single leaf
before I’m ready for the next season
Because these roots are tucked deep
deeper than you ever had courage to see.
These roots are tucked deep
These roots are grown out of heavy raindrops bigger than your needs
These roots are tucked deep
Because I’m more than the solid tree,
I am wildly alive, and finally free.
ROOM THAT I WRITE, ROOM WHERE I WRITE
I sleep in this angular room, in all its four corners, in its in-between spaces, and in the dust balls growing under the rug, which I shake once a week from the open window into the street and watch the dust dance and land on a neighbor’s windowsill where the rubber mat I once dusted now lies lifeless.
I write in this room, I have conquered more space within its angled walls. I breathe in the air that smells of sleep and open the window under which the trees serve us, so beautiful they are.
I make love in this room, angular stone under the pillow, I'm alive and languid. The room writes me, I write him (her). I am complex and extended, multi-angled and spatial, delicate if I want to be.
HUONE JOTA KIRJOITAN, HUONE JOSSA KIRJOITAN
Nukun tässä kulmikkaassa huoneessa, sen kaikissa neljässä kulmassa, sen välitiloissa ja maton alla kasvavissa pölypalloissa, joita ravistelen kerran viikossa kadulle avoimesta ikkunasta ja katselen kuinka pöly tanssii ja laskeutuu naapurin ikkunalaudalle, jossa kerran ravistelemani kumimatto nyt makaa elottomana myttynä.
Kirjoitan tässä huoneessa, olen vallannut lisää tilaa sen kulmikkaista päätyseinistä. Hengitän unenhajuista ilmaa ja avaan ikkunan, jonka alla puut palvelevat meitä, niin kauniita ne ovat.
Rakastelen tässä huoneessa, kulmikas kivi tyynyn alla, olen elossa ja raukea. Huone kirjoittaa minua, minä häntä. Olen monimutkainen ja ulottuvainen itsekin, monikulmainen ja tilallinen, hento jos haluan.
LA HABITACIÓN QUE ESCRIBO, LA HABITACIÓN DONDE ESCRIBO
Duermo en esta habitación angular, en sus cuatro esquinas, en sus espacios intermedios y entre el polvo que crece debajo de la alfombra, la cual sacudo una vez por semana desde la ventana a la calle.
Veo el polvo bailar y aterrizar en el alféizar de la ventana del vecino, donde la alfombra de goma que una vez desempolvé, ahora yace sin vida.
Escribo en este cuarto. He conquistado los espacios de sus paredes angulares. Respiro el aire que huele a sueño y abro la ventana bajo la cual nos sirven los árboles––son tan hermosos. Hago el amor en esta habitación, piedra angular debajo de la almohada; estoy viva y lánguida. El cuarto me escribe, yo le escribo. Soy compleja y extendida, multi angular, espacial y delicada, si quiero.
KUORI
The tangible lightness
the weight of
everydayness
being
safe
by herself
on a Monday morning
carrying all her everythingness
like a crown
on top of her fingertips
She’s strong
she’s fragile
She’s heavy
she’s light
she carries the ocean inside
She’s a tree
after dropping its leaves
welcoming
a new layer
under her skin
because
a tree
is still a tree
even when it undresses its leaves.
E3 2NT
05460
To be born English is to win first prize in the lottery of life.
On lottovoitto syntyä Suomeen.
On muistettava
kuka on ja miksi
on rakastettava silloinkin kun on yksin
(etenkin silloin kun on yksin)
on pakattava laukut
on purettava laukut
on vaihdettava osoite
pankkitunnus,
verotiedot
on muistettava numerot
to remember the numbers by heart
on sopeuduttava
muistettava punnita hedelmät
katsottava oikealla
katsottava vasemmalle
on kysyttävä tietä
on sanottava “en tiedä”
on astuttava maalle
joka ei tunne jalkojesi painoa
joka ei vaadi sinulta mitään vielä
on totuttava vanhaan
palattava uuteen
ja siinä,
välissä
olen jossain
mitä kutsumme kodiksi
the place we call home.
THE GIRLS WHO GO TO THERAPY
We are the girls who go to therapy
Green parka, bleached hair, red lipstick,
our eyes meet.
We hold the door, we smile, we say, “thank you, that was kind.”
We lock the door behind us,
We sit alone in a café,
exhale aloud.
We take a bath on Tuesday night,
listen to nothing but our pounding hearts
We mute the words, come back to our mother’s womb
to be reborn
to unlearn
to unleash the stuckness, the toxic masculinities
we call cultural norms.
We are the girls who go to therapy.
HUNGRY
“You know, there’s food at home too.” That’s my mom in me saying.
So, I don’t buy the falafel salad box though I am craving greens
and I don’t buy the garaf of Shiraz though I wanted to sit in the corner table and read a book, on my own.
Instead, I hop on a bus, number eight to Bow church
a route I know a little too well.
Hungry, tummy trembling, getting angry now
carrying
my mother in me
speaking in Finnish, “sapuskaa saa kotonakin.”
and just then,
I don’t feel alone anymore.
SAFE
My mother’s love was over pouring
rushly made like morning porridge,
sticking at the bottom of the pan.
My mother’s love was over pouring unable to fill the gaps
of my father’s absence, dead silences after 9 pm news.
My mother’s love was over pouring.
Thin, strong, torso.
Short hair.
Sharp nose.
My mother’s love was over pouring
leaving me longing the traces
her fingers drew on my back.
WOUNDS
The fear of facing sorrow
The fear of facing solitude
Our mothers' sadness, which we carry in our hearts, a puddle of suppressed emotions.
There’s an ocean inside, trying to come out,
waves slapping the shore, words staying stuck
like the lump
in my throat.
YOU ASKED ME WHY I CRIED
I said, “I’m fine,” but actually
I thought about the broken ribs
and I thought about her BDSM experiences
I thought about the LGBTQ communities
and I thought about Virginia Woolf
I thought about my empty room
I thought about the sun’s rays entering my now-old living room
I thought about his flat nose and his Ray Bans and how much I wanted to touch his hair
I thought about the trips I had ahead
I thought about all the things I stored and put into cardboard boxes
I thought about the Instagram photos and the followers and their whatever comments
I thought about the dreams I had with big cocks
and I thought about the cold sweats
I thought about the traffic and the tattoos I had gotten
And the year that had passed that I was now thinking about, crying
(I thought about how tired I had become of hating everything you said.)
HYVÄ ULKOMINISTERI TIMO SOINI,
Minun kehoni ei kuulu sinulle
Minun kohtuni ei kuulu sinulleMinun kehoni ei ole emoji
Minun kohtuni ei ole sinun mielipiteesi
minun kehoni ei ole sinun pöytäkahvikeskustelusi
minun kehoni ja kohtuni
kuuluvat
yksinomaan
minulle
😘
•
DEAR TIMO SOINI, MINISTRY OF FOREIGN POLICY
My body is none of your business
My uterus is none of your business
My body is not an emoji
My uterus is not your opinion
my body is not your coffee table conversation
my body and my uterus
belong
exclusively
to myself.
😘
FRUIT FLIES
I will not be the ellipsis on your lips
that leads nowhere.
The silence that follows the “but" after “I find you so attractive.”
Silence so long I could disappear there
(I don’t need to hear the rest.)
I’m not here to do that, to ease your cravings when they come to keep away the memories of your ex, on a Sunday night.
We are on different islands
and I say this like I’d say it to a friend,
a friend I actually like:
My roots are tucked into soil and you are floating, like those flies above the fruit bowl, drunk and lost
“I love the way you smell,” you whisper, next to my back, pushing your fingers inside, making me gasp.
THERE'S NO FIX IN NETFLIX
No one else
can fix me.
Not you, not him, not her
No one else
can fix me.
Not the parties we go to,
not the bombs and drops we take
that make everything spin fast
so that none of us have to ask,
“How long does this last?”
No one else can fix me.
Not the one who I wake up with the next morning,
not the brunch we eat and the coffee we drink to ease our aching heads
Not the cigarettes we smoke
while watching the city turn pink
before the sky swallows the light
like a veil, before it disappears in front us into the night
No one else can fix me.
Not the Netflix we watch to tire our minds
Not the joints we smoke before bedtime
that feels like cotton pads covering our eyes
No one else
can fix this
where
solitude
softly lands.
#WAREHOUSEPORN
Follow the cranes to gentrificationto eat oysters and drink Sauvignon Blanc by the glass.
Follow the cranes to gentrification, follow the dads with their strollers, greying beards and tattoos under their Adidas jackets.
Follow the cranes to the red brick walls, tin roofs and abandoned buildings with “we’re open” signs on the door.
Follow the cranes to gentrification before it’s too late to post it on your Insta feed, hashtag warehouseporn
LUKEWARM
Yes, I’m white
Yes, I’m from Finland (Suomi sulle)
Yes, I’m a woman.
Yes, I’m 31
Yes, I weigh 53 kilos (and 55 if I’m on my period)
Yes, my foot size is 4 (I know, too small)
Yes, I live in London.
Yes, I laugh loud
Yes, my accent is something you can’t pin down,
yes I’m this and yes I’m fucking that,
and yes I carry all this nothingness
like it’s too little or too much—which one, you can’t decide.
LOVER
Find a lover
who will treat
your flower
like it deserves a crown
who will let you moan aloud
who’s not afraid of the power inside your thighs.
FIRST TIME
You kissed me
and all our past lovers
paraded between our lips
awoken hunger
sed y hambre
Jubilee line
tourists passing by
the traffic, wind blowing through my jacket
All the first times
tattooed on our minds
All the first times
they say
they will never die.
242
I’m looking inside a house:
three people on a couch, living room, orange glow,
242 towards St. Pauls passing below
the brakes creak, the bus coughs, tired sound, pale passengers inside, like corpses, shallow souls, heads tilted down, staring at their phones, light reflecting on their isolated faces. Empty soda bottle rolling on the floor, back and forth, outside the air smells like grease, it’s heavy of oil and acid rain. For seconds the streets are painted with red and blue, the sirens scream, people shout, hum and drum, the everyday, the normal life.
I’m staring at the street beneath, a breeze of wind touching my cheek. There's someone, looking at me, our eyes meet, the bus comes, the moment's gone, another nightmare, another day, another dream.
NOVEMBER
The smell of you is tattooed in my nostrils and won’t go away.
I could get drunk of that smell alone.
SUNDAY
There’s a taste of iron in your mouth. The remains of cocaine, from yesterday.
“Are you insane?” words echoing in my ears.
Don’t pray, I beg, please, stay, without asking, demanding, whispering, when the room bathes in afternoon light, we were supposed to leave hours ago, now it’s midday, day ruined, my mother would say, but I don’t move,
instead, I lie on my back, “touch me” yes you may and you mumble something like, “I thought you were hungry, don’t you want breakfast” and I hesitate but reply anyway, “I’m not finished yet” and you look at me, and you do touch me, far away, like I’m almost not there and now I can disappear, in the sheets I won’t smell again, in this t-shirt I’m not going to wear again,
and I almost come and we go in the sunshine, the sun is too bright, the sky is too blue and we have eggs for breakfast and we kiss goodbye,
the end.
VICTORIA PARK
The trees bent above me like an old man’s spine,
Their twigs were reaching the sky, which was turning from light blue to dark yellow.
The spaciousness made me feel safe, it held me tight.
I don’t know when the trees had undressed their leaves, but I hadn’t noticed that before.
I must have been asleep for a long time.
SEX FLASHBACK
We’re sitting in a bar, Sunday night, just the two of us
Two glasses of house wine
A man in his fifties, on his own, sits at the corner table with his iPhone. I see another one now, my age, rushing through the glass doors, dragging his suitcase, his mobile home, face frozen and now he's gone, the lights dim in the bar, you are telling a story, and I zoom out—
Instead, I think about
the time when my skin became a map
the slow exploration of your left hand
leaving traces,
like heart-shaped roses
and I remember the rhythm and the slap
that now makes my eyes blink too fast
and you ask me if I’m alright
I say, yes, just a flashback
and I raise my glass
to the sudden memories, to the sex flashbacks.
LONGING
If I tuck into,
into this longing I feel for you
it finds it feet
where hurt normally has its home
how can
love
feel
so close to pain?
LIES
The lies boys tell you to get upstairs:
- I want to see your paintings
- Let’s smoke a spliff on the rooftop
- I just want to hold you all night
- Let’s have one more glass of wine
- I have some great mescal at mine
- I want to tell you something, inside
- I’ve never had a one-night stand in my life.
MY MOTHER’S WOUNDS
The fear of facing sorrow
The fear of facing solitude
Our mother’s sadness, which we carry in our hearts,
a puddle of suppressed emotions.
There’s an ocean inside,
trying to come out,
waves slapping the shore,
words staying stuck like
the lump in my throat.
NICE GIRLS
They don’t believewe could do that.
Come home,
have a shower,
change clothes—
different underwear, same bra
brush our teeth
meet them in the park
be normal, laugh aloud, be quiet,
tell a lie
have a smoke, another ale, get high
read a book, rest on their chest
They say,
“Can I take you home,
do you like this,
let’s go there,
it was so nice,
xo xx”
And we say nothing back
they never think
we could do that
but it’s not a game, see;
it’s the unspoken rules
we learned to play.
NEW ROUTE
Look left,
choose a route,
turn right,
find a new way home,
look at the map,
look front,
slow down,
8 minutes,
you can make it,
make it home, turn the key
disappear from the sight, from the mind, people fall in and out of love like this, all the time.
HOME
The loss of losing a home.
A home that is not a house
A home that once was,
a feeling of freedom, of love,
a home that smelled like you,
a home that was anything we dared to dream of
the special secret, the never-never land
a home that is now a construction site, a wasteland
being replaced
by someone else’s life, a master plan, the luxury man
what we once had
is now in their hands
who never has the courage to understand
of the dreams we built
of what you and I, had.
LIKE A HALF-DEAD FISH
The most beautiful I’ve ever seen you,
you were broken in tiny pieces,
sharp like nails, I barely dared to touch you.
What you thought was your everything
shattered in front of you.
It got in the colour of your eyes, in the weary smile that stopped at the edges of your mouth, in the way you listened to others and closed your eyes in the middle of the crowd.
You avoided places so they wouldn’t bring you back; you tried to delete all the faces and replace them, but nothing was to last. You did everything with such intensity that it left you gasping air on the floor like a half-dead fish.
But that’s better than not feeling anything, you told me, "at least I know I am alive."
TWO HALVES
I had no idea
sorrow had so many stages
break up
[phrasal verb of break]
1.
disintegrate or disperse.
"the grey clouds had begun to break up"
We are breaking up,
breaking into two halves, which once were, at least, felt like one.
We are breaking up the dreams we built
tearing off the puzzles that fit together so well
that they even made a “click” sound when they met
We are breaking up the “we” into you and me,
deciding on our own,
what, when, how, with whom, and where
I have accepted that fact
but I never knew
how many stages grief will have,
it keeps coming to me
I’m reminded what we once used to have.
PARODY
The restlessness of us is tangible.
We want to get pissed, we want to forget, we want to get low, we try not to exist.
Remember me
Remember me
Remember me
Are you thinking of me, now?
The parody of us, of our time.