Riya N. Hamid/20/NYC This is a space for 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
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

and at once i thought:
who are you? and why are you
inside my body?


if you love me don’t offer me your cigarette

your eyebrows furrow
as though they are dying
to escape your
forehead; i tell you how
fond i am of the word
"apricity" and your gesture
resembles a nod; we drive
through a sunset so
red it reminds me
of the color of my father’s
fingerprints on the left
side of my face and sometimes
my right— wilting 
away in the corner of the
kitchen like a kicked
dog, counting my
breaths as though i had 
discovered numbers for the
first time— amazed that i 
had a tongue that could
give birth to sound &
sometimes even




(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


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