a poem about bed sheets

dust is just skin peeling.

at night when

home becomes 

a pitcher of memories

that pours itself in my eyes,

i am held in this dust.

dandruff, in a way.

a girl i once hated

loved to remind me of specks

on my shoulders.

she doesn't know 

we are the weight of

what our palms cannot

comprehend.

Cleaning our clothes,

cleaning our hands.

her divorced mother

taught her to stay away

from skin darker than hers.

is the dust of their house

fair?

is the dust on my bed 

not?

i have shed from my scalp

i have shed from my toes

i have shed in mosques

i have shed on roads.

here i am

under a roof of bricks

which are covered

in reflections of stars

my skin knows

are its forefathers.

i do not know mine.

i think my grandfather's

was from a star

that probably hated itself.

i am sleeping

with my bed sheet dusty.