we grow in towers and in hightides and blossom with the coming of winter in the anomaly of bittersweet outbursts we find some comfort in woolen sweaters. our lack of empathy, guarded in the white cuffs around our necks; there are tears meditating on your face, but we cry rebellion as you loathe in a […]Read More honeycomb
What am I alive for? Is it to breathe the easy insolence of the wind, to see it circle around a cherry sky strike violets against the blue (birthing violence into a calm) causing merciful ripples into a dead lake. Is it to feel the fables rustle the leaves dense green and raging into the […]Read More What am I alive for?
How long until I forget the sound of your voice- the sunlight seeping in through your bedroom window, you telling me you’d rather talk in the dark. Escaping to your terrace and taking pictures of the sunset, talking with the flowers blooming in the spring. Did you know I was watering our grave? Will I […]Read More When We’re Dead
The gravel in her tongue atrophies along with the rest of her body, lurid and every bite in is just another bite out. There is a road that travels down her throat and each tongue that rides it through feels the sick burn of falling over cold, tiled floors kneeling in front of dirty toilet […]Read More Atrophy
Another wave hits the shore. It scrapes the sand and I think that perhaps it’s wanting to be home. My mother always used to tell me that sometimes somethings that are a part of something don’t feel at home in the comfort of familiarity. Behind my precariously hooded eyes I dream of a tide – […]Read More Waves
I felt it as the first wave crashed upon me- the water percolating on my skin forming dews, resting around my chest. I felt it as it drowned my throat and I wished that it would drown me too. But since the summer of 2016, I have learnt how to swim in prolonged tides, in […]Read More Cancer Season
It is excruciatingly painful to be self-aware – to know your own flaws to the see the morbid direction in which you are willingly walking to be a slave to old, destructive habits. It’s almost like I am a corpse, you would have to be a moldy, mourning cadaver to be able to digest the […]Read More On Omniscience and Decay
It is like being skinned, like being slowly unguarded and left in a formidable puddle of my own dearth. I sit on a couch, a sofa, a loveseat, anything to cushion the bone I am about to be. “Let’s undress this sweetheart, we are only here to celebrate nudity.” But, mother, I have never been […]Read More To The Girl in The Mirror