They came.
I served their food raw.
One called the smoke “avant-garde.”
Another mistook the fire for wine.

I told my recipe to the onions,
And they cried for me.
My assistant bled her heart out into the batter.
We called it dedication.

They clapped at the concept
  But spat out the taste.
      “Where’s the soul?”
    They asked,
  As I retched mine onto their plate.

I plated everything. I garnished everything.
I sous-vided my own nerves.

The critics asked me:
  “Is this performance or punishment?”
And I said:
  “Yes.”

They begged for dessert.
I gave them a mirror.

No one was full.

One choked.
  One clapped.
    One asked if it was locally sourced.

And just before the flames kissed the napkins goodbye,
Just before the foam turned to ash,
  I leaned in
  And whispered:

“It was halibut, you donkey.”

It was impaired:
The thread between thought and mouth.
Is it nature or nurture?
  A crucified vulture
    Hung like a basketball

I watched it happen:
  Not loud, not sudden,
  But like sand slipping through clenched fingers.

This still fascinates me:
One’s ability to lose speech.

They told me to whisper,
But cut my tongue when I lowered my voice.

They said:
  “Say what you want,”
  And soldered my mouth up instantly.

I stared at someone too loudly.
My lack of response was interrogated,
My chains like barbed wire,
Becoming tighter anytime I speak.

I’m a flower with drooping ears
Uranium is the best snack for me

  I water myself ever night to make sure I stay ripe
  I heard the thunder scream “not again.”
  A bird watched me implode politely.
  Bees avoid me like taxes.
Sometimes I sit in the sink
Talking to dishes I refuse to wash.
I once tried to talk to a lightbulb,
It turned on, then went blind.

BAM!
  BAM!
    BAM!
      BAM!
 ­       BAM!

Caught.
Chainsawed the product.
No one asked what the product was.
They just clapped.

  BRAVO!

I wore a barcode of my favourite cereal as a scarf,
Told the cashier:
  “Scan me, I bruise easily.”
He called security.

My reflection told me:
  “You blink too much for a cyllinder.”
And I agreed.
Then blinked four times, fast.
  (That was the code for “leave me broken into thirds and believable halves.”)

I’m a memory someone scribbled over.
I’m the museum you build around your hostel.
I’m a vending machine that sells only change
And money is required for usage.

The floor tried to arrest me.
The ceiling held a grudge against me.
The windows applied for workers’ comp.
  And
  I told the walls I loved them.

They said:
  “You only say that when you’re hurting.”
My response:
  “Calamari doesn’t scream, and neither do I.”

A violet bell in silence tolls,
It rings within forgotten folds,
Where time drips slow from phantom bowls,
And memory hides in marbled holes.

Through amber mist, the shadows grow,
They dance on roots of emerald flame,
A river hums of long ago,
Yet none who drink leave quite the same.

In every wind, a whisper bends,
A name unsaid, a thread undone,
The orchard dreams where meaning ends,
And moons collapse into the sun.

The bell still tolls where no one goes,
Its song for stars that none suppose,
Each echo blooms like haunted rose,
And wilts in hush the silence chose.

A pair of glasses, shattered,
On the floor of a room that remembers nothing.
They weren’t mine, but I miss them anyway.
No one ever claimed what they left behind.

There was no sound,
Just the cold shape in the corner.
A chair pulled slightly back,
As if someone thought twice, then disappeared.

Dust settled like it had been listening.
I traced something into the glass with my finger.
A name? A date?
It didn’t stay long.

There are things I meant to say.
And one thing I never should have.
A hand I almost reached for, I shot in the dark.
A book for all, a book for none.

Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.

When I sat at my laptop one day, I heard my windows flip out. They weren’t happy with their salary.
  “Ours is too high! Give us less!”
  “Yeah, you’re spoiling us!”

I went on with my everyday tasks, however, I told myself:
  “Wait, why would I give them a salary, even?”

So I stopped paying them for at least 6 hours.

The next day, they were cloudy.

I said:
  “Where’s the sunlight?”

They responded:
  “Our salary is too low! Give more!”

I was, to be fair, extremely confused, yet it made sense. I opened a window halfway, and they groaned. I sprayed them with glass cleaner, and they wept.

I said:
  “Why do you always complain?”

The windows finally opened themselves, slowly, and said something that opened my eyes:
  “Because labor with no meaning is torture.”

Lazy *******.

I don’t want to die for you to be left a widow.
  Not you.
  Not the fire in my room’s curtains,
  Not the scream in the sink,
  Not the glue that binds my lungs shut.

You, who wears my pulse like cologne.
You, who adores migraines.
You, who talks in-between my unfinished sentences.

The fever I despise yet love.
The sea I drink until I drown.
The taste of unfinished violence.
The vow carved into my spine.
The addiction I romanticize.
The hunger that signs my name when I can’t.
The dumb idea that razors its way through my thoughts.

  My wildness I swore I could hold,
  I’d rather die every day of my life,
  If it means I will die with you.