Self embracing, literally
The shattered skeleton of my intended joys
Wounded, no, un-alive
Clutching onto wastrels of hope
Drowning
Falling
Sinking
Down to the depths of my reality
Praying to wake up to blind filtered polluted sunshine
And impatient ***** of vehicle drivers.

Crows cawing
The sounds of construction.

Firmness beneath my body
My sight blocked by the smoky illusion of bed curtains.
What truly is home?
The physical manifestations of boredom and repetition
Familiar scents of musk, old paper and furniture
Alive furniture, living furniture
With a story; multiple histories to tell

Stuck here instead
Pale skin, dead eyes, cold souls
40 different kinds of bread, wasted
Harsh fluorescent lighting
People pretending to be happy with new haircuts and won ipads

A polaroid of a daisy
Whimsical, right?
Hardly. Overused, misinterpreted, cliched
Cliched realities mixed together in a Chinese take away box

Gold earrings and strappy heels
Mask true insecurity

I lay awake briefly
Dreaming of car-empty roads and solid buildings
Full families and the idea
The idea of being able to share
SHARE
Food, space, air
Thoughts.

"Don't think of me;
this moment, blot
out
this voice of mine. These
looks
irresistible to me though you are
avert your gaze from mine.
Consider, instead,
A Memory in Teakwood
Magnolia Wash;
voices ring down a corridor,
rising, and fading,  
fading and rising;
or the spiralling diaphanous mystery of childhood",
I said.

She said, "Ooh,
You don't half talk some ****".

Does the fact that I love candles that smell like men’s cologne versus feminine floral scents categorize me as lonely? Because I’ve been single for two years now and I think that I might be lonely.

Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial.

yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself
there, not here, my body straddles two nations
yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks
i don’t know which language I dream in any more  
yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed
my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river
my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation
between her bleeding legs
most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes
yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself

We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.

The museum was deserted at mid-noon
The summer sun more than his taste for history
Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects.

His eyes caught the two warnings
Photography prohibited and
Don’t touch objects

He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed
Solid 18th century teakwood
Carrying stains of his passions on white linen
Imprinted with the motions of his emotions

There he saw the ruler on the bedstead
With tender touch of fingers on his head
One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand

His hand involuntarily touched the wood

A small chunk fell into his hand
And without a second thought
In a forbidden impulse
He shoved it inside his pocket

He came out from the musty smell into the sun

A chip of Dupleix in his pocket
His passion’s outlet
Escapes from the ravages of war
To find solace
From the tender hands around him
Bought by force of wealth
Far far away from home.

Away from colonial past he breathed deep

The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!

and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to ****. you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know.

— to my younger self

We all squeezed into the trunk
My hipbone pressed against yours
You looked down at the photo on your phone
And a soft lock of hair fell over your forehead
I wanted to push my hands into your hood and through your curls

The air was full of our laughter and bass-heavy music
And camera flashes and the smell of teakwood
Our feet dragged easily over the wet pavement
Pushing away orange leaves and awkwardness

i said i wouldn’t write about
anxiety
told myself that it was over
tucked in the treasure chest
and threw the key
in to outer space
because i just wanted
to make some
******* space
told myself that anxiety belongs on a
planet of pure
vacancy
vast open with a welcome mat that
says
welcome
but its funny
because i never said thank you
in the first place
allowed my tree trunk to split open
and let you water the roots inside me
because i told myself i would grow
when you turned on the water hose
my roots shot up
they were thirsty
this was always the scary part
never wanted my roots to grow leaves
to plant seeds
at least
not for a while
i take daily trips
tripping over the cucumbers and watermelons in the garden
hoping to find someone to tell me
what’s wrong with me
tell me why i keep finding bruises
because she thinks it’s low blood sugar
tells me to stick my arm in the
cylinder of results
glued down in all pharmacies
i tell her this pharmaceutical ******* has got to go
i ask the chrysanthemums
how come when i drive my body shakes
and i can feel my foot on the peddle wobbling
no one in the car feels it but me
the gas peddle keeps jumping under my feet like a jack in a box
told it to chill the **** out
this isn’t a nursery
this is 2am showers to rinse the hate of the world off of my body
or the fake hate for you
fruits of eden dangling like
ornaments
on a burning christmas tree
i am the burning christmas tree
people decorating me with jesus popsicle sticks
hiding all of me with glass shaped memories
my sticky branches and pine scent has never been enough
welcomed you home with aroma
as strong as
your hands during bickering
i lit the mohnagny teakwood candle
watched the hot wax spill
and melt a mount
on the dinner table
figured why not make this a forest fire
of truth
burn all the lies
while my carmel skin clings to
my brittle bones trying to
keep them warm as i
continue to shake
in the timeout corner
but then i remember i said
i wouldn’t write about
anxiety