i was given a succulent in the 2nd week of uni.
it was small, green, young like me.
it was already flourishing unlike me.
i overwatered it in the beginning, too flushed,
too eager to take care of someone else.
my first month living alone.
i knocked it over 1 night.
half of its leaves came off after a careless nudge.
it was exam season.
now i stare at it, thinking.
does it embody me? the rot inside me?
half the leaves missing, a fifth growing a sick green?
is that my portrait of dorian gray?
i dare not water it. i dare not touch it.
my own portrait shut away.
it is now 1 day from semester 2.
will i survive?
Jan 26, 2020
Jan 26, 2020 at 11:14 AM UTC
a swindler, sneaky yet gentle,
disguised as an island in the Mediterranean,
i think i may have left my heart there
in the pale limestone and the hissing
accents and the sun oozing into my skin
i wonder if there grows a garden of hearts,
from tourists wandering stumbling
onto late night buses on the coastlines
whose hearts have found a second home
under the limestone ribs
a botanical garden of our blood pumping organs,
what would it say on my description?
a gentle harvest, grown with 5 days
and mitski's pink in the night
and the waitress's soft smile
on the lantern lit streets of valletta
now i'm home, heartless, and yet
sickeningly longing for you,
a thief, a monster, to steal it again
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
i'm in a life of sharks
scared of bleeding, even a trickle of red
they'll eat me the second i grimace, stumble, swear, eat
the moment i act like a human
its a life of pedestals and i won first place
but the pedestals unsteady and my only prize is not being listened to
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
i’m seven years old, waiting to get old.
i can’t wait to make my own decisions:
eat sweets before lunchtime, buy every
barbie out there, run outside when i
want to.
i can’t wait to be old.
i’m fourteen years old, waiting to get old.
i cannot wait to be myself finally: be
independent without my parents,
wear what i want, go to every place i
want to, say every curse word i want to.
i can’t wait to be old.
i’m seventeen years old, scared of getting old.
i’m scared of becoming eighteen years old:
to go to university by myself, having to move
out by myself, to pay all the bills i don’t even
know how to, to be adult which seems so tiring and stressful.
i don’t want to get old.
i’m eighteen years old, trying to enjoy my youth while it’s here.
i’m taking the most while i can: taking spontaneous trips to
my grandma, going to the cinema at 10 in the evening,
listening to all the mellow albums i can, dancing in the grass,
wearing all the dresses i have.
i’m trying to be young.
i’m all the years to come, trying not get old.
i’m a little scared of death and a little scared of
getting old: of being unfunny, of not smiling anymore at
beautiful sunsets, of not enjoying myself anymore, of not understanding children anymore, of not being myself anymore.
i’m young and old and everything in between.
i'm accepting being that.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 4:18 AM UTC
she was the devil in a sorcerer's bones,
a wreath of thorns and skeletons
on her mind.
those words spilled
from the mouths of weaklings,
crowned heads; Jason.
oh, how she loved cruces - unraveling
another's soul to heed their
sins, virtues, luscious blemishes.
his were a pretty face and
the glint of sworn gold.
hers was mislaid ardour.
in her garden of ****** roses, her heart
was hefted with the measure
of a feather.
within shadows, she ruled once more.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
i can feel my bones,
and the people stepping
on them, smashing them
to pieces.
is it so easy?
to break others, and not
feel sorry. is that how
you live from night to night?
you've locked me in
a cage with no lock.
how could i ever escape
you?
/ /
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
fervour stings at my tongue,
only ephemeral, with
the bite of a shattered snake.
the serpent rears its head
with a grandeur of an old soul,
thwarting the strife inside
me erecting from ashes and rotten
blossoms.
your fingers strut athwart
the unholy scars of my memoirs. and
you murmur with blood in your words
and lips, i see black.
| |
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
dried flowers look
as if death is
warm and enthralling,
that it's more than
bleak and black.
red drips in
roses.
is ripping apart
flowers, blossoms
a crime?
shrieks, murmurs of
reassurements.
is it okay?
*
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
it is raining,
with a smokiness
lisping through the
stifling air.
the haze tightens
its fist around my
neck - red tremors
in my eyes
the trembles of the
fog are grace in my
ears; but smoke alarms
still tick in these halls.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
a little aeroplane fluttered
on the fluffs of water in the
dim grey skies
i smile. freedom
is such a struggle to achieve.
my hand rose, and i waved.
the little aeroplane waved back,
stripes of white left behind. the
little aeroplane flew lower and
waved me back twice.
the skies pulsed. a quaver shook
my earth. i wasn't smiling anymore.
my hand wasn't moving.
a little black dot flapped, coiled,
streamed, trembled, fell. i found
i was rippling, as seas do on
their lonely paths.
and i realised:
oh. it's me.
**
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC