I've had a stomach ache
since I was seven, a blade
in my belly, a hive in my head
have you ever mistaken a bee
for a wasp? they sting and say
incessantly buzzing, pricking
they want out as much as I do
Some days I want to peel my flesh
cut myself in half and purge the venom
watch it seep out of me like
sticky sap from a sycamore
instead I take my medicine
and talk about you.
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:22 PM UTC
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again
Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness
I am not dying yet, but I am not living and I am thirsty
For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees
Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me
Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame
Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed
Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.
I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills
Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over
With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say
I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:20 PM UTC
Perhaps the best of me is behind beyond
that point of irreversibility a beacon
of inevitability and it serves as such
I am no longer shiny or shocking or new
a brown paper bag crumpled and creased
milk that sours and curdles a homesick orphan
a lamb on its back and I will always be a child
I will always be a child I will always be a child
Love contorts me I curve and twist
and grow larger and wider
I am a flesh ball a blush balloon
punctured by a mere prick I am sensitive
tuned too tight like my Grandmother’s piano
but it was the first I ever played so no other sounds right
and I tell my first love the same thing
I am entropy the blaze of a sun a deity of delusion
a fickle fig (pick, peel, devour)
I am a tear in your jeans a loose thread a love-sick sack
a daughter (and some days, a mother)
I am tin teeth a blade in your belly a hive in your head
a feeble fawn (a black bull)
I am an amalgamation of deficiency and divinity
coarse and common as coal I am the sun the nether
the shade under the rock I am nothing nothing at all
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC
When I say “I feel sick”
what I really want to tell you
is I am sick of fearing sick
of fearing living but what
do I do if I fear dying too?
Where is my home
if not the ground or under it?
You say “we all feel like you”
but I am standing in a room
there is a subtle bang
and I am the only one fleeting
I am the only one but I am
one of many hosts this illness inhibits
so why do I feel so lonely?
Loneliness promises safety
has been distorted
thoughts now occupy me so
i am sorry i cancel plans &
cry in concerts &
make excuses &
leave early &
silence myself
but the thoughts are loud
and I am aching (everywhere)
I am at war with my mind
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC
pearl feathers you refuse to call white
scared it would mean something if you did
scared your scepticism will cup cold palms
around your warming neck and squeeze
what little belief you have out of you
a corpse will always be a corpse
but the soul of a wanderer will wander
into the wind and sky and I
and you too if you just let him
so let him
let him be the breeze
that forces you to stop counting
the number of days that have passed
since he last hugged you
let him be your buoy that
serves ground in an ocean
that knows of no stillness
let him be
the flickering light
the white butterfly
the fallen feather
he will be forever with us
let him be
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 5:57 PM UTC
thirteen days left of summer
i am thirteen thirsty
for genuinity today
served me nothing i am
hungry to be eighteen
in grass that is chrome green
feeling ***** but feeling clean &
not apologising for it
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC
A plastic flower is
Called a flower
Though it is soulless.
What is love
If I am alone.
Being away from you
Makes me look like
A plastic flower.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
tired of hearing talk of
butterflies are tired
of their wings being the
object of one’s affection
and we are one to
talk about the skin
that dress souls like gar-
ments that we peel off
at the end of a long day
we are raw and naked
and who to see us if not
just curtains & hollow
bathtubs filled
with aching spines that
carry heavy souls and
what’s the point if nobody
asks to look inside anyway?
tired of talk of skin and form
there is so much more to see
just ask about
metamorphosis
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 3:13 PM UTC