I owe all my life
to the light from my window
don't tell the wind though
air is quite necessary
but the sun is essential

you told me, of all
the stars in the galaxy
i was the brightest

i only believed you when
i was the first to explode

i feel fragile
amidst the sea
of my unwavering thoughts

as though
to trance freely
around the world

outside these four walls
would be much,
much safer

than to linger upon
the voices
within it

i want my soul to
tangle up with yours and find
comfort in chaos

If I was in your way
Why didn’t you just say so
Just toss me to the side
And head north

Instead you took me along with you
Kicked me across the street
Dragged me through the dirt
Until the air in me had deflated

Until you got to your destination
Until I had served you my purpose
Until you left me just as you’d found me —
In the way, now flat and lifeless

The love I yearn for is quiet
Within deep, dark trenches of woodland,
she thrives
Beneath bright blue blooms of spring,
she hides
Where the soil is soaking still,
and the steps taken upon it are silent
Unseen and unheard —
Invisible to the air around her
But felt demandingly
by those within

why can’t oxygen
ever be enough to feel
safe in my own skin

i just want to feel alive
unbothered by my own thoughts

if there’s a will
there’s a way to a place unscathed
where the willows grow unbothered
and the fortress of destitute
is the safest space to lay
where reclusion is a promise
of pleasure not punishment
and a herd of deers
is a kindred comfort
the most
if any

Once death is upon us –
lingering quietly
along every corner
in nooks and crannies,
seeping blindly
through dusty door frames;

Once death shelters us –
holding us hostage
behind the mourned safety
of our very own gates,
pointing fingers at those
with whom we share our homes;

Once death isolates us –
forcing stubborn kids
to find joy
in sticks & plastics,
flying simple pleasures
in tight portions of the sky;

Only then are we
too ashamed to look up –
our necks paralyzed
by the unsettling guilt
we have called
upon ourselves.

Incapable of
basking in the beauty
of diamonds in the clouds,
we stare sorrowfully
down at the soil,
where our feet are pinned –

where we may soon lay beneath.

if tables could talk
they’d echo all the life I once knew
they’d tell you I take my coffee black
and my friends seriously
they’d chant the names I no longer call
and share the stories I no longer tell
if chairs could speak
they’d say I sit with my legs crossed
right over the left
they’d tell you how my feet burn when I sing
how my hands tremble when I dance
how the world spins ever valiantly
around the four corners of this couch
where I lay on nights the bed feels too vacant
if stairs could scream
they’d yell from heights I never could take
and count the steps I never did make

I am summoned by the pulling
Of my heart strings, singing
This shall suffice.

This day, tomorrow,
And tomorrow’s tomorrow —
Bountiful in its boundaries.

There is more to monotony
Than pure ebb and flow.
This pain, this breath,
This flash of light
Will come and go.
This shall suffice.

The enduring nature
Of grief and relief —
This cycling of life.
This shall suffice.

there’s a half empty suitcase by the doorframe
damp footsteps echo from the hallway
they mark the hardwood floors
the way ink stains fingertips
a deep dark violet
lightened only by serpentine strokes
revealing a singular identity
knock knock
I am me
invariably

Once again, September has come.
And just like that, the air thickens
Like the year before this
And the one before that.

Only this stubborn September
Marches in heavy-footed, loud-mouthed
Like a fascist on a podium, claiming comic Uncertainties behind a lectern

For the hopeful to hear —
The wide-eyed, rose-colored seekers.
We are silver bobs hanging on a wire,
Stricken by Achilles himself.

It is December soon.
By then, our ankles will be sore,
Our heels pierced,
Our pockets empty.

The arrows come shooting
Like eagles on a mission,
As we swing endlessly
Back and forth,

Suspended from a fixed point —
Praying that time,
Hoping that gravity
Makes the clacking stop at once.

There’s a house at the end of the road
between the oak and the willow
with a gate too high to ever see what’s inside
and a living room too large to fill.

In every barren room,
there patiently lies
windows that cry — to be kicked open,
and balconies that talk — only to each other.

There’s a thin line between being
too roomy and too lonely. Space
has the damning ability
to make such distinction.

Perhaps the real luxury
after all
is to live loudly amidst intolerable noise
than to perish placidly in deafening silence.

I am an irony.
The medics often call it
an emergency.

Though I assume, the poets
would argue and claim it
a masterpiece.

To call it as it is,
I prefer the term
tragedy.

Moronically,
I am a walking clock
ticking until

the time is up.
A camera clicking
until the film is out.

I am a miracle
and ten.
An excuse for a daughter.

A waste of a warm seat.
Extra space in the luggage,
never a carry-on.

I am the embodiment
of sand
drifting through the desert.

A pebble stuck in a shoe.
A wet sock with a hole at the end.
As inconvenient as may be,

I am
a testimony.
A promise

waiting to be met.
A memory
that hasn’t happened yet.

Allow my ponderous hands to guide yours
And let the tips of your fingers linger
Longer along the depths of my shadowy halls
Until our souls shall meet

Lay your head boyishly on the bones of my collar
And I will rest mine tirelessly on yours
As our temples graze gracefully against one another
Until my thoughts tangle with yours
And we doze to the same dream

Press your chest firmly unto mine
And I will pull you closer
As my lungs sacrifice even the slightest huff of air
Until the spaces between us fade
Until my heart can hear the faintest whispers of your heart
And together, they beat to the same song

I know now how it feels
the way schoolboys feel
when wistful winds come
to visit the playground
The ache down my spine
The ballooning in my left chest pocket
How could I not have known
the way of the schoolgirl
The skip in your skirt
The tails of your pig
There’s a pink pony tightly ribboning
a pinch in my waist, air
is a luxury when relics of you feed me from the inside out, you
are a commodity — the only food fit to fill the hollow pit in my stomach, I
crave only for you
when the recess bell rings

Remnants of your voice
stain the words
that compose my verses —

as bitter residue sits
at the floor of a cup
once the coffee’s finished.

Echoes of your name
even from a distance
burn the hoods of my ears —

as relentless ringing
ruptures eardrums
after explosions.

The damage you left is colossal —
perpetuated to remind me
there was once you.

I do not fear death;
I do not mean to be noble nor proud.
I simply do not dread being harvested from the soil that has unearthed me.

I have lived enough life for a lifetime.
My petals have been carefully picked
and carelessly played with;
they have wilted in woe
and blossomed again in spring.

I have travelled enough earth for a universe.
My roots have spread through fertile soil
and suffered the depths of barren land;
they have absorbed the kindness of the sun
and survived the wickedness of the rain.

I have bloomed enough beauty for a book.
My leaves have flourished in warm summers
and shrivelled in treacherous winters;
they have sprouted in spite of harsh winds
and bled the cuts of sharp knives.

I do not fear death;
I rejoice in its coming.
I await the day I am stripped
from the desolate ground
I have stood tiredly upon.

For then,
all the life and the earth and the beauty
that my petals and my roots and my leaves
have endured
can rest peacefully at last,
and lay tightly pressed
between two pages.

I can see the path laid out for me
For now, I can taste the sweetness in the air
as the sky weeps
But one day, these earthly dwellings will hover vigorously over me
Until i’m planted firmly in the ground

I can see the path laid out for me
For now, I can hear the humming outside my window, and I sing along
But one day, the soil beneath me will call relentlessly
And I will willingly answer
every soulless summon
Until there is no one left to dig me back up,
and nothing left to stop me

it's better to feel pain
than nothing at all

the opposite of love
is indifference

as the sun rises each morning
her hand slowly reaches
into her bedside drawer
searching for a face
to flaunt that day

she was told
it is unsafe for a girl
to walk the earth unguarded
unarmed to face exposure
to unknown threats

surgically and precisely
she plasters on
a new face for a new day
a new shield to protect her barest form
from polluted air and harmful rays

as the moon reveals itself each night
so does she
picking and peeling
parts of a face that were
plastered on too tightly

with each new face
unknowingly, she strips
more and more
parts of raw skin
that were truly hers

When I grow up,
I want to wake up alone each morning.
I want the air to be so quiet,
I can hear the wordless tunes
the birds sing to each other
from distant branches
and barbed wires,
every last note.

Silence never scared me,
neither did solitude.
What frightens me most is
finding comfort in the noise.
If one day, you find me
in a crowded hallway —
not wanting to die,
**** me right then.

When I grow up,
I want to wake each morning alone.
Though sometimes I forget,
I’m already grown.

We were neither a forest in flames,
nor a hurricane.
We were never meant to fight battles,
nor sail ships.

We were simply petals that bloomed
in an abandoned garden
among wilted leaves
and broken branches.

What we were, was
a longing for novelty,
a lazy attempt at loving,
a shameful excuse to feel.

it is not uncommon to mistake
darkness for emptiness

but the absence of light
does not guarantee aloneness

it simply means
our eyes are shut