the flower has eyes
and she watches
as her pale petals curl and
turn brown on the edges, she
watches as she wilts, as her leaves
start to dry, she watches
as the parts of her she used
to admire start to fall, piece by
piece, and she watches as she
disintegrates,
becoming the dirt and she watches as
the housekeeper sees her and frowns and
then throws her away into the
trash.
she watches as she becomes
trash.
and she cannot save herself.

the bone-ache of wind and cold
runs up her legs as she walks through the plain
so she could rest in the earth and finally
sleep, knowing she found
something better than it was
before.

she searched the jungles once
but all she found were choking vines
still, the leaves whispered
𝘱𝘴𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘴𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘴𝘴𝘵
but the tip of their tongues faded
into static and she thought she found
a parchment’s glass bottle washed
up onto the shore but then the sea
leapt up and stole it again.

she sat on the beach for hours
like a long-lost lover, yearning and
waiting
but one day she vanished—
not to home, there was never
home, but to a place that replaced
her new loss with the ones she’d
met before, old friends with the other half
of the story.

now, she walks with the others’
manifest destinies but hers is a
glory that they’ll never know,
no gold or God or greatness but
an answer…
brushstrokes to give definition
though the edges always bleed,
so she reincarnates to do it all
again.

I think it is a good day
I feel okay, and that’s all
I feel, no sense of greatness
Nor self-hatred, no free-fall.

I look into the mirror
No fear, just looking as I
Realize that I have acne
But it’s me and I feel fine.

Right now, I am just okay
But one day, I will appear
From silk and I will be her
From those words, so far but near.

On the windowsill, all flailing
Legs and desperation—
At times, it attempts to fly
Away, but soon enough it gives
That up as if to say,
“I can’t.”

The movements get smaller and
Slower, but occasionally there are bouts
Of hysteria
(𝙒𝙃𝙔 𝙈𝙀)
Until eventually nothing is left but a
Feeble twitch and really the question
That you should be asking is:
“Is it still alive?”

It is still alive.

It is still alive but it is tired.

Slowly…
Slowly…
Slowly…

i race across the boardwalk and
i taste the waves,
throw my phone into the ocean and
find some form of freedom—
whatever’s left will do! I’d do
anything to find out who i’m supposed
to be, i guess that should be me,
but i’ve never met that girl
(𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦?)
so instead i keep running and
you might ask from what but
only the Lord knows that and maybe
my tide-worn mother too but once
she tried to tame the frizz out
of my hair but it didn’t work because
she never expected to have a firecracker
for a daughter, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳
𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, but i left that all behind so i could
race across the boardwalk
and taste the waves, but now
i am here and somehow the salt
tastes bitter.

I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops

I said to them, be my poem.

Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked

I said to them, be my poem

To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller

I said to them, be my poem

To a new born and then, flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes from fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose

I said to them, be my poem

I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace

I said to them, stay and be my poem

Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and into my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow

So that one day, I too may become a poem