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Kyra Nov 2022
A god sneezed and here we are.
One cosmic cough away from disaster.
Kyra Oct 2022
I hear the battering against my eyelids.
Battleships forged in fear.
Ramming against my skull.
The take over. White-hot and riotous.  
A parade of panic. Panic. Panic.
It’s making demands again.
Will you think of me? Think of me.
You will think of me. I am you,
how could you not think of me?
And the noise. Clashing metal waves.
Shrieking, howling, humming.
I cling to the shreds of rationality.
Then comes the quiet. The breathing.
It passes. It passes. It’s passed.
Kyra Jun 2022
I feel the panic rise in my stomach
I breathe in and out
I count everything blue
I look at her speak but don’t hear the words
I swallow the lump in my throat
I suppress the urge to run
I hold one hand in the other to still them
I am here, I am safe, I am whole
I am here, I am safe, I am whole
But I’m none of these things, not really.
Kyra Apr 2022
Your gnawing teeth
and clicking tongue,
your maze of veins
and sighing lungs.
A stretch of skin
like desert plains,
eyes like glass
with  bluish stains.
I’m sallowed whole
by every blink
Your pupils pull
before they shrink.
From the ridges
of your spine
to the brows that
paint a stoic line.
Left hand, right hand-
The crescent cave
of  crimson lips
I’ll build a home
in who you are
from pit of pore
to peak of scar.
Kyra Apr 2022
I want to live and not survive
I want my days to add up
I want to keep moments in jars like fireflies
I want security without constraint
I want freedom without fear
I want to be told what to do and not do it
I want the good, the bad and the ugly
Then, I want nothing at all
I want to jump off the Empire State Building
To be hanged, drawn and quartered
Then stitched back together again
I want to make this make sense
Then I want chaos to ensue
I want to grow old and die young
I want to be re-born. Re-birthed. Re-imagined.
Maybe then I’ll know what I want.
Kyra Oct 2021
Wake up.
The early morning commute.
The day bleeding red.
Cold air, hands in pockets, traffic lights.
Bus stops and building sites.
Morning lectures. Note taking.
Nonsense writing. Senseless living.
Secret smiles, silent dread.
What’s the time? I’ll wait.
The smell of wet pavement.
An approaching siren.
A violent thought and a soft sigh.
The inexplicable urge to laugh.
Think about everything. Do nothing.
Grey on grey with spots of green.
Squeaky chairs. My favourite pen.
His copy of the Communist Manifesto
purchased on Amazon prime.
What convenience, what value!
What irony.
Repetition. The squeaky chair.
Is this supposed to make sense?
Drive home. Eat. Brush teeth.
Write about nothing in particular.
Count to ten. Tell myself I’m doing fine.
Kyra Mar 2021
You’re anchored to the earth,
but by a single blade of grass.
One gush of wind too strong
and its concrete crossed with glass.
You’re a baby’s breath away
from fading like a dream.
You’re a fraying piece of cloth
hanging on by a single seam.
Yet you are also the force
that keeps ground beneath my feet.
You’re everything that’s solid.
You’re everything complete.
You told me not to rhyme, so I did.
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