Lola-lovely-Manola
stuffs chestnuts from the park
in the pockets of her brown jacket.
She's the type of girl
who believes in astrology
and wears socks that don't match
on purpose.
She says chestnuts emit good energy.

Lina-bug-eyed-Malina
came sad to class the other day.
It was the type of sad
where the glass has been filled up
and when you try to drink it in one go
you can't speak and go silent.
She doesn't want to talk.

So imagine the surprise Malina felt
when she took of her coat at home
and found a chestnut had been slipped
into her pocket.
"A transition of beleif and love"
she called it.

My body is sacred.
More sacred than the holiest
of the places
I've posed in front of
with my family
in photos.

My bones carry a structure
with a bad posture
from never having been
completely held up
in a proper position while reading.

My muscles are working
with the vitality of a young person
who does not enjoy working out
and keeping fit
unless the burden of pressure
is eased by the water
I enjoy to swim in.

The organs which keep me alive
are damaged somewhat
by my unhealthy habits
but are still
keeping the holy magic
of being so painfully alive
going.

The tissues that cover me
have been a curios decoration
for my life's entirety.
My skin has felt the eyes
of the people that tried
to turn it to a commodity,
the eyes who have tried
to call it obscene and cover it,
the eyes who have tried
to fetishize it,
the eyes who have never noticed it.

And my body's an abbey
where only my cells are allowed
to live in permanently.
And for as long as that's so
no one can shame it.
Or me.

Milly laid out
brown paper bags from the delli
opened wide on her doorstep.
Ivy put plastic containers
with the lids off
on her windowsill.
Milly told me she was catching
the last rays of sunshine.
Ivy said she was collecting rainwater

Quite the weirdest sensation it is.
Ordering a table for one.
Sitting alone.
Not talking about anything.
Just reading a book.
Hearing the woman from the opposite table
say to her friend
that it requires a lot of courage
to eat alone in a restaurant.
Why thank you!
I practice my courage everyday.

It was exactly her 54th birthday
when she told me she had superpowers.

She was  sitting cross legged
doing her make-up.

Her bleached hair was in a ponytail
and eyeshadow dust was falling on her tracksuit.

She smacked her lips and
looked me dead in the eye.

She said she was Reality Woman
because she could mold reality.

She said once she found out
she practiced everyday.

She would yell everyday in the mirror
ever since she was 14.

She would yell she was wonderful
in the morning and evening.

And after it became reality and people told her so too
she would continue.

August, my dear!
You're finally here!
We have to grab you a chair,
most certainly a beer,
oh, don't you dare deny
your seat on my porch,
because you and I know
EXACTLY what's going on.
You don't have to cry,
I know, I know,
I know what they're doing,
you don't have to say,
I know about the pressure
they've put on you again.
They want
the beach,
the sun,
the waves,
the drinks,
the heat,
the friends,
their love,
some precious memories.
You feel responsible
I know that much about you,
but you can't expect to make their dreams come true.
You're not a magician,
they are the ones who have to learn
how to fall in love
with June and July too.
But as long as you're here,
no, August, don't hurry, finish your beer,
I don't expect you to do anything,
just put your feet up and relax.
I'll just run to the basement
and bring that guitar
in case you decide
there is a song here you could write.

The best lesson
I've ever had
was from a Maths teacher aged 33.

He said

The key to not being prejudiced
is loving yourself unconditionally.
If you can love yourself
if you can imagine loving yourself
no matter what you've become
no matter how you end up
you tap into a new source of empathy.

Our submarine floats
  according to plan.
    We have a map,
      we have a plan.
.
.
.
.
                       And THEN!

FEAR HAS INFILTRATED THE SHIP
.
Why? What happened? How did we get here?
.
.
.
We don't seem to know, sir.
.
.
.
Quick, I need you to play dead!
.
Lie down.
.
On the floor.
.
Yes, just like that.
.
I  m  m  o  b  i  l  e.
D  o  n  't   m  o  v  e.
S l o w  E V E R Y T H I N G d o w n.
L i e  a s  f l a t  a s  a  l i n e.
A n d l i s t e n t o m e.
.
.
.
.
.
.
We
will
be
just
fine.

Ihaveliquifiedintoanicecreampuddle
leftonconcreteinthesun
Iamtran­quilandI'mhappy.

Summer,
I love it when you melt me.

I am the *******
who grounded up my bones
into a fine white flour,
who stuck sticks
under my nails,
until my fingers would be
opened red wounds
dripping blood on the muddy earth
beneath the legs
I amputated myself.

But,
Sweetie,
never in your wildest dreams
should you dare believe
that I would let you
hurt a centimeter of me.

The only person
who I would let hurt me
is the one only one I should belong to.
Me.

Ecstasy wasn't found
in the bottom of the bottle.
It was subtle yet sudden
folded into the wings of the napkin.
You smuggled it breathlessly
under the bridge of your tongue.
I cupped it in the soft chalice
of my curled lips
behind the bars of my clinking teeth.
It crawled its way to my spine
and evaporated up your nose.
A minute or two.
And I remember opening my eyes
drugged by the way I had forgotten
what it had felt like to be wanted.
And the colors around me burst into laughter.
And we laughed and laughed along
until the steam of ecstasy was all around us.

Right as my heart begun fluttering and
Even my friends told me I was aglow
Plain and simple I felt.
Loveable even.
And then right as I had finished
Cultivating the courage to stay
Exposed to your caramel stare holding
A promise quite tender and safe...
BEHOLD! The magic swoop which
Leaves you embarrassed and shallow.
Eyes which have moved onto another.

Snowflakes                                
                                             daintily

                             floa t

     s    p    a    c        e       d         o     u   t

        in  the cold
                           bone - biting  air.
Little dots
            .       .       .       .       .       .
                        drifting     eerily
               to the steamy pavement.





Don't you wish you could melt?

My senses unwrap
like brown parcel paper
tied with a string.

They absorb the smell of
coffee beans and turmeric
and the light of warm brown eyes.

I am home
in a home
which is not supposed to be my home.

Oh, Winter!
You came just in time.
I was just picking up the leftovers from my afternoon tea with Autumn.
I have just collected the leaves
and glued them to the crunchy paper
of a notebook.
I have finishied
labeling them meticulously
with a black
thin
ball point pen.
And the notebook is placed
on a shelf of comfort and laughter.
And I have begun
referring to it as a closed chapter.
Now, tell me...
What will it be?
I see you've brought
delicate, silver snowflakes.
Shall I melt them into the hot cocoa
or shall I bring out the silver tupperware so we can dissect them?
Shall we be dining next to the fireplace?
Or shall we be dining out in the blizzard?
Please do tell me all the stories you carry for this season!

The blue iris melts its petals
like the teary wax
on the musky walls of the lavender candle.

The butterfly crunches its yellow,
crisp thin wings like translucent scales
followed by the crashing echo in the mirror walls of the corridor.

The heat in the air blares in turquoise
somersaulting between the
invisible layers of humidity and oxygen
sticking to the skin like midday sunrays.

Spiraling
                down
                          a pit
                                  of anxiety.

                     When suddenly


                          A

                          f

    ­                      r

                          e

           ­               e

                          f

                  ­        a

                          l

                         ­ l

                    headfirst
                    short
                    sharp
            ­        burst.

                          And then

P     r     o     c     r   a    s    tination
spilled         un   e   ve       nly

           on a tiled bathroom floor.

Autumn came quickly this year.
The skies tinted themselves gray.
The children were suddenly
under three layers of clothing.
I noticed I drank hot tea
instead of iced coffee.
My summer dresses
were replaced by my favorite
grubby sweaters.
Scarves flew in formation
to guard my neck from the cold air.
My music playlist went
from rock and roll
to acoustic.
I promised this autumn,
sadness will not strike.
I promised to leave
summer paralysis
back on the beach.
I was not to fall off
like the yellow leaves
from the oak outside my dorm.
You met me on my way to lecture.
You were cowarding
under three layers of clothing,
eyes tinted gray.
You were giving off
the scent of exhaustion.
You said I looked as if I were out to conquer the world.
You said I was armed with my algebra textbook.
I said you looked in harmony with the weather.
You laughed.
I believe you meant to stab me with that laugh.
To remind me how in August
your blue eyes did not want me.
But it's October.
And I'm detached from the thirst for you.
Autumn came so quickly this year
it made you irrelevant.
October turned your blue eyes
a negligible splash of gray,
made you fall off
like a yellow leaf
from the oak outside my dorm,
blurred you with the backdrop.
Autumn came so quickly,
October painted my green summer eyes
a fiesty, burning yellow,
a flame in contrast to the tinted sky,
made my footsteps soothing
like an acoustic guitar,
made my lips taste like hot tea in my own mouth.

I would like to put my palms before me.
Spread the fingers far apart
and watch daphne trees sprout between them.
Raise the trunks way up in the sky
until they reach mystic Titan
and its sirens at the bottom of the lake.
I would like for the tops to stop the winds
and hurricanes coming my way.
****** away the worries and anxieties.
Hide at the roots in calm silence.
I would like for my skin
to turn transparent
and then dissolve into gray and blue smoke.
If I could I would let my muscles melt
into crimson jelly
and let it drip through my nostrils.
Let the blood feed the soil at my feet
so that yellow and red tulips
grow up to my knees.
Crush my bones into a fine white powder
and let it drift away.
Vanish me into the air
and let me mix with all that is beautiful.

Forget
         me
             not
                 flowers.
I arrange them everywhere.
On my bed,
       in my pillow case,
                               in vases,
                                    on windowsills.
I'm trying to remember
the girl I was before.
I'm not sure
           who I was
                                   when I was three,
or eight,
                                                  or twelve,
or sixteen.
                     Disappointing
                               my
parents,
                                                  friends
and teachers
                          is easy.
I'm more afraid that little me
would squint her eyes in disgust
at the sight of what I have become.
But I cannot seem to remember
who I was before.
My thoughts.
My skin.
My hair.
They're gone.
I struggle to collect the things I am
in a tidy bundle.
                 Forget-me-nots
                 cover my hands.
Yet I cannot remember.
                  I practice forgiveness
only
                                               in theory.
But could they forgive me?
I'd like to think they can.
But
           I am
                       unsure.
Yet does it matter?
Would it matter
             if     they    didn't?
Or would it be better
             if    they   didn't?
Forget
        me
           nots.
Forgive
          me
              nots.
Forgive
          me
             please.

She dries her hands with the kitchen towel.
And apologizes for the mess
that isn't there.
She puts an apron
on top of her evening black dress.
She cooks eggs
and smiles with lipstick stained teeth.
I sit on the small kitchen stool
and read out loud
from a Terry Pratchett novel
laying open on my lap.
She giggles
and her laugh fills the small apartment.
She says she's so happy
and anxious
to have me in her home.
And I stare
at her back
and her messy braids.
They're falling apart.
I can't find the words
to tell her
that a late theater play
and fried eggs for dinner
in an flat the size of a cup holder
translate to salvation in my language.
I don't have enough vocabulary
to explain
how her friendship tastes
like chamomile tea when you're ill.
And how talking about boys with her
clears the cigarette smoke from my lungs.
Because she feels like starting over,
she feels like trust,
she feels like the new friend
you read about in novels
where everything clicks.
And so I'm left
with a butterfly heart.
And the only thing I can do
is thank her time and time again.

Give me the melancholy
of clear skies
in moody March,
and the joy
of scorching sun
in mid October.
Give me the elixir
of blooming trees
in festive May
to put me into
somber slumber.
Give me earthy,
muddy leaves,
woven into soft rugs,
to walk on with
gloomy November.
I want to be fitted into a calendar,
into comfortable routine
so that I roll my way backwards
in near perfect opposition.
I want to rewind the seasons so as to match my mood.
Maybe then I'll be in sync with time.