three notes
suffocate me to death
white curtains and windows
the sound is coming in
wind blowing as if pigeon post
drive me nuts
there is nothing
between the lines

heart thumping like heavy machinery
over and over and over and over and ov

my fingers are your eyelashes
they long to dance, yearn for the fall
you bat them, i follow
how attachment kills the most
insanitary are the fingernails i grow

ssshh
listen
there is something pouring
to the rhythm
what's that liquid doing between
mirage and insanity

Today I look at you
& I know it was real
You were there
Now here, unchanged

& my heart is relieved
That you wear the same name
I used to keep safe in my mouth
The same hands
You used to collect my strands of fallen hair

Still
I dare not to touch you
Even for just one more time

No
Not today

Today I look at you
With eyes as innocent
As a curious child
& hold myself back
Like a dog beaten a hundred times

& I remember
& I know it was real

I keep coming back again
my home is pain
my lover is suffering
a lonely glance, who would have the heart?
you have no idea how many times
I've been brought back to life
each and every time I die
so I live anyway

Cold hands are yours
Nurture a dying thing called body

I haven't yet seen my lover
the mother who brings my skin to sunshine
cradles me to sleep in soft blanket
pass me down her appetite from her mouth

Is true love a myth? I might never know
if my fingernails stay trimmed
Nothing matters, there are probably a bunch of girls
exactly just like you

Sharp, milky, and crescent-like
who wears her hands like dull box cutter
and illnesses like the remaining
forests after fire

I've always been sad about the bathroom. The pink and black, hair and blood, tears and out of tune singing, thick and transparent. Whenever I step on the tiles I become afraid of the shower, that silver thing with wet holes, with cold stream and mindless embrace. But here I don't have the fear, only disgust, because the ground is all black and peeling and it sticks to my feet, and the coldness isn't clean, the coldness is only there because I've left it for just too long.





I keep coming back although I hate it, although each drop of water feels like a punishment and the soap bubbles are mocking my greasy everything. I keep coming back although it tortures me, because at the street I can hear the gazes pointed toward me, how the eyes shift when I try to catch, what is not said in front of me I know them all it rings so loud in my ears, I can hear them all. I keep coming back because even in the world of cruelty I still got to have a place to come home, to have something familiar, so I will feel less lonely and as if I had a purpose. It's a familiar pain, the kind of a hit that feels like a kiss. It's always like this, I keep coming back to the bathroom I do not own, I keep coming back and calling it my home. I've always been sad about it, the bathroom, home, I've always been