18 crept in with the quiet illusion of comfort

in the flakes of snow outside Gloria Jean's

on a Sunday afternoon, sipping something

warm and letting the cold seep into my skin

only to burrow myself into a warm blanket

afterwards. 18, upon arrival, was gifted

with gorgeousness writ by a favorite friend.

However, 18 came quietly, the world

defining her before she could have spoken to

me herself. 18 began to hurt, trying to find

what she was born to be rather than what

she was being molded into. 18, like snow,

was fragile. 18 had been January, and

then just as fast, she is March. 18 is script-

writing with Mahnoor again, just like 15,

16, 17, familiarity. 18 is confusion and

panic, a growing sense of unease,

muffling a voice in my head trying its

hardest to be heard. Upon seeing April, 18

did not desire this trip anymore. But the

Spring brought whispers of vanilla and a boy

with the softest smile in a place of pain. 18

was running off to corners of life, trying to

escape the stench of dying that had taken to

following her around. 18 survived May, 18

survived June. 18 fell into July, a house

of gloom, and decided to settle in the

month, if only the month would settle for

18. The world was calling her, but she

would not be seen. 18 ran back to the long-

awaited cold, overcome with joy for the

numbered days, a birthday again, a

bittersweet break, an ache for escape.

But 18 walked away from July, and

found herself in August, quite by surprise.

And August, she realizes, can be

anything she likes.

through text, reflect,
this horror set,
was all inside my head

a million moons were changing,
they were spinning like a top

the sun a little scalding,
and the cats were getting lost

my summer suffered silence,
but my colder winds were soft

and i am breeding guilt
for the things this mind begot

these worms are only eating,
and the worms were made by God

my heart, with little beating,
barely breathing, blood would clot

a lack of light, adjusting eyes,
and laughter half forgot

'neath July skies, i realised,
in living, i was not

i want to write a poem about you,
but your smile has stolen the words i would use

the spring brought these flowers,
and now summer has bloomed

purgatory
is sick in sweetness,
a cannibal and a chewed up girl

there is no place for us except these stairs
you are a meadow and i am the sea;
purgatory
a hidden space, the outcast place

did i tell you that i love to go where they cannot find me?
did i tell you i have a habit of running, without my feet?
did i tell you about the holy events in my recurring dream?
that i am invisible, and you're looking at me?

a pirate of less wicked ways,
a sunrise on my darkest day
and if we should die, here we will lay
for with me, in purgatory
you might choose to stay

what a pity it is

there are no stars in our sky

but we're city kids, we're the big one eight

we make do with the faraway lights