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Aya Baker Sep 2013
Once a boy loved me, you know?
I've lived a good life.
It was a sad one, but a good one.
7.1k · Oct 2013
Small town, slow town
Aya Baker Oct 2013
My mother grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
and she passed away here.
And our neighbours came with their casseroles
And the florist gave my family her best violets
And there was a discount on the casket.

My sister grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
And she works at the high school as an English teacher.
And she takes her kids to the park every Saturday,
And her car never uses more than a liter a month
And there is always a booth for her family at Sal's Diner.

My brother grew up in a small town
and he never did marry
but he never did leave.
So now he lives in this small town.
And he only ever takes his job as a deputy seriously
And every Sunday he tends to his geraniums,
And there is never any mail in his mailbox
And his coffee order has always been the same.

I grew up in a small town
and nothing ever changed
and so I left.
And I will never manage to travel to all the bus stops
And my barista never ever remembers my face
And the librarian is stern, always, instead of friendly
And there is never ever a dull moment
In this little world I've created in my big town.
I love Singapore, I do, but I feel trapped here. You could liken it to a small town, I guess.
Aya Baker Sep 2013
he paints me
reading a book in my faded nightie
lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair
huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by
he never lets me see them.

i write of him
padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and
blue plaid boxers
thanking the people who buy his paintings
wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt
saving the world
i never let him read them.

we share
a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t
know how to cook
bookshelves that line our every wall
snapshots of the city, framed in matte black
wood and macaroni, in the hall
we don’t invite people over.

our parents
don’t send christmas cards anymore
stopped paying for university tuition
and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we
aren’t allowed to see

(but helen sends pictures in the mail)


they can’t take away our love.
1.4k · Nov 2013
Worthless
Aya Baker Nov 2013
My mama don't hit me no more
But that don't mean she can't cut me down
To the bone like she used to;
Words axe-sharp to whittle away
All the illusions I had created for myself
Those of security and confidence and self-worth-
Glances flitting over me
Like I'm not even there,
Like I'm not even worth looking at.
1.3k · Sep 2013
Rose's lime marmalade
Aya Baker Sep 2013
rose had a jar of lime marmalade

and her grandmother told her not to put it in her hair

(she was only five, with an innate curiosity;

still, it ended up everywhere)

her sister kate made orange marmalade

(it amused her to know that rhymed)

kate was nine, and a big girl now

she used her marmalade on her bread-

where was the fun in that?
Aya Baker Sep 2013
do you remember how you felt
when you were a little kid
and you discovered a trick, a life shortcut
like closing your eyes when you prayed into the cup of your hands
and you weren’t sure if the adults knew it
but you decided to tell them anyway?
you felt brave and proud of yourself
for figuring it out
and very smart too-
but the adults already knew it
and you feel so hurt and stupid
and angry
and
i want to go back to the moment
just before i told the adults
and felt brave and proud of myself
for figuring it out
and very smart too-
and not knowing of the things to come.
Aya Baker Sep 2013
the girl down the road sold her love
and Nicholas never liked chocolate
so I bought him a lolly
when he came over to visit
me and my parrot
Alicia
and my dog
Kenneth
named after the children who jumped
from the bridge I always passed
to and from from work
the train was a putrid colour
with putrid smells
and the hippie who sat across from me
wore crosses around his ankles
his name was Jim
and in winters when it was cold
he would offer me a Styrofoam cup of tea
from the bakery three stops before mine
and the orange of the train wouldn’t look so putrid anymore
and I scuffed my shoes on the cobblestones
and ignored the lineouleum stains
and waited for spring
to rebirth flowers I would pick (illegally) again
1.0k · Sep 2013
Undiscovered
Aya Baker Sep 2013
lovely little girl

looking out from under her lashes

big bright world, she doesn't know what to do with it

newly released into the world with little more

than a whisper on her lips, a blessing tucked in the corner of her mouth

and the words that appear in the sand

of the beach she stands upon for the first time

"you will be magnificent"
955 · Jan 2014
When life gives you lemons,
Aya Baker Jan 2014
Burst and explode and simmer on my palate:

They tell you you’re undesirable, not like the others,

So spit in their faces, blind them so.
Trying out a 30 Day Poetry Challenge and I was instructed to write a three-line poem about lemons without ever using the words: lemon, yellow, round, fruit, citrus, ****, juicy, peel, and sour. So this is what I came up with.
951 · Sep 2013
Gradient
Aya Baker Sep 2013
Morning light streams in through the window panes
Golden, like the hair of your baby boy
When he first came into this world.

Afternoon light streams in through your window panes
Bright, like the eyes of you darling boy when he first realized
He could speak.

Evening light streams in through your window panes
Red-gold, like the flames your boy uses to
Light up a cigarette.

Night outside the home's window panes
Dark, like your son's eyes when he pretends
He doesn't know who you are

Dawn light streams in through the hospice's window panes
Muted, like your baby boy's expression
When he learns to love again
(But it is too late)
926 · Oct 2013
Together
Aya Baker Oct 2013
We are a collection
Of mixed half-things;

i.  B i t s and b o b s that don't belong anywhere
But beside each other-
       that bent plastic spoon curled
                                                          r    
                                                            o
                                                               u         d   that stub of a candle
                                                                    n

Spine t w i s t e d like an aged ballerina,
Curled protectively over the red, red (red! like the blood that simmers under your skin) candle



ii. songs from different ERAS
One song from the 80s with their razzle and dazzle and neon lights,
                                                                    their advertisements in CAPITALS and exclamation marks
                                                                                                                                          !!!!
and; another song from today, one of those "hipster" ones as
the kids these days like to call them;
                sorrow spill-
                    ing out of them
                        like melting ice- cr
                                  eams on stairs

No one thought they would fit together
Until a mix,
A playlist on 8tracks was made.



iii.  abandoned              sets
                           swing
                                                     on a lonely playground
on a lonely park.

Swinging in t
                           a
                     n
                           d
                     e
                            m
                                   (but not quite)
                                   (but that's okay)
874 · Nov 2014
officer, it's a crime scene
Aya Baker Nov 2014
my insides unfurl
and the dripping mess that follows-
i touch up, with just a li’l bit of saline solution
and oh, isn’t it
pretty
like you wanted me to be all along
like i could never be all along
it’s a dusty kind of pink,
lilac or lavender,
i was never good at colours, i just knew their names
enough so i could spin them into my poems
(the ones you hated because they were so full of
run-on sentences and pain
there was my texas twang and my
desecration of all things religious
to make the metaphor fit)
i needed colour, more life than i could afford
it was the dowry you never accepted.
i’m so sorry.
i keep reliving the past,
what once had been
what could have been
858 · Sep 2013
I am not brave
Aya Baker Sep 2013
The trials and tribulations of a broken heart
Will be encountered by everyone
But Augustus Waters once said you could choose
Who would break yours
And if you were to tell me I was stupid
To listen to advice from a fictional character;
Let me tell you that I had it figured out even before
reading the book.

I do not wish to find love, or even attempt relationships
Because I know myself best
And myself is a cruel person.
I do not wish ill upon another
In the form of my presence in their life.
And I do not wish to be hurt by them as well
Because as cruel as I am , I am a passionate, sensitive person.
I cry over losing fictional characters;
I do not wish to know how it is like to cry over people.
At the very least, I could relive my times with my fictional characters;
I could open page one again, or being the first episode all over.
But, I cannot relive my times and do as such with real, tangible people,
And I do not choose to get hurt by them.
And that is why
I am not brave.
I'd almost forgot about this- can't believe I did. Was going through a bad patch, but I guess I'm fine now.
811 · Dec 2013
Oral Report
Aya Baker Dec 2013
To use a pop culture reference, I am an onion.

Peeling back my layers and layers of layers will only make you cry- and in the end, what are you left with, really? What are you looking for? You've peeled back all of these layers and you'll find nothing. (All that effort gone to waste. Tut tut tut.)

Nothing of use, or worth, anyway.

Is this self-defense then? Do the tears an onion coax out of you as you  skin it and peel back its layers serve as a form of self-defense? One last bid, one last effort to try and stop you from baring it naked? A defense mechanism of nature's finest ingenuity?

Let's count the ways I need therapy.

Let's start with the demons that slither across your bed and grapple with your ears before sliding in your brain in the black of the night.

Let's not.
799 · Sep 2013
Dance Pants of Long Ago
Aya Baker Sep 2013
My dance pants of long ago
Were like a second skin to me.
Fingertips trace the faded pattern;
Affirmation, that yes,
Like a mature rattlesnake
This skin that has been moulted
Once belonged so rightly to me.
A perfect fit.

I have outgrown these, now,
My dance pants of long ago.
My fingers yearn to try them on again;
To feel the smooth fabric cling to my thighs
To jump about in them;
Twist;
Laugh;
Love again.

I try them on.
You know who you are; this is for you.
779 · Oct 2013
Not In Use : A Sign
Aya Baker Oct 2013
It seems that
The only thing that warms me now
Is the scalding water
Of my showerhead.

My bones are all my sad endings and lost loves and destroyed galaxies soldified.

No hero's smile or requited love or photogenic nebula
Will ever do it for me.
Not any more, at least.

The muscle in my chest has rotten away to reveal cobwebs and a chill;
Even before the heart had gone to waste it had already been out of use
For a long time.
The veins and arteries once filled with life are now static,
Little tubes that serve no function.

My palms open and close-
Or, I think they do.
If my heart is gone, how have I lived on?
I assess the state of my chest cavity.
Oh.

I have not.
I am but a tangle of thoughts in my consciousness left to stew in limbo,
A fitting punishment of corporeal suffering
For the body that once held
Me.
778 · Sep 2013
I've got drugs and tea
Aya Baker Sep 2013
When you’re feeling melancholy,
take the bus down the road.
Smile at the driver,
look out the window.
Give your seat to Mrs Shay,
She’s always loaded with grocery bags
and you’ll see Yappy,
the spaniel, if it’s a Saturday.
Greet the family going to church
Mary and Elizabeth all knitted out in their Sunday best;
Smile reassuringly at the college kid, who’s sitting for a test.

Ah! There you are! My stop’s not too far, was it?
But you’re no longer feeling melancholy now;
Don’t forget to visit!
742 · Sep 2013
Unseen
Aya Baker Sep 2013
it is a rainy day

and the pavement slick with water

and her heels go down clicking

click click click

and they are red and she tries

to show that she is powerful

and important

and that she matters

in this city of people who are all the same

blonde and asian and street

snapbacks and briefcases and tattoos

coffee and tea and mineral waters

but she isn’t

and she is still just

insignificant.
One of my older poems. Hard to escape from writing yourself into your works, isn't it?
716 · Sep 2013
Shhhhh
Aya Baker Sep 2013
Quiet, quiet.

The night is dark outside and so is your soul.

There is little we can do about that, I'm sorry, they say oh so solemnly,

hands folded together close to their body

like they are protecting themselves

from me.

Shock treatments and pills couldn't do me good

Nothing could go against the

impenetrable exterior my mind

had formed.

The brambles my self-hate had created

were so intricately tangled

nothing could sidestep nor cut through them.
Just a filler while I delete Undiscovered, Version 2 and find a new poem in my phone memos (ha) to replace this with. Ignore this, tally-**!
711 · Sep 2013
Big city, small world
Aya Baker Sep 2013
and the dawn has faded to dust
left sparks of rose on my shoulder blades
the yellow touches my skin
creeping in, it’s creeping in
it’s another wonderful day
people smile, children play
i wonder if you would do me a favour
stay a while? you should
stay a while
708 · Sep 2013
Sixteen
Aya Baker Sep 2013
Sixteen, and already she feels so tired
A weariness that settles in her bones like no other;
And they too- the bones- they ache.
Shadows under her eyes
Like the ones that reside in Hades' domain-
Wicked and taunting and cruel and
Hellish
That don't seem to disappear.
Her gaze is vacant, attention slipping
Always casting about, from the
Styrofoam coffee cup to the newly parked car in the lot
To the aging sign advertising an open auto shop
- 24 hours a day, and the unlit neon bulbs
Look as ancient as
Her grandmother's wedding ring.
She sighs,
Takes a sip of coffee,
Then closes her eyes.
The vinyl seat cover under her is cool to the touch.
678 · Sep 2013
I am no Adele but
Aya Baker Sep 2013
there are
cracks
in the pavement,
this long winding grey slab
of asphalt
and heat
and a thousand sweaty footsteps
it is far still to my house
and I wonder why
pavements cannot be shorter.
Aya Baker Sep 2013
when I was a child
I would
wake up
in the middle of the night
and creep to the bathroom
to read a book under its yellow light

my mama slapped me and said
that I should go to bed
she took my book away.

when I was more grown
I would
wake up
to fetch my blade
hurry to the bathroom
to paint ladders red.

the girls at
school
laughed
at me.
they wrinkled their noses like
I was
****
and said I wanted
attention.

when I was married
I would
nudge awake
my girl and
kiss her *******
under the spray of water
under the lull
of love.

she left me, two years later
for another
woman
with bigger
*******.

when I was old
I woke up
and went
to the bathroom
except my legs were
weak
and my grip on the
sink
did not suffice
so I saw my blood drip.


I heard the doctors say I wouldn’t make it.


I didn’t.
664 · Sep 2013
Once and not at all
Aya Baker Sep 2013
once I was aneroxic
I regale the story to my friends
they ask how do you-?
it takes me a while to answer,
and then I remember
that you tell yourself you’re alright
you’ll do fine,
and you do.
because after a while,
the lie starts coming true.

the thing about us
anorexics, cutters, the depressed
is that we lie.
I still am
I do not remember,
I just bring to attention
the sweet hunger pangs
that encompass me,
envelop me.
These are not my friends,
but people who are thin
people with unblemished skin
people who laugh when I fall
people who make my skin crawl

I leave the table
with excuses of
having too much
to drink
I do not make it to the toilet;
I retch in the sink.
631 · Jun 2014
practicing suicide
Aya Baker Jun 2014
it is 9pm, so
i stride briskly to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
the fibres are getting worn.
rinse, and gurgle, and rinse
again.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes along my gum, then my teeth.
top row, bottom row, left side, right side,
inner top row, inner bottom row, inner left side, inner right side.
i rummage in the cabinets once i am done
at precisely five minutes past
for the blades and the medicinal alcohol.
dip, swab, cut.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes on my person.
right forearm, left forearm, right thigh, left thigh.
the ballerina practices her pirouette
as i do with my suicide.
it is routine.
i can live.
620 · Nov 2014
remains
Aya Baker Nov 2014
i will have entered my eighteenth year
knowing that
it will be my fourth year of sorrow.
there is a riptide coming for me
and i can see it from the pier.
this poem will have so many periods
in the hopes that it will be a flimsy defence against the churning
obsidian mass that is coming,
coming,
coming.
advancing like a predator.
everything is different from before;
there is a dewy mist that settles on my arms.
oh, my poor arms, uncovered
and riddled with goosebumps,
not even a cardigan.
tell me how i can stop this despair from getting me.
did i mean to say getting to me?
stop this despair, stop this-
i am so tired, but there are no seats on the pier.
Aya Baker Mar 2014
I crush dead leaves under my feet.
The satisfying crackle-hiss reminds me
Of when your bones crunched into a million pieces,
Marrow collapsing under the disbelief that a pretty little thing like me could have denied you.
You have been panting after me like a dog in heat for a year. Do not think I wouldn't notice.
I will use the feminine wiles at my disposal, all of them ammunition against boys like you, with your doe eyes and quickly hidden smirks.
I hear you in the locker room. A mass of hooting, crowing creatures that shout out at the slightest dichotomy between what you think is normal and what is normal.
You think I don't see Paul, who comes home bruised every day because his heart is too big for one gender?
I walk past the locker room and recoil, because you reek of privilege and body odour. I hear you talk about the man, Laverne ***, who was on your television last night. Disgusting, you say, like your opinion should matter. I close my eyes tightly and hope your idiocy is not contagious.
Bang, bang, bang. That is the roar of gunfire as I smile sweetly at you with lips you deem to red, as you call me a ***** and ****. A million slurs wouldn't do you a single favour, darling.
You remind me of the time that you paid for my meal and I blow radioactive gas in your direction as I laugh in your face. The thud of bomb shells fall behind us. I sharpen my nails into claws and strike.
Once upon a time I would have thought you handsome and sweet and popular, qualities we are taught to fall in love with regardless of flaws. If you hadn't been handsome anyway the illustrious promise of being safely heterosexual was always reminded of. Now boys like you I leave behind in the dust for girls like me. We laugh at your antics as we dye our hair colours the Church would have disapproved of. We don't care, anyway, our kisses are the salvation we were never conditioned to believe in.
Warnings for misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, Nice Guy Syndrome (?), white cishet man privilege (??)
I've only just realized that I wrote this on the same day my best friend told me about the boys in the back of her lecture, who were objectifying a fellow schoolmate into a *** object. So this is for all the women who have been degraded to something you are less than worthy of.
Aya Baker Sep 2013
You care too much for me
And people call me a *****
But I call this
Self-defense
And I shall honour my younger, past self
Who never wanted to hurt
and be hurt
And be like those girls
Crippled by emotions
Whose love was their downfall
I am sad and I push people away
Please,
Let me push you away
Aya Baker Oct 2013
Your lips catch onto mine
And I fall hook, line, and sinker.
The friction your hips create, sliding across mine,
Imitate the drag of my lungs
When you first declared your love for me.
I kiss the freckles on your hipbone;
Orion's little constellation.
You guide my mouth to where it needs to be
Even though I don't know what I am doing,
Even though this is my first time.
You taste like musk and salt.
And when your eyes reopen,
You pull me up and kiss my forehead.
"Perfect."
This was actually a challenge by a friend, to write about ***- I wanted to use French, because things always sound better in another language!
593 · Apr 2014
Rain
Aya Baker Apr 2014
the rain falling in sheets down the windows
they form the perfect setting for a horror movie
not those Western kinds, mind-
give me Japanese ghouls peering into the bus' windows that I sit across from,
give me Malaysian banshees crawling on the roof of the bus.
Lord, give me a gruesome death, one that I have to fight for:
give me some spirit, some passion that will rise within me and consume me wholly, this need to live:
the fire that does not exist now.
The rain continues on pouring.
583 · Nov 2013
Monsters in the Closet
Aya Baker Nov 2013
It is the only place I feel safe
When sometimes my room feels too open:
I hide away in my closet
(And perhaps a joke can be made out of that
And perhaps it already has,
But it doesn't matter, anyway-
I've already told those who wouldn't hurt me.)
Recovering in the dark,
Where the monsters are familiar
And this small space originally deemed claustrophobic
Settles me,
My shoulders bracketed by the door and the back
The only hug I'll seem to get.
Aya Baker Dec 2013
i wanted to write a poem titled 'it's okay; we all go to hell anyway'
because i realized we are
sinning and staining
what a sham humanity, oh, what a sham you've become
do you think you fool anybody?
do you think you fool God?
lies and chemicals and alcohol
and writhing bodies and ink and blood
humanity, how you bleed
how you've desecrated yourself
depressed person like me: we see the world as it is
we call you out on it
we know you are going to hell; the thought burns with us every second
(a farce)
so we write poems and you call us eccentric and we discuss how different and much better we are than you
same old game, same old game
- tried and tested throughout the ages
not a different species, but we might as well be,
the way you treat us,
the way we treat you.
down, down, on our last round
Unintended ****-shaming in this poem. No intention of offending anyone with this.
576 · Sep 2013
Untitled
Aya Baker Sep 2013
"How are you?"

"I am fine."

"How are you?"

"I am fine."

"How are you?"

And it goes on and on and on,
This courteous game no one invests in
Half-glances sliding over you
Catalouging your state briefly before
Moving onto something else

The unspoken rules of this game dictate
That you keep to routine.
How are yous and I am fines,
Never change
Never stop.
Never, ever, change.

It does not matter
If these are not truths
It does not matter
If you feel like your skin is bursting
And your head is exploding
And your heart is shrieking
And your blood is singing.

They must ask How are yous
And you must say, I am fines

"I am-"

But.

I am not.

I am not fine you want to scream and shout You have not been fine since last year the year you discovered that you don’t matter you are only worth the As in your report book. The teacher’s assessment of you is unfair yet true and you are never anything less than troubled. Red becomes the colour you see behind your eyelids in the dark and in the day When the red stands out and even if it doesn’t because that’s all. You. Can. Think. About. It is the colour under the skin of your thighs when you slap too hard It is the colour that spills over the skin of your forearms where you hide the cuts under sleeves You are falling falling a dizzy mess No one but you will taint this metaphorical white dress. You dig in your work. You solve math problem after math problem and buy new highlighters to line the pages of your Biology textbook and you pay attention in History class even though your friend elbows you in the ribs to get your attention to show off her latest doodle. But still red redred red red red redred dred ered red red is all you can think about, you don’t like the colour but now you just might. it keeps you sane. After class when no one paid attention and everyone disrupted it you ran to the bathroom to create more so. You tell your friends and they look at you sadly but forget later. It takes you months of not eating properly and starving yourself of sentiment before you realize you are too young to be jaded. Other, better friends (though it is no fault of your older ones) pull you through. You learn to like simple things again. You throw yourself in articles and articles of the feminist movement and watch that new TV show and make more friends that loosen you up and make you laugh and dance. You take pictures and create memories again. You live a little more again. You are making progress.

"-fine."
560 · Sep 2013
Walls
Aya Baker Sep 2013
I default
to
sentiment
when he isn’t looking
(I admire the curve of his
jaw
the slant of his eyelashes
the muddied footsteps of a troop of freckles across the
bridge of his
nose.)

He kisses me gently
And I push back
fiercer
unyielding .
(His lips are red like
the candy
he buys me on
valentine’s.)

There are fights
(shouts, screams, throwing of things)
but he never raises a hand
or does more than look hurt.
I pray for him to do just the opposite
of that
(bruises and cries and
promises?threats? of goodbyes) but he doesn’t.

Hurt me, I want to tell him.

Hurt me, and you will never have to know me
(and how I steal gum from the shop
of my before-bed rituals
of my illegible handwriting)

Hurt me, and I will have to stay away from you
(and not get my heart broken
shattered like glass
tattered like the afghan bedspread we share)
You seem to be the only boy I will ever write about.
548 · Oct 2014
shrieking shack
Aya Baker Oct 2014
i do not trust my mind anymore
the sockets of my eyes
contain a thousand burning suns
and the voicebox in my throat
traps white noise
but the cranium i possess
is merely a container
of pandora's worst nightmare
546 · Dec 2013
Not
Aya Baker Dec 2013
Not
she drinks coffee like it is her float in the sea she drowns in, chugs it like it'll buoy her better or let her use less effort in keeping alive

(her legs are kicking anyway, mouth screaming defiant at the sea in spitfuls of salt water, and her eyes are blurred angry sore red, brows hooked like an eagle's staring down prey)

-and she should fit in with the insomniacs, whose one associated item are styrofoam coffee cups of mom-and-pop diners and the accompanying coffee rings on formica table tops (as if all insomniacs are the same and if they were they would only have one token, but we'll pretend this is an amateur author's first novel) but she's not quite them and she's not quite one of the living, either-

   oh
      oh
         silly goose, silly me



the insomniacs are one of the living.










are they?
528 · Jan 2014
suicide
Aya Baker Jan 2014
she was pale-limbed and spread so perfectly like a story waiting to happen:
reminiscent of a butterfly dead in its cocoon that may have had
hope breathed onto it like life, full and bursting
but then reality dragged it down, stuck its wings together
as it thrashed and thrashed
and never really experienced the world the way it was supposed to.

the police officer that had found her thought it was a tragedy,
but the doctor performing the autopsy simply looked upon her corpse
as another matchstick in his matchbox.
there was no difference, between this dead girl and the next, to him:
it was all a matter of perspective.
523 · Sep 2013
unbalanced friendships
Aya Baker Sep 2013
and all those secrets we couldn’t keep
they buzzed around like bees
like bees
(i say we but it is just in fact,
you)

the cigarette smoke we couldn’t shake
choked our lungs,
overwhelmed our days
(i say our but it is just in fact,
me)

scars we couldn’t rid
stained our sleeves
our sleeves
(i say we but it is just in fact,
you)
516 · Jan 2014
Untitled
Aya Baker Jan 2014
The curve of her shoulder blade were the same valleys in her eyes:

Long summer days drawn out by even longer sunsets.

I can still hear her laugh, feel the tickle of grass where she sat beside me:

His was a memory long gone.

She kisses me on the mouth, once, twice:

Her breath brushes my cheek. “Don’t worry,”

She chides, as she always does, though she knows this is of no help at all, nor am I to take her seriously:

I will heal in my own time.

My hands drift across her upper torso- what beauty, how pliant;

I try to admire every bit of her, as he did not do to me.

She bites her lip, knows it will not be long before I have to go:

Since that autumn two moons ago, I bid my farewells early.

Since that autumn two moons ago, I curl up in bed feeling lonely.

Since that autumn two moons ago, when his teeth clacked against mine and his hands were the apocalypse I could never dare to fight;

Since.
For 30DPC, I was to flip to page 8 of the nearest book, then use the first ten full words in the poem. The book that was nearest was John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. The words taken are, curves, beside, his, mouth, upper, lip, was, long, and, since, teeth. Trigger warnings for non-consensual ***/****.
514 · Sep 2013
Above
Aya Baker Sep 2013
we should have queried the lady moon

oh all our lives they end too soon

she’s seen the romeos and the juliets
is our love forever or are we done yet?

she’s like an ivory dragon in the sky
watching over us she will cry
she knows how this goes, the way the water flows

oh how i wish i could keep her company
sell your secrets and we’ll write you a symphony
512 · Dec 2013
retreat
Aya Baker Dec 2013
there are two girls on the rooftop
and on the horizon before them, the sun bows down
red.
it will not touch them with its rays.
it dares not.

i always wanted to be a killer, the first girl says,
head turned to look over her shoulder,
all that blood, ha ha ha ha.
oh? the second girl raises her eyebrows.
i wanted to be a doctor.
imagine, all that flesh and skin and bone. crunch crunch.
the first girl giggles. i'm a regular da vinci,  she announces,
then drags her fingers through the air.
i'd paint with all the gorgeous humanity i took. take.
the second girl reclines. it's more fun, giving it, then taking it away.

the two girls have the same shadow.
508 · Nov 2014
age
Aya Baker Nov 2014
age
i feel the skin sloughing off my bones;
knobby, they are.
my skin feels ephemeral, more now
than it has ever been.
i am losing weight like
i am losing you.
my hands wither before me:
all my years they served
the purpose of creating art as best as i could
but now they look like dead roses.
my ribs puncture my skin like throns.
my husk is decaying,
dying,
dredging up memories of the youth i never had.
could it possibly be that i don't want to die?
Aya Baker Sep 2013
we watched the sun set, you and I,

and the sky was coloured with our goodbyes.


And the world was big and bright

enough to seem that we each had our own light.
498 · Apr 2014
Untitled
Aya Baker Apr 2014
i have always had
an unparalleled fascination
for the human body.
human anatomy to me, it seems
draws me in
like a moth to a candle.
it mesmerizes me,
to see drawings of phalanges and metacarpal bones,
all covered
like a secret lover
by smooth, knitted skin.
romeo, where art thou?
tracing pictures of the aorta and veins and arteries, i hope-
the sensual twists and turns of a capillary should fill the page.
let me bask in deltoid and trapezius muscles,
make my way to the clavicle.
let the beauty of the fragility and the strength of bodies,
divine and heaven-sent,
engross me for the decades to come:
to admire and enchant and enthral;
to hold spellbound and captivate and always intrigue me.
Bodies are beautiful, simply because of the way they *are*. And if you self-identify as ugly, then hey, you're still the diggity bomb! But I genuinely do love how bodies /are/ and I think everybody should, too.
493 · Nov 2013
Hunger
Aya Baker Nov 2013
i starve myself
in hopes that the hydrochloric acid in my stomach
will eventually erode away my insides
till I am naught but an empty shell;
hollow, like
how my heart feels these days,
It should be noted that my writing poems is worrying because it seems to be tied to my depression.
Aya Baker Oct 2013
I've gotten tired of staring at the back of my eyelids
In inky darkness,
There still are shadows that flit about and
Draw my mind's attention.
I have many voices in my head
All overlapping and overwhelming each other;
Choruses of a song heard earlier that day
Or a monologue of my own maudlin thoughts
Or  a daydream of my wildest fantasies concocted
Or tomorrow's to-do list.
Loud, and
All at once.
It makes me go half out of  my mind, sometimes.
I find it difficult to sleep.
Had a particularly rough night, and it inspired this. Went against every fiber of my being to write this, to continue faking sleep, but I wrote this down anyway. A poet's curse, I think.
463 · Oct 2013
Too Old and Too Wise
Aya Baker Oct 2013
"tell me about the end of the world," the time traveller asked.

"a blessing," the stars decided.

"tell me about the end of mankind," the time traveller asked.

"peaceful," the stars conferred.

"tell me about the end of humanity," the time traveller asked.

"like a scab finally peeled," the stars nodded in agreement.

they had lived too long.
448 · Jul 2014
little sinner
Aya Baker Jul 2014
she ran home with her sins;
down the steps
and round the flower beds-
careful not to trample them-
and through the back door.
it was freshly painted, that door.
she went into the house
where it all began:
the sins, she means.
she hopes you understand.
there is too much in this world
that she cannot allow
so she tucks each jewel
back into the crevices of
each brick
that her house was built of.
that was where
her mother's screams
and her dad's belt
and the blades in the night
and the empty bowls of soup were;
she kept them
in each jewel
in each brick
buried
deep down.
home was where the heart was,
after all.
443 · Sep 2013
One in the rain
Aya Baker Sep 2013
the wind is raging

howling

screaming

and the trees are shaking

battering against the windows

and i can feel their pain

they beg to differ.

and the droplets stream down my windowpane

like a fairytale-esque music video

like my cries in the night

how lonely, is it, to be a tree?
Aya Baker Sep 2013
do you know
of the bones that grow cold in
the spring?

kelly didn’t eat because everyone at her school called her fat.

have you seen
the cardigan sleeves
that cover patricia’s skin?

she cuts because she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

and do you know
bruised knuckles
that shoved food up my throat
as I retched over in the toiletbowl?

No.

You do not.
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