I used to love his dark T-shirts
such that
words in my language turned into hieroglyphs
nor, cer, dor
there were some dreams about
myself as a she creature
who didn't know the difference
between body and soul
endings and beginnings
his blood was unstoppable
foretelling my future
oblivious of all the serious things
like deserted crossroads, eager pensions or
sand storms on Mars

he promised my death to me
like a haiku:
more core less sore
happy woman
poppies in the wind

Entry ~
You were the first man that ever broke my heart. It was the day I was born. You held me in your arms and made me a promise that would rip us both apart. You promised to love me unconditionally from the start. But time passed and over the years those words faded from your heart. In the presence of a war when you had one foot out the door. There are vacancies in my memories where a father should have played a part. Like teaching me to drive a car, or telling me don't believe boys that say I love you from the start. Instead, I looked at every boy with tears in my eyes and willingly accepted every single lie, thinking maybe if I part my thighs they'll learn to love how broken I am inside, but they never do. Just like you they leave without a single clue and I'm left alone, used, wishing my daddy would have loved me too. And I'm not writing this to blame you, or break you, or tell you I hate you. I've made mistakes too. Ones deeply rooted in my relationship with you. And I get that maybe you didn't have a clue that your daughter was struggling in the world without you. But I relied on you to set the standard for boys I would let into my heart. By the time I was sixteen, I felt like a tortured piece of art. I learned to love myself of course. Over the years of ripping myself apart I learned to chart the darkness in my own heart. I don't blame you anymore for my broken parts. I'm healed from being angry at you. I'm writing this to tell you I'm sorry for failing you, and I'm sorry you failed me too.

The future is calling out my name
Telling me to proceed with caution
one step at a time
and he tells me he'll take me there
But here I stand still
Would you believe every tale he tells?
No, I said I prefer
To march alone
Less ones to blame
But then, gone are the euphoria
Not a sentiment calmer
Laying low in my own lies
Because the taste of nostalgia
is sweeter
than a thousand delicacies

I’m watching the trees dance under
paling sky’s thick cerulean shadow,
wondering if they’re like me.

                 Wondering if the bioelectrical fibers
                 twisting through the trunk of my neck
                 are like the gusts of wind braiding their branches.

                             Wondering if it keeps them awake,
                             or if it lulls them into enduring slumber.


I’m losing hours behind my circuitous strides through
conscious coma,
pondering those incessant curiosities of
permanent sleep
that so often plague the restless furrows of my stormy mind.


She’s looking at me like
I’m broken again, following me
out the door and impulsively pining
for a fix she couldn’t understand.
For sanguine is the nature of this
four-legged creature so stubborn
and at my heels. Striving to help
as she so often does.

But I’m not broken. No.
I’m comfortably subdued by the soothing
song of sinuous water cascading through
calloused toes, and the weight of
the stained notebook resting on my lap,
whose pages cradle the words of
psychological shadow flowing through my
murky
     streams
              of
                 consciousness.

These are the words that release me.
That so seamlessly pair
the id with the ego and put me to
sleep atop dew-lit grass.
The words that purge me of insanity, and pave my path
to self-discovery.

She knows this too,
Her primordial mind somehow
knows it and yes,
Yes it fixes me.

So, I’m late, as usual.
He smells weird; a mixture
of sweat and cologne.
I ask softly if he wants to meet
my bunny and he turns away.
I am too quiet.
We go to a restaurant and
he asked what I’d like to order
I am too unsure.
I start playing with the sugar packets
build a house, a garden, a roof. It falls.
I am appalled at his lack of appreciation,
lack of poise, he is joking but not smiling
and I feel uncomfortable.
I am too lonely.
And that’s why I keep hoping the
next date will be better
Why don’t you date someone else,
he asks. Twice.
I am too confused.
I leave with a sigh of relief
I am too good
for him.

we laughed together,
like two birds sharing the same feather.
what a tragedy, majesty displayed,
every time we flew, never in fair weather.