The last time I put pen to paper,
I spilled ink-
a tad too much.

I rewrote the same lines.

   rewrote the same lines.

                 the same lines.

                       same lines.

                                  lines.

over and over and over again until it bore a hole into the paper. And that was where I first believed that if anything was real, it will fall apart.

I found these pages that broke loose from the spine of a fairy tale book:

1) What isn't new? Walking on glass.
              These voices in the ball.
      " If the shoe fits" 
                                         " wear it"
    No.       They never had the chandelier fit 
        in place.
You had a smile that could light the hall up.      (    side      down    )
                 
When the clock strikes 12,  I'd suggest you light a match instead.

2) M' Lady, let down thy hair?

Damsel or ******,
 
                   behind these castle walls,

in distress.

When people say they'd die for some company,
             do they really?

3) Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
    Who's the prettiest of ---

    Monsters have green eyes ---

    Plump lips; kissable, aren't they?

    Ye--- I meant no. 
    Look me in the eye.
    You didn't witness how desperately, ---

     I don't see the point ---

     she tried to wipe the poison off her lips.

      Put these seven dwarves to sleep.
      
      Talk to the mirror again.

4) Close your eyes. What kisses you awake is fear.

5) Red eyes. Bared teeth. 

" You don't look the same."

You have been warned about speaking of home to strangers. The heart of it all: you were the leader of the pack.

6) Cry wolf then **** it. Before it kills you.
- end of extracts-


It was torn apart; therefore, it must be real.
I was real; therefore, I have been torn apart.

Was.

Erase every line I wrote.

Erase every line.

Erase the hole I bore in that piece of paper I last put my pen to.
I have learnt that if I didn't want to fall apart,
then I should set fire to the books I used to love.
The very ones that read
" Set yourself on fire;
you can't see in the dark."

for a moment i couldn’t remember your last name.
for a moment it started with a different letter,
was spoken in a different tongue.
for a moment i had forgotten it — that is, if i ever knew it at all.

you used to be so clear to me.
you were, at a time, tangible —
so much more than a memory.
i loved you then and i could say that i love you now but
you cannot love a memory.
not in the same way, no.
you cannot talk to a memory,
nor laugh with a memory,
nor live with a memory.

and so i keep you
frozen in time,
a fragment of the past.

like ashes in an urn i put you on the shelf,
never to be disturbed,
only to be put on display.
i thought you’d be safe there.
i thought that the ashes in an urn don’t disappear because
what more can ash crumble down to?

but today,
for just a moment,
i couldn’t remember your last name.
today,
for just a moment,
you slipped away.

and now i wonder if i ever had you at all.

(a.m.)

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)