Easter is around the corner.
Everything could be pink and blue—
Or a Van Dyck painting,
Somber, subdued, pulling me through.

I gather eggs and paper bunnies,
Screaming beneath my breathless strain.
Easter is never sunny—
It always arrives with rain.

Yet Easter hums with promise,
A whisper of days to come.
It melts the scars and sutures—
A pill that numbs what's numb.

It fills me with light and trembling,
A sway between joy and ache.
The future leans in, disassembling
The weight I can no longer take.

Word is like snowflakes in a snow globe—
it swirls, it settles, soft against the ground.
The clock resists—time wants to disagree.
I rock in a chair that creaks with memory.

Words melt like snow, or snowball into more.
They hush, they howl, they knock at the door.
I chew ice cubes, retreat to the bed,
chilled by the thoughts still spinning in my head.

Words can ****, and snow can too—
a quiet beauty mixed with truth.
Life feels most vivid in weather’s breath,
in storms, in stillness, in the kiss of death.

Us—
the ones without vision.
Not blind, just
uninvited.

We don’t have a point of view—
we orbit around them.
Deja vu is all we know.
It’s our only map,
our only god.

We don’t understand.
We don’t resist.
We just
continue.

Like robots.
Like borrowed thoughts
on borrowed time.

Until the head meets the pillow
like a wall.
And still—no dreams,
just static.

Television is both prayer
and poison.
It flickers,
feeds,
forgets us.

Most people, poor souls,
try to think in reverse—
like it’ll bring back
whatever it was
we lost.

It weighs the heart like wet wool— this ache that won’t be wrung out. We try to outpace death, but what a useless art— to dodge the final breath, to forget the final prayer, to sleep through the silence draped in disguise.

When your parent dies, something in you unravels. A thread pulled loose from the tapestry of self. It’s as if someone spit into the soul’s well— and the echo never stops falling.

A part of you locks away in the hush of unspoken lies. And dragging through the days feels like pulling your own shadow through molasses.

When your parent dies, the world doesn’t end— but it forgets how to begin.

My body turns on me—
slowly, without ceremony.
So I turn onto it,
a truce of skin and ache.

Then I turn into my mother.
Then my father.
I watch my face in the mirror
and see their ruins rising.

I think of leaving the cities—
like the Maya did,
just walk out
and let the jungle eat my name.

I want to be Nefertiti,
but the gods are jealous.
And hungry.
And male.

I betray my body
and it knows.
It bruises back.
It creaks in the silence.

I wanted to be a god,
one of the ones with
eyes like fire and spines like gold.

But I am,
unfortunately,
CHELOVEK.
Meat and memory.
Ash in the mirror.
Dreams that ache like old teeth.

I’m reading the lines of the star-crossed pair,
But the words are tangled, they cry in despair
Their feelings are fog, not fire or flame—
Yet somehow, I know I’ve felt the same.

We’ve all been Romeo once in our lives,
Dreaming of love with wide-open eyes.
We’ve all been Juliet, young and bright,
Leaping for love in the dead of night.

But now the waves have all pulled back,
And I am walking a stormy track.
No compass, no song, no spark, no sun—
The passion is drained, the dreaming done.

I flip through pages of Napoleon’s war,
And Lavoisier’s laws I can’t ignore.
Who cares for a kiss in Verona’s air?
Not me—not now—not anywhere.

Old lovers die in their final scene,
And I die with them in between.
Again and again, I play the part—
A ghost with a silent, broken heart.

my body turns on me
I turn onto my body
I turn into my mother
I turn into my father
I am about to abandon the cities
Like ancient Maya did in ad
I want to become Nefertiti
but the gods are jealous
and greedy.
I am betraying my body
and it betrays me back
I want to be an ancient god
but unfortunately I am CHELOVEK