If sorrow and bliss had a child,
they would name her chaos
and she would spend her whole life
being sent away.
but humanity is incapable
of comprehending
this foreign beauty
that laces her fingers in ours
and pulls us along beside her.
if sorrow and bliss had a child,
they would name her chaos
and I would fall in love.

This antique mirror boosts no confidence. Concave

reveals its magic tricks with an incurvate

red surface. Some human hair



blending braids are there to fancify your boxers, your removable

metallic silver suspenders underwear and

her red bra underwire slips. It is a new style.



I feel anguish, when I touch the pull locks. Her picture

of the antique statue is hidden between all those things. She



enters the mirror to kiss you every time you look at it. Like jelly candies



are her lipsticks on that silver, but

they have different taste. For me,

they look like isoquants, or indifference curves. I want

to leave you. What do you think?



The water that drips from the mirror, when I wash it, is like crimsonblood. Scary



optical illusions split the reality into two variants through my woe,

and create a much looser and less direct relationship

between us than ever. You live for

your comfort and versatility. You cannot change it.

only i can pronounce
and it keeps screaming
back at me in old voices
and fatal strokes of
dead birds calling out

two times the pitch
sounds only the dead can dance to
and it goes on
note after note
diminishing the sanity
and wiping out my thoughts

                         and now

even though
these vocal chords
currently feel like
crumpled papers
& deserted alleys,


the screeching won’t decease.

together, me and you
tracing dreams upon the
navy light, we circulated like
blood and veins embedded in each other’s
system, writing ethereal fantasies in treasured notebooks.



and the next.
i lay torn petals
on the folds of your skin
in the wrinkles of your memory,
i whisper a melody within silent eardrums
and brush my fingers upon your cold face and left you there to rot.

we are a love letter;
our initials watermarked,
on top of the page,
in permanent markers.
your laughs embedded,
on to my jagged lines.

      we are a love letter;
      forever, you are mine.
      inked memories stay here.
      bits and pieces of everything,
      accidental splotches of that,
      morning tea.
      your cologne wafting on to,
      my papery-naked skin.

            we are a love letter;
            strings tugging within.
            our fingerprints resting,
            on every angle,
            tracing constant patterns,
            drawing battles we endured.
            slipped in a crimson envelope,
            taste of the glue that binds us,
            coating our DNA together,
            in wax seals forever.

                                   we will always be a love letter.

I am the widow. I am the web. I am the widow.

Life’s a web, centred is death, all things connected, a web of intrigue,
Life’s a web, a gentle pluck, all things connected, so the web shakes,
Life’s a web, centred is death, the widow awaits,
Words are webs. The more you read the more it moves,
You have done it. Now she is looking for you,
The widow creeps. Pray insanity finishes you first,
Darkness everywhere, with a hint of red,
Like falling into a murky pool of blood,
Drowning but never sinking,
The echoes of scream run deeper than the cold dark red abyss,
She is here, Quick, Look on top of the ceiling!
Do it fast enough, your neck could break..
(giggles)

I am the widow. I am the web. I am the widow.

Lest the web snaps.