She enjoys her state of liberty like the moon enjoys when it shines at night.
Just like the wise owl, she observes and listens.
The voice that remains shut
The eyes that saw blood and tears;
And the heart; a storehouse of suppressed emotion ragging in pain
Bottling up for decade.
When Shiuli blooms as Autumn arrives, she finds her solace in hidden words, etched on her skin.
The embodiment of imperfections stitched together that makes her a human.
    

ten days into january
but my soul already
ache for the
softness and warmth of
december; to be cradled
again in his arms

tonight i swam in the water
color canvas of sunset
blue to orange
orange to pink
pink to red
red to black
it's almost like going
to sleep
light to dark
a warm body squeezing
back into the womb
maybe
it is all a dream
a twenty-four hour trance
and i'll wake one
reserved january morning
clammy
and clawing for air

it doesn’t snow here but i feel the cold stinging my cheeks just the same
(it’s good because the leaves don’t fall from the trees. i don’t like watching everything around me die)
my mom doesn’t sleep in my bed and she doesn’t notice the bad days
(at least i’m allowed to cry in peace now.)
the bags under my eyes are more permanent now
(i guess i can only sleep when I’m bleeding.)

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.

How many days until winter goes by
When the sun once again warms the skies
As much as I love my fuzzy socks
I yearn for when bathing suits fill the stocks
The frozen air whips my little nose red
Attempts to wake up are thwarted by my bed
Though the snow is visually pleasing
I wonder when Mr. Jack Frost is leaving
As much as I hate the intense heat
These winter cold flurries have me beat

This January, fog slips thick fingers through the hair of the trees,
wrapping them in blankets against the cold and against the sun.
Streetlamps and headlights make halos
of red, yellow, green, white,
carving slices into the air,
the same at three as they are at six as they are at nine as they are at--

And something whispers to me that elsewhere there is snow.
It’s only getting warmer.
It’s only getting warmer.