as the blade runs through the flesh,
blood starts gushing out

she cried,
she screamed,
p a i n f u l l y
repeating it all over again
with a sense of hesitation

a miasma of burning cigarettes
and stale alcohol hung in the background
with bits of despair and tears

——

why can't she do it?
why can't she end her life?
why can't she save herself?

Some days like today, 
I can’t help but wonder about my future.

Like, will I be married?
And if so, what’s he like?
Is he the type to let me take charge,
when it comes to designing our humble abode?
Or will he mind a little glitter and gold?
If I painted our bedroom walls black,
would he think I’ve gone mad?
And if I painted it bright pink,
will he not sleep in?

Some days like today,
I can’t help but wonder about my future.

Will my spouse be bitter,
if I’m just slightly better at building an IKEA furniture?
When there’s nothing good on TV,
will we spend the whole day doing nothing?
And if I ever published anything on paper in ink,
would he find it an enjoyable reading?

Some days like today,
I can't help but wonder about my future.

Will my hubby be a stern father,
to our beautiful sons and precious daughters?
Or will he be every possible fictional character,
to keep them company and ward off the monsters they read about,
in every piece of literature?
Will our children call him papa or daddy,
and I, mama or mommy?

Some days like today,
I can't help but wonder about my future.

Will our house be by the sea,
or tucked away in the hustle and bustle of the city?
Will I be a domestic goddess,
while he braves the brand new world like an amazing superhero?
And if things get tough,
will we both raise our hands in defeat or rough it out,
like how we would teach our kids?

Some days like today,
I can't help but wonder about my future.

But then I remember that present isn't all that bad either,
and come what may,
be there him or no one at all,
I'll be happy either way.

@byizn

I regard my attraction to language as an affair,
as a withstanding relation,
a product of indecorous communication.
This devotion has demanded a life of its own,
accepting my whole as its proxy.
Others won't understand this affinity.
They aren't familiar with the curving lilt of a domestic tongue,
Nor the taste of a verse fermented in the mouths of one's ancestors,
Surely not the stuttering moans of a mother dialect,
Yet the sharp sting of a jagged vernacular,
or the mastery and art behind the articulation of a single utterance.
This discourse developed over time,
I required maturation and growing before my notions aligned.
I felt eager upon observing the pervasive movements of great text
Which delivered a high known greater than ***.
It is true that I contemplated profoundly first,
before committing my desire and will to the whole of verse.
But now that my diction reflects the appeal of great literature and enamoring fiction
I couldn't be more satisfied.