You’ve known me since I started looking down at myself.
What the hell were you thinking when you said : “ I’d be there for you” ?
Isn’t it funny you were actually there to pick up my midnight calls,
Isn’t it funny you were actually rooting for my crusade against the trolls.
Well, I fed on your optimism, twined around it and faked my smiles.
You could’ve gone along with my act but you chose not to.

You’ve known how my dry frown turns upside-down
And yet you make me figure it out by myself.
You please yourself by seeing me out of my comfort zone .
You are selfish, you use me to tickle your funny bone
But I know you mask your good intentions behind the sly wink .
I’m no fool, turning a blind eye to the things you do.

You’ve known places I like to go on a Friday evening
But you take me to the hole I won’t even visit on a Monday morning.
It’s uncanny to face someone else’s fears with them
And you have walked the mile in my old-dusty boots.
I sometimes feel that you’ve reached out to my roots,
Reminded them of my unique existence or maybe resilience.

You’ve known , yes you’ve known it all
And you decide to stay and continue the journey with me.
What’s your intention, motivation, illusion ?
I used to ask these questions and found myself in delusion
But I don’t care anymore about anything and everything.
I’ve known too, maybe not enough but I will always try.

Back when I had lost all my friends and the last lover sat there behind the barred door, she would gather me up with so much warmth.

      She knew I could not be without rhythm. So she played the harp for me. Caresses from hushed lullabies sitting against the windowsill.

      She wept when she saw me naked. I pretended I did not see. She bathed me in flowers and silk.

      Her touch sang mellow tunes on my discolored skin. And her eyes held my soul still, cuddled me as if I was once in her womb.

      Tender, careful breathing into my lungs she did. I looked at her. She only smiled. The air sounded an apology.

Papers can be torn
Dresses can be worn
People can be scorned
But people can also mourn

There is no such thing as perfection
Still, they mock the imperfections
But hey.. don't be bothered by constant rejections
Cause you can still burn brighter than the constellations
Even in your worst conditions

The bathroom is white
And bright like heaven.
I fill the tub with Epsom salts, bubbles,
Some essential oils
(emotional vaccination),
And bless the water like a priest.
Then I disrobe,
Fold my arms and dip myself in,
hair weighing me down.
The water is womb-temperature.
I float a little. I think about why I’m here.
I ask God
But the tiled walls
And the shower curtain
Don’t answer.
Then I rise,
put my robe back on, moisturize
So that I’m like a baby again,
And go about my night,
Helpless, teary-eyed,
Begging to be held.

Am I doing it right?
I took a bath with eight capfuls of eucalyptus bubble soap
Instead of the recommended four.
I ran the water fever hot.
I wonder how long that feeling will last on my skin.
It doesn’t last long.
The next day,
I read a poem about this bath
To my creative writing class.
Call that vulnerability.
Gold star for me and my vulnerability.
I make tea with my vulnerability,
And sometimes I let other people sniff the fumes—
Raspberry-pomegranate-flavored-matcha-green—
But I never make a full ***
Because I guess I don’t want anyone else
to burn their tongues on my scalding vulnerability.


They like my poem, I think.
I don’t really listen to their response,
Am glad when it’s over.
I answer their questions about it without
Really answering their questions.
I don’t think they notice.
As for me,
I absorb their comments like vitamins
And, as such, the excess is filtered out
In the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep.
When I do sleep, I try badly to stay awake,
When I must sleep, I am kept awake by various physical sensations,
Which I may complain about on Twitter
(Gold star for my vulnerability)
But maybe not, because I’m trying to detox,
And by that I mean I’ll stare
At Duolingo, the Atlantic, YouTube and Netflix,
Instead of Twitter, Instagram, Tik Tok and Snapchat,
And when I talk about it to my friends,
I feel the need to compare myself to an addict
in rehab
to get over heroine.
Because, in my mind, they are the same thing.
Call that empathy. Gold star for me and my empathy.

Am I doing it right yet?
This poem makes me feel good,
When I write something that makes me feel good,
I feel as though I could be talented.
But do I like myself for it?
If I get too cocky I might have to cut my own **** off,
Cut myself down to size.
But it’s no use, my ego haunts me
Like a bad childhood memory.
I didn’t feel guilt for the first time until I was fifteen.
It took that long
To feel sorry for pruning the leaves on my relationships,
until the plants disappeared
And I forgot what species they were.
Even now that I have friends I can admire,
Can I be trusted not to rate myself more highly?
Call that self-confidence.
Goldstar for me and my self-confidence.


When I get home from work,
I take another bath, hotter than before, with wine.
The wine and the heat make me dizzy, which is good
Because I can’t fall asleep unless I’m dizzy.
But later I will not be able to sleep
because this is my third hot bath in a row,
it’s winter, and my skin is so dry that it will itch and burn
As if every fabric I touch were made of fire ants.
But for now
I am comforted.
Call that self-care. Gold star for my self-care.
More of a participation trophy, really.