you lay me in the backseat of your sports car
body flush against me, tangle of limbs as hands grasp
nothing tangible, your body passed through me like a ghost
the old painful haunting of a memory playing in my mind
projected, big screen my eyes growing distant as you crept into my body
the thief in the night, alcohol breath
enough to make a girl wince
domina, purissima, immaculata sits in the front seat weeping
my eyes sting too, reminded of a pain
your man hands, big hands
calloused from work a girl like me will never know
pawing at the impure skin
big hands, man hands
the force a ripping now too real
working to take something
domina, purissima, immaculata sits in the front seat weeping
her cries harmonizing with mine
one that threatens to break glass, our aria of suffering as you split me in half
rending me in a way so whole yet incomplete
pain without the tender kiss of pleasure
man, all man, all terrifying unholy man
and as you pull me out of the backseat you ask
“was this your first time?”
“yes,” i lie
and domina, purissima, immaculata sits in the front seat weeping

Leave when the sky is loud but the sidewalk is quiet.
When the door clicks shut like it’s keeping a secret,
don’t flinch.
Let your hands hang heavy,
the silence has its own grip.

Take only what fits in your chest,
you’ll be shocked what doesn’t.
Use only what won’t puncture your lungs.
(Even breath can betray you.)

Don’t check the mirror.
It lies loudest when you’re quiet.

If you must cry, do it in motion.
Stillness makes grief cocky,
then it hands you a mirror labeled “proof”
and waits.

Let the memory bruise.
Don’t label it.
Names are spells.

Closure’s a mirage
that waves from the distance
and never once turns around.

When the day feels unbearable,
bear it.
Not because you’re strong—
because you’re stubborn
and still here.

By month three,
his name will taste like static.
By month six,
you’ll forget the exact color of his laugh.
And by month twelve—
you’ll mistake the whole thing for a metaphor.

You’ll almost be right.
But even metaphors
break skin.
Memory crusts,
but it never closes.

They say pressure makes diamonds.  
Fine.  

But here’s my truth:  
My peace was forged under  
every ******* ounce
of what came before.

are people born broken
that's what I ask myself

sure, there are always people
who have been traumatized
who have been beaten down
and turned into monsters
to the point of no return
where they inflict the torture
they've endured onto others

but can they be born evil
already a monster from the womb
have a beautiful life
or at least a good life
with a loving family
and still turn out messed up
can you abuse and torture others
for the fun of it
with no reason why you do what you do

i imagine people
bundled up in grief
of words that they have carried over years—
of things that could not become theirs
of the beings they could have been,
had the world been a bit easier

pain, so pretty

i see them as bundles,
carrying ropes twisted around their guts,
visibly being mocked by all those
who roam light and agile in their lives
the ones adding to that burden

the grief-added mind
carries us so drifted and quick
almost floating through life
but what of the drowning
that this heart undergoes

having shattered so many times,
it has lost all the hopes
and so it gets filled up to the brim
leaks out, seeps into—
and the skin so tender and bruised,
everything cuts a little too deep

sleep is a cacophony

i think i peeked inside the wiring of my brain
for a couple of seconds today
you know it is like—
there is a hole at the very centre
that has a very solid boundary
the outer layer has got hooks and daggers
and things pinned and across

but what is the worst
is the chains and ropes surrounding it
holding that part in the very middle,
at the very centre
and every time they twist and pull,
it does not hurt
but the ache goes a bit numb

and it feels so numb
that sometimes i want to
drown in burning water,
stand under the coldest shower,
eat molten lava,
or consume ice until my mouth burns
just to feel something—at the very least

and it has existed forever
but on days that are hard
it gets ugly
sears in its loneliness
like a deep hollow
resounding with the echoes
of a whale in the ocean

pain so beautiful
so undeterred, unspoken
a telltale so enchanting
it brings you in, soaks you deep
leaves you ragged,
with nothing to sleep with
except for constant nightmares
or even worse—
the dull ache in your existence

yet pain so pretty
because it makes you feel.

because to be honest,
i did not know where to start
no beginning, then how could it end
what do you mean pain is constant?
but when it heightens,
something in my brain hits just right
and i turn into the next be-****** poet

this time it is a mess of stuff—
like things piled up in the corner of your room
and overlooked for long enough
except one day you are trying to find something in them,
sort of like something to balance you
but instead it triggers you
and you realise you are just lost

it outs me,
and puts me in a spot
one that i oh-so
despise to talk about