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anneka Feb 2016
here my smile unravels at the seams
curving against the spines of my ribs
and oh i, wish i could mean more but
concrete only bends beneath my bones

watch what dances across these glassy eyes
the skin on my face melt, melts, melting
chaos dark matter toxic waste cursed, those
batteries father threw out when i was five

the same year we moved away when
oceans tore home into two, and split
the land apart almost as cleanly
as you do, did, are doing to me

also: i never asked to fall in love.
anneka Feb 2016
mama, he's a wonder though
see him seek my touch from
ice to flames, heaven to hell
and back again

mama, what do i do
his gaze ignites, firelight
in the depths of my heart
buried within ash from
all those years ago

mama, you never warned me
these shadows return in guises;
legends say there were ten suns
till they shot down nine but

isn't it funny how
i'm left with

anneka Jan 2016
these crisscrossing streets
were once ours, our screaming
neon, the dazzling infinite
lights but time

she weaved
herself between
the clench of my fist
in the shape of his
absence, that grows,

blood only
multiplies while we
splutter, incoherent
with the clarity -

your heart,
it does not beat
for me anymore.

anneka Jan 2016
babe, baby,
flush them out
once they'd call us the
colonised, the lost -

together we are
pressed paper, labyrinth
i think in phrases,
phrases and
your thoughts,

love, lover,
grasping at straws
tell me of how she
broke you before, i'll
show you my own

anneka Jan 2016
my eyes are white, grey
concrete, and you wonder
how these hands still move

when everything cracks and
cracks, when the echo of your
voice reduces all to ash

they unravel, these knots,
this mind, i think -

no, no more.

anneka Nov 2015
July was fantastical. I was always struck speechless when she smiled.  Her loose limbs used to flail in mid-air as she danced in circles around me. She’d do this routine – a spin once, twice, and then a graceful fall to the floor; knees pressed against the earth. The breeze would start to change as she fell, the scent of grass, rain and sunlight wafting through the air. It smelt of home, the forest. July, she was breath-taking. The calendar said we had 31 days left every year and I think that’s what made her so different. That she knew she wouldn’t last past the summer and live to see autumn. Sometimes I still hear her laughter as an echo in the place I hold so dear.


When December comes visiting, she tells me July was only a dream.

“But you have 31 days too.” I argue.

“Time is always longer in the cold,” December replies. “It makes summer seem like it never existed.”

I always laugh when she says this because I know the truth – every end is merely a new beginning.

anneka Aug 2015
i kiss the line where
shore meets sea,
and pray for the tide
to swallow us

tell me when
my eyelids close
for yours open then -

when sirens sing of
babylon's lovers, all
i can think of is

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