"I have fallen into poetry and it has swallowed me up."


"You’re disgusting," he tells me, flexing his two-bit muscles to himself.
Cigarette smoke infuses the room, intoxicating and delicious.
“You’re a fat cunt,” he continues, rubbing gel into his lacquered hair.
A mouse scurries across the tiles, running for dear life to its safehouse. My eyes trail it lazily, as ashes drop waspishly onto the floor.
“Listen, bitch, I’m talking to you.”
His vanity period is over; his fists round on me.
The hot red ember, the burning fuse dangling from between my fingers falls onto his foot like an anchor to the ocean floor, where it sizzles and he screams.
The mouse crawls back, winks at me.
“And you love me anways, don’t you?”

I Will

I inspire myself. How else will I survive?
You look too long into another’s, lovingly, and you’re accused of being unable to hold your own. A soft sigh, meaning affection, turns into a vile battle of word games, mind tricks, where no one wins and everyone is left for dead.
I wish I could count every star in the deep, inky moonlit sky, and see myself in every constellation, worth being studied, named, remembered.
One day you will see, everyone will see, the magnitude of apathy that’s been projected upon to me, leaving me listless and so unwilling.
I’m looking vainly, for another pair of ears, an absorbent heart.
Listen to me,
hold my aching skeleton together. Remind me why my cheeks flush with blood and why my beating heart thuds loudly when your palm is pressed up on it.
In reality, your own losses are never real until someone else feels that hollow echoing emptiness with you.

girl, you might be a woman soon

She breathes out a long, world weary sigh, aged 7 + 1 + 12 - 2.
The cigarette in her hand dangles precariously from her stubby fingers, threatening to catch the carpet below on fire, as ashes pile up in sooty lumps.
Her limp white curtains let in more sunlight than she likes, but blackout curtains are forbidden, according to mother. For some reason, her parents are convinced she’ll wither away if she never sees sun. 
Days like today, she toys with death in her mind, as she sucks in more noxious fumes from her death stick, which is so fragrant to her.
The house is silent, the air ablaze with golden dust motes which float around in a thick haze around her.
Her hair is greasy, limp, short pieces sticking to her face, as she sits up and traipses outside.
The grass is dry, the stones cracking, and the neighbours allow their dogs to bark til they’re hoarse.
The cigarette is reaching its end, but she holds on to the warm nubby end anyway, resisting the urge to extinguish it on her own thigh.
Her breath pervasively smells like smoke, and she inhales as she subconsciously summons death to strike her down. The breeze lifts her skirts, toys with her inner thighs, and a door slams.
Her wish is granted, as her parents lumber into the house, as her heart skips beat after beat, as the worn cigarette, her good friend, is tossed over the fence


Days like today I want all 10 months it took for me to form to shatter and explode, because after all, I am organic matter.
I want to become a faint trace in the dirt or a wiff of perfumed flowers. I want to be a wisp of smoke in the sky or a passing moth.
Maybe a blade of grass or the groove of a tree trunk?
I want to not have a single responsibility and lie in my cocoon with nothing to see, nothing to do. Maybe there’s a God, maybe there’s a heaven but I just want to lose this physical form.
Become weightless and transcendent, go somewhere sunny and quiet where I can imagine the likes of River Phoenix went.
I want my nail beds to stop hurting and my teeth to stop aching, the enamel wearing off and my cheeks shedding skin.
This sad longing is never met with answers and if I really were to lose my form and become a puff of dust I’d scream til kingdom come for no one to hear.

Limp and lazy

Today I learned a lot about myself. I learned my utter fragility and vulnerability, and that my mind is not a fortress. This is depressing, as I always considered myself a wall of reason, solidarity and reliability.
Today I crumbled and shattered like century old bones, sifting into dust, being kicked like rocks by passerbys. I retreated to my room and let every wall close in on me, and wistfully wished for the grim reaper. How selfish and weak I am. I felt my usually cooly composed brain snap into muck, and I cried. A proper 21st century breakdown.
Today made me realize that tomorrow is never an excuse and yesterday is never the reason. Focusing on today is hard enough, so that’s where I’ll start.

Carpet burn

Undress me.
Watch me shiver, see the goosebumps ripple across my vast back.
Open your mouth and
pour acid all over,
lingering, lingering.
I’ll always be waiting for you to come up for air, sweetheart.


maybe it’s because i never allow a certain part of myself to be revealed that i feel a million miles away from the rest. maybe it’s because i hold on to the grand notion that everyone is not worthy of my time and i wait to be served.

i have a gilded gaze. i value myself above anyone or anything yet when it is time to really profess my love for myself i sit tight and shut up. there is no such thing as self-love, she declares, it’s all an act. pinching rolls and loose skin, she continues drinking until her insides turn, smoking until her tongue flakes into black charcoal.

stray strands of hair tickle my hands as i comb my fingers through the dense, million strings that i wash diligently daily. my cheek itches and i absently scratch the flat plain, feeling the tug of skin gathering underneath my long fingernail. i’m shedding, but just the outermost parts of myself.

deep within, where no one, not even i can see clearly, lies a vulnerable shrew. there’s so much to know, but steel bars hold in the masterminds, the grand queens, the beautiful mistresses in a stronghold. this bed feels like the ends of the earth where i cling onto the edge of the cliff for dear life but when i let go i’m going to fall into another cell block that i constructed myself. i look up to see miles of grey stones that tumble and crash around me. i put them all back in place because i refuse to let these rocks hit me. i’m going to choke on all these thoughts and desires and while i try to fill myself with arts and words of others i can’t i simply can’t. 

can’t what. can’t what? i don’t know. carry on.

Dysphoria, I Guess

My writing is best done on a Friday night when I want to kill myself.
I wake up Saturday afternoon,
forgetting why for another week why I felt that way.
False comfort.
Friday comes again,
thanks for remembering me.

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