Showing posts from August, 2012
this year, we learnt that sound travels in a wave. yet your sound was so much more intricate than that. it travelled in spirals and delicate swirls and feathery strokes and would linger for a split second before hitting my eardrums. i never understood how something so soft and beautiful could hit me with such force. it was the kind of force that adrenaline junkies thirst for, the kind that makes the birds in your chest and the butterflies in your stomach beat their wings so fast, it feels like you’re able to fly yourself. even though i’m scared to death of heights, i thirsted for that flying feeling that only you could give me.

but your voice doesn’t reach my ears anymore. it disappears in the thick folds of air that now only hold something broken way beyond repair.
but I'll be your North Star if you'll be mine and we can dig black holes in each other's rib cages and search for the things that got sucked in and won't ever come back out. I remember someone once said that every constellation in the sky stands for a person; well if it's true, then every one of my galaxies stands for you.
There are two people you’ll meet in your life.

One will run a finger down the index of who you are,
and jump straight to the parts of you that peak their interest.

The other will take his or her time reading through every one of your chapters and maybe fold corners of you that inspired them most.

You will meet these two people;
it is a given.

It is the third that you’ll never see coming.
That one person who not only finishes your sentences,
but keeps the book.
You believe in ghosts. Of course you do. The ones whose name is spoken in a chance sentence when you least expect it. The ones that you hear in the notes of your favourite songs and in the drops that bounce off the windowpane. You still feel them. I know you do. Haunting your chest…

There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad.

- Kurt Cobain

while you sleep, I lie awake


be prepared for the worst, my love, for it lives next door to the best.


How do you know who you are? are we a collection of personality traits that we admire in strangers or good Samaritans or are we simply what other claim us to be?

There’s this still I saw, a long time ago and beneath a girl on a bicycle were words I don’t remember but will paraphrase ‘everyone asks me who I am, like it’s that easy, like being a tea kettle.’ I don’t think there’s anyone who really knows who they are, I know that I don’t, I’m this patchwork creation of the people I’ve met and loved and how they’ve affected me, riddled with contradictions and flaws and things that put together don’t make sense. I know about three things for sure about myself: I’m a Muslim, I’m a writer (and even sometimes this is wobbly) and I’m having a love affair with chocolate. That’s all I can tell you for sure, because the rest is a blur of realist romantic cynical sarcastic moon loving boy lusting dipsy intelligent…thing. I think that everyone puts too much pressure on knowing, so you can say that hey I’m a pacifist, or I’m an atheist or I’m a librarian when really you’re not defined by that one characteristic even if it’s a chunk of you. Does…

" If somebody says, ”I love you,” to me, I feel as though I had a pistol pointed at my head. What can anybody reply under such conditions but that which the pistol-holder requires? ”I love you, too.

"I wish I had words to keep you company. The world is moving fast. I don't have time to separate ink from my heart. I wish I had someone who could tell how many poems fell from my heart or the amount of times I got tangled in someone's veins. It is impossible to be alone because I am covered in atoms, but I have always wanted to know the amount of atoms it takes to create a human. Maybe I will feel less alone."
"I wish I could untangle you, pull you like wreckage from the veins you’ve wound yourself around but words and blood don’t always let you go especially when you need it most, it’s like net, it’s like being caught and maybe you’re fishing for something that’s beyond you or maybe you’re just lost. And that’s where everything falls down isn’t it because loneliness is like biting into the first layer of the atmosphere and finding that it tastes bitter as hell and your atoms and mine and that guy and that girl we’re all striving to cure that so we…
he says “i want to follow you
to where ever it is you go
when you disappear inside your

(he thinks it’s sunsets on the shore
sandcastle hearts and candy coloured swords

if it was maybe i’d ask him to dance
spin me in circles in the palm of his hand

he could kiss me in a swarm of fireflies
and the way he’d blush when i’d whisper
i love you - would colour the skies)
one day you were just a boy across the room talking about music,
then you were a boy in love with me,
on a stage singing songs you wrote for me.

"I feel a tremendous distance between me and everything real.”


so it’s like this.

you fall in love with this beautiful complicated girl because you know exactly who she is. and you fight it. you fight it because it’s big and scary and she can see into your soul. so you’re an asshole, a lot of the time. you’re combative and paranoid and that’s just never a good combination because you know what? that fucks things up. that fucks things up so bad, man, and you don’t know why you say the things you do but you know that it’s not what you’re trying to say at all.

but the thing is, you fuck it up a lot. you fuck it up and you ask too much of her and you don’t deserve any of it at all. you’re selfish and you know there are places she goes where you can never follow but you try to anyway. and it hurts. it hurts because you’ve seen worlds upon worlds and touched them all but you know - you know, deep in your heart of hearts - that you’ll never touch hers.
and you are the type to always want what you can’t have.

you don’t know where she goes when she goes away i…

What happens when you fall in love with a writer?

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you…
"I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people's eyes when they realize they're in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they've forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favourite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put it words."Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
I haven't been able to put you into words since I traced the outline of your lips in the middle of a sunburst morning and realized that there was more to you than what met the eye. I want to be cradled by raw scratch in the voice you use when it's so early in the morning that the birds are singing. I want to touch the arch of your spine with the barest hint of finger tips because I'm scared of tarnishing you with the darkness that hides behind the ridges in my fingerprints.

You are the melody at the beginning of the song that lets the chorus know that brighter mornings are coming. You are hiking alkaline weekend through woods to stand tall on a mountain top and watch the sunrise. You are backpacking through suburbs and ostracizing the manicured lawns like they're more foreign than the zebras that we cage up in zoos just to catch a thirty second glimpse of. You are first kisses, every time butterflies in my stomach and fireworks behind behind closed eyes. You are the be…


tastes butter, like dropping a single grain of coffee Carte Noir on your tongue. Etch I love you, I love you, I love you still.onto your palms a hundred times over I love you still it's like, fuck it, too many times riding the same rollercoaster that makes your stomach drop out of your mouth, paying for the same ticket again and again. Like the hollows on your body that I can't touch equals that itch in my fingertips sandpaper can't file away, believe me, I've tried. I'll give you a map, maybe two 'this is the way to my left ventricle, please keep your arms in at all times, pleaded do not vomit.' Unspoken things, longing is hissing, it's underneath my skin, it's biting into the apple of my palm where my skin swells like burnt plastic and wishing that it was you.The scrape of teeth, and you.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
I don't even know what we talked about.I just listen to the sound of his voice and to his laugh.And to the sound of him listening to me.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
Don't leave.
It's nice to be in the dark, right?
You can relax a little.
No brittle spikes.
No air kisses.
No sarcasm.
Forget the stress.
The worry.
The petty skirmishes.
Life is too short.
Too shirt for cruelty.
Close your eyes.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
That was one of the saddest thing about people - their most important thoughts and feelings often went unspoken and barely understood.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

you don't want me to be with you; you don't want me to be with someone else.

Fuck you.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
Wow. That's harsh. You know?Oh well. Wotever you fucking cunt.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

“if only our tongues were made of glass how much more careful we would be when we speak.”

— Shaun Shane

-John Green

"The good times and the bad times both will pass. It will pass. It will get easier. But the fact that it will get easier does not mean that it doesn't hurt now. And when people try to minimize your pain, they are doing you a disservice. And when you try to minimize your own pain, you're doing yourself a disservice. Don't do that. The truth is that it hurts because it's real. It hurts because it mattered. And that's an important thing; to acknowledge yourself. But that doesn't mean that it won't end, that it won't get better. Because it will."Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

and if my fingertips were stars, I'd have you gleam brighter than the moon.

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
The only thing I can think about is how you said...You never loved me, and how I told you that was fine because I didn't love you either.I lied. I lied. I lied.Time has not healed that wound, but to be fair; I have not let it.I keep ripping it back open everytime it scabs over.
I don't want to give it the chance to scar.I hope you understand how hard it is for me to be here tonight.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

you are the only poem.

You are the only poem I ever wanted to write.
I used to be the kind of writer
Who lived through words;
Now I seek the poems in the inner lining
of your skin.
Here I stay within your ribs and clavicles;
I am encircled by your silently being heart.
There are whole galaxies
In your soul.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

sadness is a mistress in a red dress.

She's a boozy Tuesday night, buying you drinks at a bar, hoping to take you home.And while she strips you in her apartment, she seems her scent into your skin while you memorize every inch of her body, making the memory of her presence impossible to fade.Her taste is toxic, but oh-so-addicting.Guilt pounds on the door as she clutches her grasps around your body tighter, holding you like a terrible secret dancing on the brim of her tongue.As the knocks get louder, the addiction turns into frantic passion.You begin to depend on your mistress to fill the void that everyone else has seemed to neglect for so long.And while happiness grows tires of lonesome nights waiting for you to come hone, she dims the lights; locks the doors, and drifts into a troubled climber of permanence.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
I don't want to taste the bitter dawn to our endless reckless nights.
I don't want the closing words ending this story or a coda to this living symphony, the falling curtains haunted with possibility aching for the final moment to last for an eternity-Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
Staying up late talking about the closeness of strangers, the closeness of folded letters and sealed envelopes, thinking about the most powerful form of human contact as we close our eyes and breathe deep while our fingers fly and you tell me about how good it feels to be free with someone and I am constantly reminded of how important bare skin and the curves of humanity and drifting into another world can be when you want something and it is finally tangible.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

i am.

I am not the girl people take pictures of.
I am the girl standing behind the lens.
I am not the girl who always has something to say.
I am the girl that gets her silence swallow her all too often.
I am not the girl people go out of their way for.
I am the girl you'd walk past without a second glance on a busy city street.
I am not the girl with all the answers.
I am the girl who asks too many questions.
I am not the girl who believes in love at first sight.
I am the girl who knows that eventually, everything ends.
I am not the girl with the pin straight hair, or the perfect nose.
Nor am I the girl that's graceful, or looks beautiful, right when she gets out of bed.I will never be the girl with perfectly straight teeth, or legs that seem to go on for days.Sometimes, I'd rather he alone and I can't dance worth a damn.I am nothing worth remembering and I am trying to be okay with that.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

❝Dying, is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.❞


❝You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.❞

- Ray Bradbury

My mother taught me this trick:

If you repeat something over and over again, it loses its meaning...

"Our lives," she said, "are the same way."
"You watch the sunset too often and it just becomes 6pm. You make the same mistakes over and over, you'll stop calling it a mistake. If you just wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake, up, one day you'll forget why. Nothing is forever," she said.

“It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

So much has changed. I loved someone a lot, and one day I woke up and I realized what moving on really is. There’s such a big difference between getting over something and getting through it. I got through with it all, but if he came up to me and told me that he sincerely loved me, I wouldn’t resist that. It’s funny how things work out right? You think you’ll be best friend with someone forever and one day you’re just not anymore. All I know for sure is that when you love someone, I mean truly love someone, whether it’s a friend or a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever, you never stop loving them. Think about it. I’ve moved on, yes, but a part of me will always belong to him. I will always have that part of me that loves him.
I think I'm starting to learn how to write about someone again. Maybe.
Then again, maybe not. Because you told me you weren't ready through lying eyes and gritted teeth and exactly 7 days later, you held her hand in silence behind me with one cheek turned away.Yes. Maybe not.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

"people think being alone makes you lonely, but I don't think that's true. being surrounded by the wrong people is the loneliest thing in the world."

The boy is beautiful, you hear your friend say.
He has a mouth worth kissing.  But you bet he kisses all the time.  And in fact you are right.
The first time it seems dangerous.  Like 17 year old lust.  Milky.  Burnt. 
He does not wash his hands
after he touches you, and this thrills you.
As though he is saying he wants you on him.
That no matter what, you are not dirty.

Later he will say that word. Growl it.  Make you feel it.
And the kisses change, over the years.
They change pace, they change places.

Sometimes you turn away from them
as desperate and wild as they are.  His teeth seem to be gnawing something out of you.
Sometimes you swallow them whole.  Hungry, needy,  your body lonely even when he is there.

There have been so many moments between it all.
When patterns defy time it is hard to believe
that they will ever break.  When there is want inside you
he calls you a monster, a woman.
Even now there is a smoke in his movements.
You are always lighting fire to each other.


i fell in love with the way you spoke.
there was a whole world in you,
and i wanted to devour every word.
i could drown in your commas,
fall into your ellipses.
kiss me like apostrophes,
touch me like parentheses,
and i’ll be yours forever.
she is braille.

i read her with my hands
her body speaks to me
i respond

faded images / driving with your eyes closed / blurred humans / the optometrist touched my knee and told me about his family / there’s a slight chance i may be blind / either that or too sleep deprived / i love you more than i love sweet potatoes / i love you more than i love my space heater / i’ve never said that to anyone / i haven’t even said that to you / come squeeze the life out of me / i woke up feeling like more of a human being / my eyesight is getting worse / i can’t wait for the day where i’ll see nothing but phosphene stars / I still have to pack / I can’t get myself to look through old letters / I can’t get myself to call my mother because I know what she’ll say / I woke up to a text that read ‘You are a wonderful person and you touch so many lives’ / Some nights I’ll write letters to the people I love the most and never send them / You were never a regret to me

Someone asked me what home was the other day;

and all I could stutter out was "it-it's a feeling, I think more than a place." I still don't really know what that means. I guess you and the idea of home are all wrapped up together in a mass of safety.

If you are my home then I am not home often enough.


the only people who are admired for how they express their desperation
I have a fire in my fingers and I want to believe in this, in me, in you and the way your eyes burn when you look at me and remember why the world spins and atoms collide because of fate.
when you were little you pressed flowers between the pages of your heaviest books. you forgot about them and when you came back to the books, years later, riffling through them quickly, you came across a faded iris, a wafer-thin rose petal, that crumbled a little under your touch, that was still beautiful in a fragile, fading way. that was the first of your attempts to thwart time.


one of the most beautiful things
is that we give up so readily.
many think those who give up are weak;
in fact they are the strongest ones.
there is something desirable about vulnerability,
about letting yourself go,
about wreaking havoc and destroying everything
you once loved.
to have the courage to say that you can go no further,
that you have reached your limits
and are at your end,
is remarkable.
if only we were all that brave.
so tear me apart,
leave me in shreds
and see me for what
I am - bleeding, raw, and
cold. (don’t forget to thread me
back.) break every bone in me,
that’s okay, string out my guts on a
power line if that’s what it takes to make you see me for what I am.
he was the bullet lodged in my heart— how else could I describe love? the sharp ache of 4am, a fear of dying or shaking in the grip of his beauty? I don’t know, he continues to defy definition. I am looking to name something that fights me, resisting my hold on her with words. I am a dictionary without meaning.
“I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favorite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put into words.”

I read this on a note that was folded and pressed into a library book, I wonder where has it gone.

I had a girl who told me she wanted to kill herself. I thought we were going to end our lives together. turns out she was just pretending.
most are looking for someone to spend a life with. I was looking for someone to end my life with. either way, love has a funny way of fucking you over.
“fall out of love with me. I’m waiting. you say you’d do anything for me, so do this. I need you to do this. I need you to leave me.”

but the boy couldn’t understand and a confused why escaped him. in place of beating, his heart cracked.

“because I’m tired of leaving people.”

“then don’t.”

18 August 12 I might have retreated into the safety of my old self, my insecurities, my ways of coping, everything that was fucked up. who I was before I met you. but I no longer am that person. I couldn’t be who I am right now without you. 18 August 12 friend sent this ayam dying here.. 18 August 12 the night burns in my chest, a blind fire. August is lonely.


— “On the Necessity of Sadness,” Mikael de Lara Co

Let me tell you about longing.
Let me presume that I have something
new to say about it, that this room,
naked, its walls pining for clocks,
has something new to say
about absence.

Somewhere the crunch of an apple,
fading sunflowers on a quilt,
 a window looking out to a
landscapewith a single tree.
And you sitting under it.

Let go,
said you to me in a dream,
but by the time the wind
carried your voice to me,
I was already walking through
the yawning door, towards
the small, necessary sadness
of waking.

I wish
I could hold you now,
but that is a line that has
no place in a poem, like the swollen
sheen of the moon tonight,
or the word absence, or you,
or longing.

Let me tell you about
longing. In a distant country
two lovers are on a bench, and pigeons,
unafraid, are perching beside them.
She places a hand on his knee
and says, say to me
the truest thing you can.

I am closing my eyes now.
You are far away.

Wooden prosthetic legs.

Alexander McQueen made [these] carved prosthetic legs for Aimee Mullins. Mullins is a world-class Paralympic athlete, and she modeled the boots for his 1999 show.
things are hard
but I love you more than that

sometimes a relationship gets to a point where there is nothing left to say but goodbye.


Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up.


1. The meaning behind my URL. - It's just to show that everyone has feelings, even the coldest, emotionless living this on this planet.
2. Weakness. - I'm the biggest sucker for the whole hopeless romantic bullshit and I'm ridiculously naive. But I'm working on those.
3. Why I love my best friend. - My best friend. To be honest, I don't have one. I thought I did, but I don't. I have a lot of friends. A handful of close friends. And exactly three people I can confide in and be completely blunt and honest with.
4. Last time I cried and why. - I can't remember the last time I cried. The most vivid memory of me crying would've been a moment that occurred a long time ago, somewhere in the start of this year. Why? I honestly can't be bothered to explain everything anymore.
5. Piercings I have. - I've got two piercing on my right ear and another three on my left.
6. Favourite band. - Oh dear, this is difficult. I don't necessarily have a "favourite"…

He looked at me like I was crazy. Most of my lovers do, and that’s partly why they love me, and partly why they leave.

"when your thoughts are dark at night, what do you look to to lighten them up?"

My bookcase is my favourite thing in the entire world because it’s beautiful and it reminds me that there are worlds I haven’t explored yet and people I haven’t fallen in love with and they’re all just waiting very patiently for me to remember that I have them and that they’re mine and it’s nice to think that when I’m dark, I have places I can go to, all in my head that aren’t dark at all, that are as bright as streets during Christmas or fireflies. I mean, like Oscar Wilde said, ‘with freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?’ And I have to agree with him, I mean, I’m not always happy, rarely in fact but I try to remember that there’s more than all of this, there are reams of things and pages and places and people and lands and it’s almost overwhelming to think of all the potential.

Just maybe.

Maybe  a string of happy coincidences will happen. Maybe you will be the next boy I see on the subway station. Maybe you will take the seat next to me. Maybe  the train will come to a jerky halt, and I will fall into your arms, and our eyes will meet and lock, and your heart will realize it is meant to be. Maybe there will be a happily-ever-after.

easy for you to say - you’ve been stunning all your life


10 Types of Emotional Manipulators

1.    The Constant Victim - This kind of individual will always finds a way to end up as a victim in their relationships.

2.    One-Upmanship Expert – This person uses put downs, snide remarks and criticisms, to show that they’re superior, and know much more than you.

3.    Powerful Dependents – They hide behind the mask of being weak and powerless – then use their helplessness to dominate relationships. That is, they send the subtle message “you must not let me down.”

4.    Triangulators – This person tries to get other people on their side. They’re quick to put you down, and to say some nasty things. They separate good friends or drive a wedge in families.

5.    The Blasters – They blast you with their anger or they blow up suddenly. That stops you asking questions - in case there’s a showdown.

6.    The Projector – This person thinks they’re perfect and others have the flaws. They take no ownership – because they’re never, ever wrong.

7.    The Deliberate Mis-Interpreter – They s…
Sometimes I have the urge to jump off the highest floor of a building or a bridge.

But mostly, I have the urge to jump out of my life,
out of my skin.
I’m just scared that one day they wouldn’t want me like they once would.

like you,

I was at the bus stop, and
I was reminded that everyone who
comes, will

I don’t understand how anyone can love me.

Neon signs keep flickering against my lids
If I close my eyes long enough,
I think they read- Exit
A lot of things seem that way
in the dark

so broken.

so reckless.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
You lived across the oceanso I swallowed all the waterand then all I had to do to take you into my armswas walk across a desertsand in my shoes and salt in my throatit seems like a fair price to payto taste your lips and smell your skin

I'll preserve you

but when you die i’ll press you
in between the pages of books
like dried flowers;
i’ll preserve you in amber
like an insect.
there are all these dead Romance languages
that contain your name;
there is no language in the world
that does not contain your name.
i’d walk into the center of a lake for you,
covered with ice
that i could fall through in a second.
and when you die i’ll keep your bones
displayed in a museum
like wolves,
like dinosaurs,
like unseen things.
I write until the sun catches up with dawn
I write until my fingers swell and knuckles ache
I write until I run out of paper and ink

I write with intent and purpose
I write with a message from my soul
I write with passion and with heart

I write my anger and hatred
I write my admiration and love
I write my emotions until I am empty

I write not for you, him, her, them
I write for myself
I write with myself
I write myself
I have a dream filled with broken thingsI have a memory filled with broken peopleI have a dream filled with broken memories

I want someone to turn me inside out and lay me across the floor and have a conversation with every bone and every organ and tell me that there’s something beautiful hidden somewhere inside of me.

I'd like to know what you were thinking the first time you saw me. Me with my mess of dark brown hair and my nervous habit of biting my lip.

I didn't want you to find out who I was, but I wanted you to find out. I wanted you to follow me down a road you've never heard of and I wanted you to trust that I would find the way back.

We were the best of strangers, and the worst of friends. I held your hand loosely at first, but then I gripped your palm so tightly that it seemed if I let go you'd float away. Looking back, it was probably me who would've floated away, my feet weren't planted very firmly on the ground.

This town after midnight can change a girl. I've seen it happen. I've walked the streets in the early morning hours only to find that I am not at all who I thought I was.

Such is life I guess. I found it difficult to meet your gaze in fear that you would see something I didn't want you to, and figure out more about me than you were ever suppos…
i wanna live in an cozy apartment where it rains a lot and it snows and i live near a coffee shop and read books all the time and fall in love with someone
I hear whispers seeping through the cracks at the door and I hear whispers in and out of walls.

They’re soft during the day, but when the sun sets below the horizon, and night falls over our eyelids, the whispers are amplified. The stillness in the air trembles my spine and weakens my spirit. I hear hushed voices brushing against my window, leaving me stiff in bed. I swear I’m not dreaming, dear.

I feel fingernails scratching it’s way up my legs and the subtle breaths on my neck while shadows dance on my walls and ceilings, teasing me. I swear it’s not real, love. I swear it’s just my imagination, my mind is just playing tricks. Door and window closed, but still, I hear voices and I feel the roaming coldness in the air.

I feel it crawling into bed, settling beside me, above, around me - it’s real, darling.

oh love,

but time is like the ocean, you can only hold a little in your hands.

You lose yourself trying to hold on to someone who doesn’t care about losing you.


Reason to live.

For every tear in your skin,
You will heal it,
You will patch up every injury
The world can possibly damage you with,
And a scar will remind you
Not to play the fool twice.

Like how the cat licks its
Wounds for hours, absorbed-
There is no shame for the pained
To spend more time mending
Our scratched limbs alone
When we fall down, stumble

On the street.
Every fight is your own fight,
Nobody should force you to
Take up their stances.
You have the right to say
“No.” - Remember.

There is no issue in the brunt,
But only in the surrender.
Within you lies a diamond-
You will not see it in black, coal
Unless you take the pressure.
Never back down, be it where

The path crushes your bones
Or breaks your spirit, let it be.
Deal with every small step,
One, another, another-
The long distances will cover
Themselves in time, trust it.

Every tear you shed, every moment
You feel like breaking, that drop from
Your eyes, that which shines in the light
Is the product of your work. It will comfort
You, …
Sometimes, when the means to love better slips quietly away from my grasp and the bitterness twists and tugs too tightly at the edges of my lips, and the darkness comes a little too quick and a little too close, it takes everything I have not to scream aloud to shatter the perfect silence that has laid itself hungrily at my feet, ready to devour my fragile composure. And sometimes I bite down on my pillow and I do it anyways, in the dead of day when no one is around to hear. More like, no one is around to listen. I have talked too much and no one wants to listen any longer. And so I scream all the words instead, into air too thick to breathe in and spaces too empty to fill up, wordlessly.

And for all my stutterings and stumblings I have scraped my lost innocence from my palms like gum off the heatstroked concrete. You can see the mess that’s left, if you care to look- you can see the tea stains and tire marks, palpable traces of black scars and plum bruises over …
I tried to count the stars pressed onto the ceiling by the scent in your skin, tried to number them by the alphabet, to make sense of all the indefinite nonsense written in the cosmos.

Instead I ended up measuring out stardust in teaspoons, and molten sundrops in pints, each mouthful of galaxy reminding me of the night we climbed away from the blur  and the rush of the city high, with its blinding lights; and the taste of ‘perfectly safe' was defined as the way your arms wrapped, sure and strong, around my waist.

You said you would not let me go.

I took a little tumble and you let me fall, hit every planet on the way down and landed on the darker side, now the stars mock me from six feet above slyly winking with their witness of my shame.

I stopped counting with numbers, or letters and started counting with heartbeats, how many more millennia to pass before this star dies, by folding gloriously into itself?

I can hear you drumming magnificently  in my chest-
one mississipp…

Beautiful things I've seen today.

Old love notes tied into precise bundles and photographs with bent corners.
A rose where all the petals have fallen off.
A crumpled post-it note addressed to me in his handwriting from last Christmas.
A bottle top with no bottle, lovers holding hands on the street, a spice jar full of cappuccino stones from beaches all over California instead.

But you wouldn’t know until I told you so.

An envelope full of origami bookmarks and a letter from him, when he loved me, still;
a butterfly folded from a five-dollar bill, and ticket stubs, paper-clipped tightly together.

The waitress’ smile when she remembered us from the last time we came.
We sat in the same seats as last time, by the window overlooking the parking lot.

The unopened bottle of cheap wine from Trader Joe’s, that we are saving for a special occasion- and the eager anticipation that curls in my stomach when I think about drinking it.
I would rather enjoy a glass tonight, but I place it back on the counter. 
And the i…
destroy what destroys you, they told her, be-strong-be-strong-be-strong. a rhythm she’s known all her life. drape your spine in pins, knives and needles and when you speak, use a gun for a tongue and blades for your syllables in between and never lay all your cards on the table or wear your heart on your sleeve. keep your head up and your guard up higher and never let your walls come close to crumbling.. be cold and cruel and calculating. destroy what destroys you first, and you will never be hurt.

they said, ‘fucking weak’ with a distasteful tongue as if ‘weak’ was something to be feared. she never cried and never apologized, never let an ounce of ‘weak’ infiltrate her high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou diamond exterior so rough cut and unpolished that it repelled the most curious eyes but that’s okay, they said, you are strong. you can take it. until ‘you are strong’ became an excuse for their perpetual absence and ‘you can take it’ became more of a hollow question than …

"What is love? Please tell us, I am certain that you know."

I am not sure about certainty but I imagine that love is the way cities sprawl across the Earth like it is owned by them, like little people and tiny cars and everything is dominated by this lawn of metal things that fill you because they’re so big and so wide and they feel like, I don’t know, home I guess. It’s when you wonder what hand painted the edge of clouds or why your lover’s wrists feel like they’re spun from candyfloss or hardwood floors and metal. Or why you catch your toes moving when you haven’t asked them to, I don’t know, I really don’t know. I imagine it’s all the wonderful things you could ever think of, every last good thing that happened to you like chocolate or friends or the Book Smell or coffee or or or.

Silence is beautiful, not awkward. Th