words the color of frozen blood
fall from my fingers and onto
a blank page, breaking its indifference

with a cracked smile:

like the rise of empires,
lucid and prepossessed,

my every truth is only transient.


here the brickwork is old, its mortar
sunken, depleted veins where
i stumble in my grownup heels.
i’m hesitant, afraid of becoming dead
like my mother; her ghost drowning daily
in self-loathing and cheap beer,
calling twice a week to
remind me to eat.
all i want
is to write, but
to write, i need to rip
out the nerve endings of hardened tongue
and fingertips which grope
blindly with validations
instead of undressing my soul.


A hollow-eyed Sisyphus heaving senseless longings
defined but unsung for a decade,
an eternity;

yearning for the sake of yearning,
I, trapped inside the skin of fantasy,
a starving child on a floor of dust,
a dying woman they will bury in mud
dry-eyed, knowing that
tomorrow will come.

Speak of this to no one.

It is my soul they stab–
or, what I think is my soul
when no one else is looking,
foolish shadow the color of blood-tinged clouds
rising again and again to its knees,
sexless and fluid
–without even knowing, hearing
me liplessly plead only
with the idea of you,

never a whisper of desire out loud
to a bitter world, no
not even to you,
to you, strange subjunctive phantom
of my present’s damp sweet dreams;
serpentine, sharp;
your cuts will be no less
for their ignorance
and this gets too near the subjectivity
of my own truth,
littoral point of no return.