Write something:

Like how the sun shone through that solitary blind today, talk about the puddle of milk spilled on the table while serving yourself some breakfast, consider the color of your wallpaper, the absence of a wallpaper, whose voice sings in your head right now, and what words do you find your thoughts clinging to over and over and over, whose voice have you erased, and at which syllable did you start with; how many ghosts inhabit your house right now and how many of said supernatural forces are you willing to entertain? What do you want to be, what does this morning decide you will become? A fish, a fiend, a fallen wing off a clumsy angel mid-flight? Just right now you took a wrong left, so open your hands and show me: what else have you taken?

How long do you wait until another line arrives, and with what do you intend to welcome it?


Tick tock

So we are given
time: how little it means
within the confines of a room running
on the long road of laughter, our voices dancing
through the cold air, as if breaking
the silence our bodies would never even dare
slough through- how easy: this task of forgetting
the things we are not, people we already belong to.

Hi. Not dead. Just exam week. Killing me softly. One shaded box at a time.


For the longest time the question lay quiet, tucking
its frail hands into pockets, keeping
that shy stare to the sidewalk, constructing

monuments from mounds of dust, sighing
to itself. Inside, something stirred:
a whirlpool waiting and aching

to be strewn into song, implanted
like stars on a patch of sky. This question picking at seams
for an answer that was once a name, a face, a farce,

a story made too well, told
far too often, winding
tendrils around heart and ribcage, coiling

into the snakelike syllables of laughter, gripping
at your insides each time, fingers you hoped to fight –
this question and its clarity: soft, perfect, familiar

as the feel of the only hands you ever wanted left touching
your body, bearing the weight
of this longing.