The mind meanders, the body misbehaves:

Who are you and what have you done

to deserve so much kindness?


Skipping beats

00:00 – She wrote and wrote and sung to forget everything was about him.


For example, another excuse on why it wasn’t him who deserved to hear her sing: citing moment X as the tipping point in the nonexistent fulcrum of how they drove each other in circles & always to the same place (i.e., Home, His)- once the song on the radio stepped to 00:54 he should’ve kissed her-


Shifting beside her as the song slides to 01:25, chorus just about to begin, he stirs uneasily in their shared space, vehicle heading towards stars, splits the song despite the cushions of the night, silence, saying Wow. We have a soundtrack.


00:21 – The traffic tries to ease them in place, delays his departure by an extra minute but neither of them budge, seatbelts securing bodies in place.


02:34 – He asks what the dials on her radio mean and she answers by increasing the volume.


She meets his laughter with a smile and the tapping of fingers on the steering wheel. 01:42 and she repeats it in her head, It’s not you, it’s not you, it’s not you, and pretty soon the song is telling her exactly what she wanted, It’s not you-


The final refrain pulls through the song by 04:02, a few seconds before she pulls over and he leans, hand draped on her shoulders, presses his cheek to hers, mumbles some goodbye pressing at the edges of her heart-


-00:00 – Seatbelt fastened in place she watches his figure fade into the crowd. The radio flickers with slight static, another song plays and in front of her the stoplight turns green. Humming, she shifts gears, steps on the gas, moves.

Misgivings, et al.

Find your face plastered on a poster for everyone to see, find yourself being called “popular”; find yourself unable to hide behind your glasses because of a single photograph magnified, zoomed, pixel perfect portrait, oh what a pretty girl and at least the makeup looks smashing, darling; find yourself pining for sadness to fuel your art; find the universe conspiring to grant your fucked up wish, a single disappointing friend at a time, orchestra of Sorry and I can’t make it and the accidental I don’t care, line after line in the census of all things that sing indifference, like, No one loves you, et al.; find yourself returning the calls of a boy you swore you were done with, convinced loneliness would finally find its place to disappear somewhere between static and all the paltry things you use paint over your blatant, inexcusable desire, apprehension, how you know you really want this one despite all the warning bells, sirens singing the same song; find yourself swearing to keep a safe distance when you could barely keep your hair in place; find yourself purposely late for class, purposely asleep, purposely unkind; find yourself losing faith in good things, seeking out invisible strings tied to here or there or this or that, how everything has a price and you really don’t want to pay for someone’s indecision this time around; find yourself finally settling for refusals, plugging your ears with music that says Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Good day yesterday, semi-shitty day today.

Exercises on self-destruction

 Premise: the world ending as a point in time when certain constructs and conveniences cease to exist. For example: I love you from Point A to Point B, with Point A being I can’t remember (day we rode your car, day we got way too drunk, or maybe that moment you played my favorite song, catching me off guard) and Point B being the point/s following:

The world ended when you left the room earlier than I, finishing the exam first, fireworks and firegods surging in through the windows shortly after – we were doomed and now who the fuck cared which answer was correct?

The world ended when you stopped reading poetry, stopped writing whatever song stirred through your ventricles, offering what remained of you to the girl who made it a point to disappear every now and then, teaching you to unlearn object permanence across continents and connecting flights, crooning Baby, baby, I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, oh baby, and the call melts into static as cracks slowly crawl on the walls and you try to find a word or two to tell yourself what’s happening, when will this end, please make it stop, please?

The world ended when I gave you your birthday present, wrapped in smoke, laden with charms from an ageing demi-god, and when you said Thank you, blankly, I looked into your black eyes and knew we were done – no more watching out for each other, waiting outside after class, after hours, wandering off into adventures, wasting the nights away – over: what I kept thinking when, months after, I delivered the last kind blow of a sledgehammer straight to your dying face.

The world ended when I let the waters reach my feet, letting the process proceed despite its unpleasantness: feet slowly growing scales guaranteed to shield from acid and toxins, the sea and all its waste, bones split to the marrow, forming fins so thin they could slice through drops of rain; once everything was in place, I knew my body was ready to face a world which no longer knew of songs or the warm glow of stars – a place wanting nothing of me and my human heart.

The world ended following the wrong phonecall delivered on a drunken night. Why are you with him? Said your voice over the noise, Why are you fucking with him? you kept saying so I said the truth you couldn’t and wouldn’t believe: It’s his birthday, and before I could explain anything a bottle of Bailey’s or Bacardi or Jager flew across the room, crashing into smithereens, muting out the receiver that echoed Bullshit! over and over and over as someone’s laughter filled the room.

The world ended when we answered No, closed fists, chests tightening: all those worlds within us ready, raring to spontaneously combust. Fireworks and the stench of a truth you could never forget. The wrong answer picked on purpose or, what we believed was an act of kindness.

miss interpretation

I’m tired I tried trying still tilting and lilting to choice and voice and vice rise for the prize the price that ties I turn my eyes you find it easy to presume assume consume whatever words I offer misconstrue miss is it true what about you the question being what do you want what would you want would you want me now that you know what you think you know nothing short of knowing the story the sequence of events when I only meant to vent not pleading on the subject leading to lack of choice abundance of noise and possibly absent poise what lesson do you wish to press on for this session the slight sight of a misplaced intention delivering splinters and snowflakes driving stakes in entire stabbing setting this heavy heart on fire

I tire


Said the voice over the telephone before the bad news. Stop. Said the light albeit the accident refused to listen. Stop. Said the wind to the wave as the ship slowly went to sleep. Stop. Said the anchor. Stop. Said the nymph hiding in the night sky. Stop. Said the star to the End of The World as it inched closer, one light year at a time. Stop. Said Red to the Wolf hiding in the woods. Stop. Said the fire to the foam. Stop. Said the field, the bouquet of flowers, and the following statement. Stop. Said the candle in the diner where they would have their last date. Stop. Said the numbers 87, 32, 11, 25, 10. Stop. Said the fortune cookie to fate. Stop. Said the missed connection, the misinterpreted horoscope. Stop. Said the assumption, the pretty face in the poster, and the passerby lighting a cigarette. Stop. Said the phoenix, the plea, the plain, the refusal to be pliant.