she reminds me of myselfI'm sorry, Alice, the looking glass lies.
Flowers don't sing
and hares don't keep time.
Your world of wonder
is all make believe -
Why else would your reflection
giggle and wink?
You aren't a child any longer, my dear.
Have a matchstick for your dreams
and a hammer for that mirror.
Our hands may be calloused
as we coddle our pasts
but delusions are enemies
and wistful muses pass.
I will wait for you, darling,
I will write for you, lass.
I will capture life's beauty
and contain it in glass.
Though, the singing that lingers
is the voice of my own.
The fragrant flowers are dying
even while their seed is sown.
WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasminesWhisper2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and stardust mountains of silver and —
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
on unlearning how to diethe space between intention andon unlearning how to die2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
inaction has been redefined. they say
the first step to sadness is
to be happy. the second step
is learning loss. they tell us
depression is an abundance of emotions
but everyone here is a balloon
deflated with time, a sun
dimming as years eat away years
and everything changes but
nothing's really different at all.
we drowned before we even saw
the sea, dreaming of that cemetery
a million miles deep; and still,
I cry for the people worth forgetting:
the girl who couldn't take enough
sleeping pills to live her dreams,
the boy so doped out on an inability
to live that he told us about his trips
to Jupiter and back, and
expected us to believe him. the girl
with a ghost smile named after the prayer
she was born to forget, the boy
who slept like an angel and cried like
a fallen, and me, me
choking on gravity and the ever-growing
weight of my own fucking inadequacy
tied tightly around my neck like a noose
not quite designed properly, right,
because I survived.
we are not a fairytalewe are not a fairytale.we are not a fairytale2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way
(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not
the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding
we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I’m not sure whether or not the sun will
rise again tomorrow, because it won’t exist
until someone breathes life into it,
but no. we were never so lucky
to be carefully orchestrated,
a composition rendered for
another’s satisfaction. I am not the
climax, nor the resolution, but a lamb
with Stockholm Syndrome and
a tendency towards people
message in a bottle."i never did realize how lonely the dark could be," you say matter-of-factly, your tone of voice somewhat ruined by the spherical drop of water running down your cheek.message in a bottle.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"i guess i'm just not used to it. it never was dark with you here," you continue, brow furrowing and fingers twisting. you dip your toes in the icy seawater, and allow shivers to run up your spine.
you pull your jacket tighter around you and walk on, toes pushing on sand and the moonlight kissing stray strands of hair. as you stop to fiddle with a shell on the ground with your big toe, you spy a shimmering, green bottle bobbing up and down in the water. reaching out as far as you can without getting wet, you manage to hook a finger around its neck and pull it in.
washing sand off the bottle and drying it, you settle yourself down upon a rock and play with the grooves. "wouldn't it be nice to be able to bottle up love? i'd have bottled up yours so i wouldn't be missing your love so very much right now."
you prop the bott
115 words.a bright summer's day;115 words.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
there's something about the yellow of the sunlight and how it soaks through your hair, turning it golden, that makes his heart blossom. sometimes he wishes he could look at you like a normal person does, so his heart doesn't falter like it does, and he'd be spared the trouble of restarting it. bet you didn't know that, did you? the quiet laughs always present on your voice never ceases to makes his lips curve up ever so slightly, but when you hold him still with your eyes and tilt your head, yellow-golden hair falling to one side, he's mesmerized by the sight in front of him.
and you are, too.
UntitledThere was something of the night, she would say, which had always frightened her.Untitled3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It wasn't the moonless shadows or the strange prolixity of sounds, but the way the skyline would shatter just beyond the city's crest, as if proving to her childish mind that nothing is truly limitless. Not even the sky.
i really want to...i allowed the word to curli really want to...3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
against the ceiling of my mouth.
cradling the absence of a
storm that never came
roosting over rafters of a
note stretched far too long.
seeping through my teeth and
pulling moisture from the rain.
sing a song of love.you set your finished cup of coffee down on the table and head over to the kitchen counter. picking up your keys, you washes down the coffee with a gulp of water and a mint. checking the clock hanging above the doorframe, you fish around in a drawer for a stick-it note and a marker. writing him a little note, you sign it off with a heart, and stick it on the coffee pot. as you pull your jacket on, you hear a trilling voice coming from the bedroom. standing still, you listen. your lips curve up into the widest smile as you see him dance into the kitchen, singing a made up song with lyrics consisting of i love yous and your name. he cuts the song off with a squeak, a reddened face, and a soft, "i thought you left." you continue to point your blinding smile in his direction.sing a song of love.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"you know what? maybe i won't go to work today. come on, let's go for a walk." you shrug your jacket off and fit his hand perfectly into yours.
"and you can sing me your new song while we walk."
moondust.we live in a world where our lungs are black and outlined with angry streaks of red. we plant diseases and destruction in the holes of our stomachs and watch them grow they shoot up fast and clog up our throats with ashy leaves.moondust.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
our fingernails are ripped, jagged edges digging into pale skin and leaving white hot lines in their wake. our wings are crumpled, feathers bent and pressing into the expanse of our backs they're the weights on our shoulders, and there's no space left for anything else.
your tongue is cracked and so is mine. words no longer form, sounds no longer rise. dreams and wishes fall into the cracks as nightmares rush past them out into the open. that breathtaking sequel to life you were hoping for no longer exists we are now aimless, hopeless, and craving for sin.
we swallow moons and exhale moondust; we stray from orbits and into vacuums. but all we ever wanted were the touch of lightly powdered lips against our flesh.
don't let go.when we were three years old, you would push me on the swing with all your might, but i'd only rise a few feet off the ground. but then again, back then, it seemed like a hundred feet, and we were both exhilarated, and happy.don't let go.5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
when we were eleven, we would spend a weekend just running around the garden, making mud pies and 'discovering' treasures 'hidden' in the dirt. when our mud pies would fill the steps, we'd upturn them back onto the earth, and we were both dirty, and happy.
when we were seventeen, we would climb to the top of a hill on weekends and stay there till the sun rises, accompanied by lingering touches and mums' food. when sunrays blinked into our eyelids, we'd half slide, half laugh our way down the hill, and we were both tired, and happy.
when we were twenty-three, we would sit cross-legged from one other in your apartment, not daring to look in each other's eyes, and staring at our fingertips instead, which were centimeters apart. then one of us would reach out of pull
sister yesterdayeven our plastic flowers had faded—sister yesterday2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an overgrown garden of concrete and pottery,
wrought-iron furniture under the sunlight, paling—
a broken lawnmower in a rotting wood shed, a swingset
creaking with each gust of wind—
but she said—
let's gather up these old tin cans,
empty the pool of its stagnant memory,
relight the candles and mend this picnic table,
recall the laughter we shared here when
our summer was in bloom—
when mother wore that sky blue dress
and planted shiny pinwheels,
I was never a writer. I: HalfsleeperI was never a writer.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I fell in love, once.
A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.
Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
where do you rest your head?
All things are in a constant state of vibration,
a harmony in the space between
our fingers. our hands.
I’ve only ever stopped to listen
the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find itthe back of your head against my washed pillowcase3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
by my own
My bones, your
to your insatiable
I find this
rebirths in my
three years of
the wrong gods
you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague
I find you
in the middle
of any where,
I shot a flock
& ate Adam's
I remain ignor
ant and ignor
ed by you
I find Nothing-
& leave me be.
.hatred.1 year ago in Personal More Like This
is in labour,
if i let it
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,with a whisper2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
of a long lost dystopast.
not with a SHOUT,
we do not argue.
we do not even unsheath
we whisper in your children's ears
the memories of what should have been.
the life we all crave.
the death we all crave.
WE do not discriminate
our opinions onto others
pressing the side of the blade
down onto the flesh
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
this is how we rule the world,
we tell stories,
we incite a generation
with their own scar/r/ed lungs
with a whisper.
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorconfessional2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
your tears don't save a soul.[it took him 129 days to finally stop breathing without you there.]your tears don't save a soul.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on day 32, he bought flowers and slid them into a thin vase
on the windowsill. a petal fell off and floated to a silent rest
on the water's surface, and a single ripple weakly faded away.
he threw the flowers out that night.
on day 58, he woke from a nightmare, clawed at the pillow
your picture was on, and his fingernail snagged on the paper.
he gazed wantonly for a minute at the ragged shreds, then
promptly turned on his side and shut his eyes.
the torn-up paper drifted off into the cracks between the floors.
on day 99, he thought you came back, and he cried out in joy,
only to watch as the tears washed away the blurred image of you.
he clutched at the wadded up napkins in his hand, and teardrops
fell, blending into the many there before them.
he saw you again that night, and wished himself to wake up.
[on day 129, he lay six-and-a-half feet under the ground,
white daises scattered daintily around the freshly mounted
Sun Child,I am freezingSun Child,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
& I am hungry
for fever’s lips-
her inky fingers
a dry stomach.
My body is an ocean,
my limbs, but oars.
My tongue & teeth,
a life raft
keeping this madness
from sinking into blue.
Offering up 102 degrees
You would think
I had something to say.
whiskeyShewhiskey2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in one slow,
I heard it plunge
into the gaping
emptiness of her.
drank the sun
from my fingertips,
licked me from her lips,
look better dead, plucked
from your November pores."
"They go down smoothest
with Writers Tears."
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedGrowing Up2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with a mild case of weightlessness, mindless
drifting past empty homes and the emptier people
that purchased them. I remember conversations
with you about existentialism
and the almost intricate fabric of my mind and
everything in between, and you-- the way you
paused before making a point as
the words defined themselves in your head:
I remember the day I told you I was God.
Creator of all things unimportant, trapped
in the body of a girl with nothing left to give, you
it must be a beautiful place
inside your head, with a world
that revolves around hope and expectations
the way it was supposed to; all
storybook-perfect like the
wars promise we’ll one day
[I’d like to think that every great leader
once cried themselves to sleep wondering
if they’d ever mean anything and
did things to stand out like smoking
or drinking or pretending to be someone
they’re not and every morning they’d tilt
.i don't believe.1 year ago in Personal More Like This
that if you can dream it
you can do it,
cos i once dreamt that
i killed atlas,
i tore him limb from limb and then
i stabbed the globe he held,
and sometimes i get sad
about the children in the world
who will choke on all the words
that they'll never learn to speak,
and there's a baby somewhere gargling
the meaning of his life,
and he's a little bit upset that you
keep wiping it
(i have no words for you)
Dead Bodies Don't Cryi.Dead Bodies Don't Cry3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go together."
The first time you are punched
in the face it is by a girl with pigtails and braces.
You're sitting on a swing,
digging your toes into the dirt,
when she approaches
and says she thinks you're weird.
You tell her she's even weirder, and her fist
goes sailing into your jaw.
You're red and sore for two days.
You meet your first crush
as numerous as the stars under your skinand here I am, reinterpreting the definable universeas numerous as the stars under your skin2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in relation to you, the poet, and the gravitation
of your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longing
in your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingering
on your weary skin).
I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too long
and watch the night crumble away, to whisper together
the scraps of your misdirected sanity. I would call you perfect
when it wasn’t true, and become the answer
you spent an entire existence
You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silence
of your teeth. [this story is like a million others
rejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:
please]rewrite the world for me.