Blind Love

I’m deeply sorry but darling
I refuse to change for you.
Not even as you promise to kiss
my eyelids awake for every
dawning masterpiece or
against memories vivid and
overwhelmingly consuming.

I’m deeply sorry but darling
I refuse to change for you.
Even if it is in the sound of
your ragged breathing that I find
a handful of our own
sunny afternoons on rainy days
-bashful and lonely.

Even though it is in the safety
of words shared between evening coffee
and home cooked meals left cold
on wooden table tops, that I
no less discover a soup bowl
of daydreams and of sanctuary.

I’m deeply sorry but darling
not even you can pull me back
from every onslaught,
from every war torn gazes
that ravage my mornings
like waves wailing and crashing within.

I’m deeply sorry but darling
it had taken mournful minutes
and a thousand potfuls of bitter tea
to scald away the fingertips
of those who ran too quickly
for me to catch the frailty
of words that had no meaning.

But despite all these.
Despite the sweet frosting
and our muddy footprints.
Despite the fact
that we are no better cooks
of the Italian cuisine.
Despite our unplanned
weekend-long movies
on Netflix.

Darling I promise you.

I’d love nothing more
than to grow with you.


Just words and nothing more.

I am young and I know not much about love except for the tiny truths portrayed in films my friends encourage me to watch. And yet, I write as though I had seen fireworks blasting against the backdrop of a starry sky wrapped in the secure warmth of a kiss spent desolate on cracked lips and fluid fingers.

I am young and I know nothing more about heartbreak except for that one time a boy failed to look twice in my direction. And yet, I write as though I have felt the razor tips of words scratching at the back of my mind as I duel the tidal waves of minutes wasted on screaming for the love we used to have.

I am young and I know nothing about sex except maybe for the times I read poetry. And yet, I write as though I have left scorchmarks on skin stretched bare on cream sheets illuminated by the paling moonlight. Seconds murdered by gasps, hours stolen by kisses, tangled limbs dancing like shadows to a flickering candle.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about loss. And I can write about the bony white faces painted an unnatural rose in a casket lined with silken pillows. The drowning in salt tears tucked within the gaping mouthful of questions your Father had taken with him six feet underneath yellow flowers he’ll never see.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about rage. And I can write about dreams of arson and theft -concrete rescinded into skeletal ruins, money reduced to cinder piled waist high. Fists curled into the beating heart left broken by the shadows of debt and lies.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about fear. Kneecaps crashing and bruising on wooden panels made to carry the weight of prayers left unfulfilled -unheard. The trembling scrawny arms embracing thighs in one corner of a cerulean bathroom, trying to be as small as the world grows louder with every passing day.

I am young but I will try my best to tell  you all that I know of longing. Of seeing no better way to crumble into ashes than under swift, momentary gazes. Of bitten lips smiling, eyes brightening, of shy butterfly flutters of eyelashes. Of reaching further only to be stopped by glasses placed neatly between. Of knots, ruby red blushes and tangles.

I am young but I will write about life as though I had heard its echo resonating within the confines of a bedroom stacked with unread books in one corner and crumpled yellow papers in another.

Colors I’ll paint you by

Look at me, sweetie.
With all my purple bruises kissed
wildly by circumstance and time
peppered across the
evening palette of my skin –
the grey cloud of my cheeks.

Look at me, sweetie.
At my skinny, scarred fingertips
calloused by shattered china
on kitchen floors and bathroom walls.
Pink and faded upon your touch.
The scarlet plush of
uncapped skin laid bare
in cold, linoleum.

Look at me, sweetie.
At the rusty stain of my dress
against the pallid color myself.
Each splatter an afternoon
of lost thought in between words
you thought could save me.

Look at me, sweetie.
At the inky blackness I hold
within eyes stitched shut by dreams
and untold nightmares whispered
upon pillows and phonecalls.
Arms and limbs holding
me tight like sutures.

I look
At you and I see brushstrokes
of fingerprints lost in between
promises and daybreaks.

I look
at you and I see a bare canvas painted
umber by the terra cotta
of unwashed coffee mugs
in the kitchen sink.
The floor kissed by sunshine,
our shadows swimming
-languid and sweet.

I look
at you and I remember glimpses
of dewy green grass between toes
blushed rose by walking.
Our midnight ceiling
punctured by stars and
whispered shared dreams.

I look at you.
And I see oranges and amber
dancing behind windows
awaiting evening.
I look at you.
And I see colours
I never thought existed.


On bathroom tiles

Out bathroom floor had seen more clawmarks and debris than most bathrooms. Or maybe it’s just me again, romanticizing the cool kisses of water cascading down my back as I try to pick up the fallen rubble, rearranging them into what they used to while they crumple softly through my fingertips.

That’s when I noticed. For the very first time in 3 years,  that our bathroom tiles are cerulean. I stared long and hard at them beneath my feet -much paler now- quite appalled. Droplets hit off them cleanly, running straight down the drain which had turned slightly orange with rust. I stopped picking at the rubble to trace every edge of one bathroom tile with a toe.

Aaah, how long have I been living in my head again?

For Edie

I’ve had enough of you writers -you poets
who try to capture me with beautiful words
that hang loosely around my neck
like a string of stolen pearls, iridescent
and used.

I’ve had enough of you artists -you painters
who imprison me in wood or canvas
my face a teardrop of promise,
my body a soft curve- a map, a mountain,
an atlas.

I would like you to know.

That I was never February flowers laid bare
in varnished antique pottery, nor
summertime breeze dancing between trees
strong, warm to the bone and free.

I would like you to know.

I was never lips meant solely for kissing
or long lashed eyes meant only for dreaming.
I was never just curves made for touching
or fingers made solely for soothing.

I am speeding headlights, unfulfilled dreams
and unsmoked cigarettes stacked neatly
underneath pillows I never slept in.
I am books unread and 3 mugs of tea
in midnights and mornings.

I am muffled curses in traffic,
wrong turns, loose swerves and ghostly
dusty attics. I am emptied coin purses,
rattling bones and wrinkled
book covers.

I am a flurry of tangled sheets in the evenings
I am unmade beds that last til noons.
I am spilled milk on the kitchen linoleum,
I am bright, hot lights in hospital rooms

How to Write a Poem No.1

Out of nowhere, in mid-thought or sigh, you wake up to the realization that this cubicle nightmare of an internship just might well be your future. You stop what you’re doing, breathing heavily against the gnawing thought that suddenly crept like a ghost into the back of your mind. You start to envision yourself wrapped in scarves and grey sweaters to fight the relentless cold of the air conditioner, a coffee mug with the company logo, bored listless eyes glued to the computer screen, your fingers typing away the same thing that you’d been typing for weeks at a time and your mind drifting off, counting the minutes ’til you step out of the office into the sunshine, into the world that had been waiting for you since the moment you opened your eyes this morning.

Fuck it.

You head to the bathroom, wanting to curl into yourself -to fold in half like paper trying to keep a secret all to yourself. On a piece of tissue paper with a pen you took from another employee’s table, you write.

You write about the world outside the office window. You write about the world and the people in it. About how it all seems like a museum, where you look at them from a distance, glass between. About how slowly the child in you dies, everyday as the distant, incessant, dull music of keyboards and beeps grow louder and louder.

Just a thought: No.1

We all love the broken and lonely for all the wrong reasons.

It’s almost like finding yourself fascinated on a crumbling remnant of an antique delicate vase, the unspoken promise of vanished beauty entices you. Or maybe it’s because they are what we believe we’ll never be. Or maybe because it’s in our nature to capture unloved territories. Or maybe because we believe we can fix them all up into their former selves and claim that restoration as our accomplishment.

Maybe we just love ourselves more than we love their brokenness.