1. tiny blinking lights
    visual cacophony
    sleep is elusive
    — (via words-in-tandem)
     


  2. on a bus ii

    words-in-tandem:

    [on the collective feminine consciousness]

    Litanies of a thousand words echo

    drenched in irony, conceit

    Spirits running haywire across 

    skin stretched over their bones

    This is the temple of the damned:

    Freud’s prize cases,

    Once civilised women stricken with hysteria-

    Rodents scamper and nibble at their sore insides.

    The gilded promise of salvation has long since disappeared

    from their surroundings:

    barren bodies in barren spaces now.

    ***

    Her names are too common, 

    mean nothing in relation to her being.

    And in the solitary moments when she

    scrubs grime off dishes in the sink

              filled with soapy water

              filled with sunlight

    the faint glimmer of yearning

    dancing in her irises

    diffracts.

     


  3. words-in-tandem:

    Dear self, a month from now.

    You made it. You made it through this month. It isn’t all over yet, but we’re here, and we didn’t give up. Promise me you’ll read this in a safe place, weeks from the chaos I’m in now. If you made it through this month, you can make it through the year. 

    Love,

    Me.

     


  4. White Cupcakes

    words-in-tandem:

    Sick white frosting’s layered 
    over cupcakes on a tray
    And we search 
    between the smooth curves frantically.
    Sighs and grimaces
    and lone tears caught mid-cheek:
    It’s sad how we’re used to this by now.

    Heaps of inanimate words 
    spat through the constant drone
    of nonchalance in the background
    now rise in flames
    and do their bidding
    uninhibited, unabashed
    words that slash, kick and bite.
    Familiar faces that garner cringes now,
    once burned, twice shy.
    Most of us have raw wounds.

    And still, when the tray 
    is gently pushed towards us
    and all that’s really there 
    are stark naked pleasantries
    -sick white cupcakes-
    We search between the smooth curves,

    frantically.

     


  5. untitled pieces

    words-in-tandem:

    When kohl-lined rims of eyes are scrubbed until faces stripped of edges retire to cold, unmade beds.
    Eyes that cover up the deepest kind of exhaustion, close up
    and slow, conscious air is breathed: in, and out-
                                                             in, and out-
                                                             in, and out-
           but her mind is a twilight sky in the summer-
           chaotic, scattered with birds flying home,
           never quite getting there right away
           they seem to stop at (foreign) trees before going home.
           (I wonder why.)

    And here I am, breathing:
    in, and out-
    in, and out.


    ***


    This warmth is real
    Denial has led us through
    several months of shivering and unease:
    shifting blankets and
    uncertain embraces
    friction silently tolerated-
    We were cold, cold, cold.


    ***


    Ethereal pink light falls on these pages
    I imagine its warming
    Make-believe in its healing
    But moments pass,
    and the skin over the bones in my feet
    is numb now.

    ***

    Ransom notes are still piling up
    around her heels and over her unshapely toes
    Letters spill over the sides
    and drip, creating a dark puddle
    Her body rattled from several crushing sighs,
    bitter tears now mixed with
    the filth around her feet.

    ****

    (via words-in-tandem)

     


  6. untitled #8

    words-in-tandem:

    spaces between the siren’s hair, hypnotic
    spaces between distorted shadows of wires on her face, beautiful
    spaces between tired thoughts, listless
    spaces between Christmas string lights, dark
    spaces between scars, salvaged
    spaces between couples at the fancy diner, entrenched.

    (via words-in-tandem)

     


  7. trigger warnings, i

    july 12, 2.53 am.

    good sex, bad sex - not sure i can tell the difference anymore: cognitive dissonance at its finest.

    maybe i do need meds to turn down the incessant teatime chatter inside my mind. i mean, it’s fucking 3 am! maybe i don’t though. maybe i’m stuck like this forever. one, twentyone guns! lay down your hearts, give up the fight~

    you and i.

    late night cigarettes are the best cigarettes. i’m never going to finish this art jigsaw puzzle, like i’m never going to find out whether you’re truly still attracted to me, or just in it for the stability. maybe you’re in this because i live so close to where you work - the thirty minute bike ride is, after all, inconvenient. 

    i’m..convenient.
    (how utterly demeaning. i mean, gosh. after being raised purely on straight As and top ranks, how could i be anything less than too good for you? this is kind of a soul-crushing insult.) 

    all i ever do is suffocate my bleeding wounds.

    i’m looking for the right pieces, but i only ever cough up strange shapes and uncomfortable conjunctions.

    ***

     


  8. fated casualties

    I wrote “The wind rises! We must try to live." on your skin
    The night we thought was going to be our last
    Before you left to finish what was important
    Before I knew you’d come back to me

    When you stayed, I cried.
    I cried because I remembered how difficult it was
    For me to see anyone off
    How I’ve deliberately avoided going to airports, train stations, and even doorsteps all my life
    trying to save myself from falling apart
    at the thought of continuing to live without the shard of my heart
    that stayed lodged in those people’s bodies
    I realized how intensely painful it was
    to be an adult, and hold my breath
    taking novocain straight to my chest.

    I cried because I loved you with all my heart
    and that night, I feared you’d taken it whole,
    eaten it up
    and I’d be left for dead if you left.

    **

    After days of being together,
    we grew used to sharing the sunlight
    like little saplings that grew too close together
    blissfully unaware of how
    one of us was bound to shrivel
    one of us would have to die.

    Every night I watched your mouth form meaningless words
    Drip into my mind like honey: viscous, warm.
    They seeped through my broken body
    and held me together at my loneliest —
    little did I know that the moment we parted
    the pieces of my body would begin to fall again,
    broken strings hanging, crooked gears failing.
    We were so deeply entwined in each other’s primal need
    for touch, for warm breaths on our skin,
    for love.

    We co-existed in a wordless poem.

    **

    Never has knowing been so excruciating
    Awareness never hurt so much
    I opened my eyes and looked over my shoulder
    and saw how frighteningly similar my path looked
    to my mother’s with my dad.
    You pressed hard on my bleeding wounds
    Without ever asking
    if they were from bullets
    or knives dragged over my skin
    until they stopped gushing, slowed to a leak
    And then you turned away,
    leaving me bound and gagged at the edge of the cliff — just like my mum is.
    I’ve watched my mother teach herself to always leak
    bleed so very quietly, she can barely hear herself bleed anymore.

    There’s a terrible puddle of blood and tears collecting around my mother’s feet now.

    **

    I was frantic, tried telling you
    like we were stuck in a car in reverse
    steadily sending us into the lake, into oblivion
    But you couldn’t hear me over your addiction

    You were addicted to the drug that was “us”:
    You pleaded shamelessly for “us”,
    cried about not being able to survive without “us”,
    craving the rush, the ephemeral comfort you got
    from “us”.

    And I cried with you,
    because I knew I was too.

    We were ghosts already,
    Weeping over our own cold bodies.

    ***

     


  9. to live the world/cruel joke through a lens of pure love, to let compassion smooth out the rough edges, to navigate with tender steps and forgiving glances-

    this existence can yet be salvaged.

     


  10. on a bus ii

    [on the collective feminine consciousness]

    Litanies of a thousand words echo

    drenched in irony, conceit

    Spirits running haywire across 

    skin stretched over their bones

    This is the temple of the damned:

    Freud’s prize cases,

    Once civilised women stricken with hysteria-

    Rodents scamper and nibble at their sore insides.

    The gilded promise of salvation has long since disappeared

    from their surroundings:

    barren bodies in barren spaces now.

    ***

    Her names are too common, 

    mean nothing in relation to her being.

    And in the solitary moments when she

    scrubs grime off dishes in the sink

              filled with soapy water

              filled with sunlight

    the faint glimmer of yearning

    dancing in her irises

    diffracts.