It burns me

It pinches my insides and ties knots with my intestines

I feel the tightening in my throat

I clench my hands to the side of the chair and my entire body starts to swell

I stop myself from breathing to help block it out, to stop my heart from rupturing in the event of another movement

I can’t fathom the reality, I try to cancel it out: this must just be a figment of my imagination

My heart begins to pump faster, I take apart the skin on my thighs

The veins on my neck swell, my blood is gushing, I am overwhelmed, overpowered, unheard

It’s the most sensible thing to do, they say

I have to go, his blood runs in my veins

She needs a vacation, an escape from her own reality

I might regret it later, our time here is not infinite

They ask me to do it for her, for him, for them

But my absolute self-destruction is swept under the rug

If it is so right, why does it feel so wrong?


Going Around in Circles

IMG_5435I still search for you among the crowd

Every place I go to has your traces

My mind creates images of your silhouette as it would’ve been if I got there earlier

You’re always a few steps ahead, out of my reach

Or maybe behind? Conveniently, where I can’t see you

It’s an endless, useless circle

I’m tired of the flashbacks, the pangs that throw me back to the times I try not to think of

You’ll always be my tipping point, the emblem of my transitions

I catch glimpses of you in others

The heat radiates through my body, needles pierce my diaphragm

It’s always a close match, but it’s never right, it’s never you

Writers Block


I wrote and I wrote.

I wrote so much that I couldn’t fall asleep from the thoughts of all the things I wanted to put down.

I awoke in the middle of the night, jotting down the words that seeped into my mind and out from my fingertips like butter greasing a cake pan.

I drifted away mid-conversation because my consciousness was creating a piece that I needed to put down before it escaped me.

One day it just stopped.

The keys feel unfamiliar now, the words forming in my mind come with interruptions, the signal has ruptured.

Words need to be torn out of me, they don’t flow anymore. The river within me has gone dry and the waterfall is a resolute cliff.

I lost touch with my senses.

I feel disconnected from myself.

Pieces of me have been scattered across different parts of the universe and there is no means for recollection.

Vinyl Shatters

You live in the moment, enjoy every new tune as it starts.

The moment is all that you’ve got, there’s no promise of tomorrow, and no point to sulk over what already passed.

But do you ever come across a feeling when you plead for the chance to erase those slivers of your past that you wish weren’t a part of you?

What if deleting them alters who you are?

It pains me to think of all the times I’ll have to recollect and look back to tell and frown upon my misconducts, not wanting to look truth in the face.

I’d love to bloom in your hands and show you every corner of me but some pieces are so dark and I’m afraid it’ll swallow you, destroy what we could’ve been.

Not all parts of me are pretty. Maybe you’ll decide to turn back and I don’t blame you, it’s as great as it gets and it’s all good at first glance.

I’m a rollercoaster ride and I don’t know how much of me are you willing to take.

Everyone says the same story, the same melody plays in different words, I’m too familiar with the tune.

But will your record break like all the ones before you?

December Droplets

PicfxFile 2I wasn’t lying when I said that winter is embedded in my skin.

“It smells like rain”, I say as I sprint to the window. Pulling back the blinds, I see the droplets slowly accumulating on the windowsill. It was bound to be, the clouds spoke of it earlier.

That distinct sound of tires against asphalt is shifting again. The outside becomes a wilderness of wonder, sound, and coldness. My senses sharpen again, a hedgehog that feels invaded.

Winter is my favorite. The vast voluminous clouds, like white ballgowns in the skies. The first rain of the season, like dew on morning leaves after condensation. The atmosphere feels anew, a chance for new endeavors.

I can sense it even more now. I’m reconnecting with my reality. I’ve stepped into the snow that is nevermore in our desert. It makes the places that I’d rather leave a little more bearable.

It shoves me into the past but it makes me feel more alive.

How can the very time that brought me so much pain also bring me so much contentment?

It’s almost like I cannot breathe without the presence of this season.

I wasn’t lying when I said that winter is embedded in my skin.

The End of the Beginning

IMG_0473I’ve become a lie. Maybe you would prefer to call me a “memory”. I’ve faded into the past but spread through your needy shell. You still need me to breathe.

I was the key that you held in your palm, but you dropped it too many times. Pieces of it chipped away with every fall and scratch until finally, it didn’t fit into the keyhole. It was the evaporation of all your dreams. The crack of whatever sanity was left within you.

Your name still smiles at me from your handwritten letters. Gateways into a past of fields of flowers that all died at once after a murderous fire. I stopped looking back. I’m growing my own field now, I can’t allow another darkness to envelope what I worked so hard on forgetting.

The reins of my trust have been tightened once again. It was them, now it is you. I felt like a mounted mustang that wouldn’t suppress a gallop no matter how hard you tried to force me to a halt. My willpower was strong until you tore through me too. You didn’t kill all of what’s within me, but you pushed me to enclose myself in a vault so much stronger.

You carved me until I was a thin crescent in the night sky. Almost missed out of sight by the regular human. But being a crescent meant that the chance for a new moon has finally come. A form of reincarnation. I coincide with my closest distance from the human eye.

The show must go on.

His Flower



Photo by Baljit Singh

“Come here, my flower”, he says as he pulls me into bed.

Crisp, clean, white sheets. But I can still sense the invisible stains of tears etched within the fabric.

He brushes a few hairs behind my ear, an excuse to feel me just a little longer.

Soft, strong, manly hands. Despite the warmth they radiate, I can’t erase the memory of their wrongdoing.

“Why are you so dense?”, he asks as he rubs my shoulders.

The same exact spots. He traces all the scars. His fingertips glide over the rough bumps left over from my self-hatred. It burns.

He doesn’t know how to hide it, I can see that he likes it. The memory of my pain is his pleasure.

I pull away but his grip only tightens. I feel entitled. I shouldn’t feel the need to pull away since “he’s not like the others”.