I become the sky. 

The heavy clouds that bottle up water like I bottle up honesty. An uneven surface. Unable to pick a single colour to paint myself in. Scattered personalities. Lighter here, darker over there. Circling in an orbit of insequrity. Disintegrating. Killing parts of me to put together a front that is not entirely shapeless. 

A careless artwork. 

Withering wallflower, shy moon
Your despair is choking the night sky
These cruel clouds are closing in on you
Your scream is rattling my rooftop
These cheap tricks, sweet nothings
Playing peek-a-boo with teary eyed humans
I have caught you red handed
Doing somersaults in the guilt pool
Tearing down clouds, trying to get a clear view from crowded windows

Moth eaten moon
Tell me about the monsters who break you
Half one day and quarter the next
Breaking and forming in an endless loop
Teach me to heal the way you do
Brave celestial wonder
Battling Zeus in your spare time
Blinding clouds until they melt

Blush not, sweet saviour
Send a moonbeam my way before the universe paints you black
It knows
It knows
That you are guilty
Of wanting to shine.

Her mother was on the floor again. 
Collapsing like an ancient building that gave in to the hundredth storm that hit it. 
Breaking like her grandmother’s favorite china did when daddy came home with emptiness in his eyes, alcohol in his veins, and rage ruling his tongue. 

Her mother was crying again. 
Her pain was loud tonight. 
Her pain echoed through the narrow streets of their neighborhood. 
Her pain screamed from a thousand amplifiers. 
Reverberating in every corner of the universe. 

She was seven. 
Not every wise. Not designed to understand separation. 
Her heart was kind. 
The kind of kind that shares a favourite cookie with the worst enemy. 
She sat next to her mother and whimpered. 
Sorrow oscillated from mother to child. 
Child to mother. 

Some children break before they blossom. 

A fleet of missed opportunities
Raging in their hunger for revenge
Seek shelter in my bones
From the unexpected torrent of regret I’m feeding them 

This is a game
Of vengeance 

My role here is to fail miserably
To concede to this fiery fleet
Accept my defeat
My faults
Without offering explanations 

Tend to dull the satisfaction of revenge
Put a lid
On the amount of appropriate violence 

“We don’t want that
We don’t want to stop”


Black-eyed disaster

Thread of life,

One hundred seconds to live 

The fleet grins
At corpses of their unborn kin
Lying exposed under my skin 

A droplet of tragedy has been sucked out from this world

You will be missed. 

Teach me

Teach me
the art of knitting words that dont break under the pressure of  being forgotten
to wound hearts with poetry,
to dance to the rhythm of blank verses,
to unbound texts of foreign languages and gaze at them for hours on end
Not really understanding but gloating over the unsung words earnestly
Teach me
to break souls like I break myself
the speech of the pretenders who have tattooed masks onto their tongues
to mend their shattered souls that cry for identity, turning to slime just to fit into every mold of human desire
Teach me
to tear apart every construct of this universe
Too many stars have exploded already
Teach me
to cure this world
and I’ll teach you
to destroy.

sparkly bulbs on rooftops,
snowmen bleeding from carrot noses,
trees weighed down by carefully hidden Christmas presents,
stars donning giant costumes and waiting to be discovered, 
scent of freshly baked cakes, 
a starlit evening,
silent celebration, 
slow knocks on wooden doors,
joyous gathering of crumbling souls,
seeking solace in wine bottles,
snatching mistletoe berries, 
smashing them under nimble feet, 
five thousand steps to salvation,
i take one.

How to make the silent kid talk.

step one, say hi.
the reply won’t reach your ears.
watch her mouth shape the word instead.
smile warmly.
don’t be offended if hers is a straight line.

step two, talk.
ignore her quivering lips, pulsating temples and wide eyes that will dart around for an escape door.
make sure to block such doors with heaps of warmer, kinder smiles.
appear interested.
I know you’re bored, but make her feel like a diamond mine you’re excavating. you might, in a while, tumble upon a gem.

step three, don’t ask her what’s wrong. don’t enquire about the kittens clawing at her tongue or the fists she’s hiding in the folds of her skirt.
don’t ask her if she’s wearing a mask,
why her expressions aren’t coming through.

step four, ask simple questions. preferably yes or no ones.
more warm smiles and crinkled eyes would help.
do not ask her to speak louder, her lungs are sobbing so hard, she can’t.

step five, pretend to be a little awkward yourself. you will find her seizing the opportunity to deliver a ten worded sentence.
acknowledge this wondrous attempt by agreeing with her.
nod violently.
don’t be disappointed when she remains impassive to this kind gesture.
one day, in the near future, she will explain to you how she’d actually felt. how nothing could compare to that little success story.

step six, if she is still uncomfortable, leave. if she isn’t, carry on.

step seven, don’t forget to come back.

step eight, don’t forget to come back.

step nine, don’t forget to come back.

step ten, don’t tell her how much she has changed. don’t ask her to speak softer, in fewer sentences.
don’t constantly make references to your initial conversations,
or tell her how her heart had been thumping so loud the first time, that words seemed to crawl back into her mouth in fear.
or how her terror had been so palpable that you kept poking it, wounding it, expanding it.
don’t tell her how badly you’d wanted to laugh at the pathetic plunge her pitch took on slightly longer words,

step eleven, lie instead.
you had been awfully impressed at her ability to make conversation.
her face had seemed calmer than a monk’s.
her eyes had spoken volumes the first time.
her voice had flooded the hallway. it was so loud.
lie, lie, lie to her.
she will ask you if you’re being honest. swear that you are.

step twelve, don’t forget to come back.