When they ask why my floorboards are made of mahogany, rosewood, and ebony, I tell them it’s because the darkened tones remind me of her.

Dusky floors brush my bare skin every day, both faultless and at my most fragmented.

Unlike those who should have done you better, her toughened skin was never afraid to touch mine.

This is a lie, I am on the verge of tears


My spine has found so many knives gorged into itself, I cannot make out the shape anymore. I am mad and yelling to some. Quiet to others. Cut throat to a few. Unknown and unrevealed to many. Who am I to me? I remember, I took a picture of my mother and studied the lines on her hands. She wore her hair down; face and nails, naked. Sometimes, her lips would flush red as if the boiled blood under her skin understood that no exit existed. In this particular photo, her lips were bludshot. She presented herself smart and simple. The truth, an undeniable fact. I noticed, even the lines in her hands were strong. I wonder, do they match the patterns of my own? Are these traces of my rage or my silence?

It’s strange, how some bodies of the human race seem to be constantly running away from their home, and others are bodies who are desperately in search of that exact, same place. Every night, I prayed I would make it back alive. “I have fooled myself into thinking I could stand in something sinking and, oh God, I have never felt so small and I am so scared to die.” To every prayer he would answer, “Child, when will you understand? For you, home will remain as a place you must always chase, you must find everything for yourself.”

Still, I cannot quite find who I am. But surely this time, I will not wander.

I still miss you, sometimes

I tried to burn it away in my muscles. Tried to rip them apart to prove that it would break in my hands. Tried to keep myself busy, tried to change it with my name, but I mostly tried to sleep it away. Change because it made me violent and vulgar. Made me drink, down the throat and out my eyes. I washed his beautiful hands and I can’t remember, was he my lover or my oppressor? When did we start moving in opposite directions? Your flawed views reflect on my metal eyes and I know better this time: look around but do not touch anything. Like it didn’t exist, that is how we’re supposed to be.



I am a different person to different people, but with you, it’s quite opposite. Like my favourite sunset, I dip under billions and disappear in the dark. Or, maybe I have settled and slept because my moon is watching. She holds me so tight, the art comes oozing out. And as these stars fall onto our world, I can’t help but stare into their shine. The world does not deserve to see her creativity, but oh God, does it need to.


First, I noticed her laugh and the comfort I found in something so loud. And although her laughter was beautiful, her true brilliance came forward as she came towards me. With every step, she stained the floors with pools of herself. How, I wonder, after you drained the colours from your own, can one still dazzle? “I do not dazzle,” she answered, “rather, I am dull, soft, and aching. Please do not rush me.” Darling, I find you very special. Where you find soft, I begin to find soul and your ache has created a pulse. I insist, climb inside and revel at your brilliance with me because you are not dull. Truly I find you quite radiant, take all the time you need.