my words say today

sometimes i write stuff so ya.

but maybe i’m wrong.

love is like being born with fully functioning lungs and only learning
to hold your breath your whole life
up until the moment when your feet are
blue and your fingers tingle then
realising that your lungs were meant
to stretch and expand.
love is like learning about a star
when you were six
and packing your hopes and dreams
in your school bag
with plans to chase it-
only to find out that it has disappeared.
Then at sixteen figuring out
that it was an aeroplane.
Love is the smell of a new car
that your mother has been anticipating
in addition to the excitement of being driven everywhere
to end up in the hospital with broken bones and 14 stitches.
(Not denying that the treats were yummy)
But love is also the tree that you imagined
your dream treehouse to someday be built on
being chopped down for expansion.

You find other trees. And planes. And stars. And your bones harden and you breathe again.

For breakfast today:

Breakfast is served.
On the table we have:
One serving of the crave in your eyes,
Two steps to prevent heat loss,
three glances of pleasure
and your lips with a side of
the tingling of cold coffee
that you forgot about.

For breakfast today
i had your lips, ever so luscious
and a seasoning of stale coffee
to satisfy my addiction.
For breakfast today
you had my skin, slowly bringing out
my true colours beneath
to show me that i am alive.
For breakfast today
there were moans and squirms
and pleading whispers.
For breakfast today
there was skin against skin
no longer aroused,
just innocently enveloped
to weld down the walls of two
and make an alloy of one.
For breakfast today
i swear i fell in love
with you
and you
and you
and you.

maybe this one’s to unbore you when youre bored on the internet.

There is this blankness, this certain emptiness that everyone has grown accustomed to, or so i presume because it happens to me, when the lights have been turned off. You sit in a room with the lights off, let it be packed with people or serenading your loneliness, and everything becomes clear. As if the lights that are on block your vision of what truly is happening in your head. This darkness allows you to dissect your own mind-
sometimes it gets extremely messy, everything starts to slip and your worst thoughts become seeds that fall into the soil you’ve fertilised so diligently for the good ones, ending up as trees that branch out and produce fruit too. Somehow that isn’t the worst-case scenario. Maybe the worst times are when you are in the sunlight with your skin shining and your eyes squinted; are you allowed to sigh at the beach? When you carry out your dissection with organisation, does it put you at ease or frustrate you? You are not a machine that is supposed to shelve all of it’s emotions, problems, ridiculous ideas and useless blabber into groups of five, are you? Good God there are so many people in this world do you ever think you may be an identical copy of someone else? Let the darkness be. Let it expose you, you need it every once in a while. Learn how to let the darkness inside you leak out in the sun. You can sigh on a roller-coaster. You can also scream. Realise you can feel and god damn it you will be able to walk alone without grudges. Your friends are right all the time (even when they’re wrong) and they think so too. Tell them you love them. Tell everyone you love them. Tell people when they’re nice and how that makes you feel. Tell them that they’ve made the little bubbles of vibrant colours inside you explode with positivity. Tell yourself too sometimes. Don’t see. Your soul gets lonely, and the only time the creation can talk to you is when the lights are off. Would you let your life come in, now that you hear knocking on your window?

Protected: i hope u dont get as far as here

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i was a beekeeper and a patient and a gardener and an architect and starving, and seashells and the night and the truth and my own good.

because i miss you in the way
the bees sting and you ache and ache
and forget everything around you
and focus on the pain.
There is a routine i was prescribed
by the greatest doctor of all time
he told me to stop thinking about it,
and it would vanish like the smoke you exhaled.
Remind yourself to forget, he said.
He never thought how much fault he had caused.

i miss you in the way you tear
leaves off of trees,
sometimes flowers too. Not for their beauty,
that never fascinated you.
You rip it all down for the good sake of
passing the time,
and that is how i miss you so.

i miss you in the way buildings fall apart
with their architect watching, and the workers
at home. i miss you in the way you step on grass
and how i never did. i miss you in the way
the child threw out what they had left of their
lunch, like that food is some worthless
material of unimportant whatever.

but i miss him in the way waves crash on the sand.
They tango with the moon
and caress the bed of land. The flow of the sea,
has always been my favourite,
impure as it is, not ever not sincere.

and i miss him in the way that
my eyes light up, and my heart flutters
and my toes tap along to the strums of his

i miss him knowing that he is still there,
how come my eyes crave how you feel?

you said i was your ink

there is beauty in tattoos,
their permanence:
their promise to become
a part of you once injected.

When you make art,
you use your pens on skin.
Carefully gliding each ballpoint
against dead skin cells
pressing down on the softer, older batch beneath
who, never mind you, are mourning their lost ones.

When you make art,
sometimes you look up at skies,
and use your lips
against skin, still.
Luring skin
with “life to the skin you touch”
when all the life that was gifted
was to you.

When you make your Art,
you write names and stories
on your own skin
with your favourite pen at that time.

then you go back home and scrub it off, throw the pen away, and start all over again.

you are a sun too

i am the flower,
one of the most attractive,
grown with love and sweat
producing breathtaking colours and sweetness:

you were the human
deeply in love.
Your eyes searched
frantically for something, anything,
my petals were your victim.

She loves me,
she loves me not,
after the mind games.

I still grow towards the sun
even with my petals undone.

i never knew

now there are things flying
out the cavities in my skull
and i swear they are all making me

Drag your feet along the forgotten path,
you are the monument that is being replaced.
Do you know how hard it is
to be so high up in the sky
of everybody else, except yours?
Maybe it’s just the reflection but
your eyes are shimmering
more beautifully than the stars ever did
and the clouds you’ve always tried to hide your soul with
only amplify how magnificent what you are filled with is.

You are the blood of the suicidal
the dirty water in the swamp.
You are the antiques that my grandmother would have bought
from the times she would sneak out to see my grandfather.
You are selflessness,
the only voice that could soothe the haunted and allow rest to the dead.
You are the nonsensical blabber of the teenage human with an aching heart.

You are.
and you are quite.

Protected: You, in the most cliché form of them all.

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They sat with their bare backs to the cold glass that could be considered the external wall of the skyscraper they called their home. Her dark fringe reached her upper eyelids and her hair to the freckle near to her last pair of ribs. With her eyes tightly shut, her eyelashes careful not to let go of each other, her fingertips slowly caressed the cold hard marble under her. Her index finger first, then followed by the rest, they all felt the icy temperature of the reflecting material. The marble was pale beige, just a shade darker than her own skin. Her mind wandered off and her thoughts built a whole backstory to the blocks under her. The marble was skin, and the whole building an animal, perhaps a human, stuck in place (much like her right now) and it giggled with every fingertip tickling it. Her head, as heavy as lead, hit back against the now dirty glass again and again. Everything was happening at once and she had no idea what to do.

Forcing her lashes to part, her bright green irises lit up the room. The empty room before her, except for him, felt filled. The rays of light coming in from outside allowed her to observe every single particle of dust. Every time she finds a new particle she remembers a different time. The small straight one reminded her of the time she went to the beach and wore her favourite red dress. The longer one with a small curl at the ends got her remembering her old school and the way she played in the rain. Her fingertips stopped tickling the monster’s skin.

“I like the weather today.”


“It’s just cold enough for my skin to stay dry and warm enough for my nose to stay tanned,” he chuckled.



He talked to her about the weather when the walls of the room around them had dents and splatters of paint that meant so much more than how the weather made his skin look. She stretched her legs out in front of her to get her blood circulating in them again. Admiring her black skirt, she lifted her head off of the poor glass and lifted her thighs off of House’s skin to stand up. Her feet quietly moved around, her conscious of her every move and how much weight to put on each, as her eyes searched for her shirt in the corridor. That was her way of telling him to leave. He wanted to. He dreaded every second that he spent in this house and this room and especially this spot since the day that he told her, but there was no choice but to tell her the truth.

His muscles never felt weaker and his bones more sore. Trying to push himself up would only cause more agony, so he stopped trying. With his knees directly in front of him, he wrapped his arms around them and buried his face deep in between them. He still had no idea why he talked about the weather. Every time he would open his mouth to project an interesting, or so he thought, thought that occurred to him earlier, he would end up spitting out something completely idiotic. He sighed, then searched in his pocket for his lighter. His hands went up to his face, rinsing off the shame with their dryness, then through his already messy blond hair. They then proceeded to feel the area around the block he was sitting on to find his cigarettes, at least that would calm him down. Striking his thumb against the roller and pressing it onto the lighter’s button the first time didn’t work, neither did it the second time, but the third time did the job. His left hand searched this time to find the cigarettes, then picked one out to lift it up to his craving lips, his shaking lips, his purple lips.

“Please God let him be gone,” she thought, her steps getting heavier the closer she got to the empty room. He wasn’t.

Dianne had to figure out a way to get him to leave. She had to figure out a way to get him out of her life, at least for the next three months. Her tongue would tie itself up and swallow itself down every time she would think about him leaving. She never did really figure out if she wanted him gone or not. She no longer thought it was an obligation for her to hide away the obvious swellings or the dark blue and green bruises on her body. She no longer feared the ones to come, either. With her shirt on and her hands tying up her hair, her feet led her to the balcony door where she paused for a few seconds to finish up her hair, and then pushed at with all her might. The view in front of her eyes was absolutely mesmerising. All the inhabitants of the building always complained about the horrible view of the urbanised roads and polluting cars, but she thought it was the best thing she could ever see. Her eyes would never get tired of counting the red cars in the midst of the usual blacks, whites and greys. She passed time by watching the young hotel porter of the hotel across the street try to carry the bags that usually weighed three times how much he did onto his golden cart. She found it ironic how his cart was glittering as opposed to his physically exhausting job. There was no wind to blow through her hair, just the sun to burn holes into it.

He was not confused any more. He could never completely grasp what was going on from the first few minutes, but then he would go back to his natural state of acceptance. After burning out three cigarettes, he gathered enough calm nerves to go up and explain her brain to her all over again. Like he did the week before, and the week before that, and every single week for the past seven years. He did not mind, not one bit, not at all. He did not mind that he had to explain the way she thought to her, he never did. Actually, during the first four years, Laith enjoyed it. He had the honour of carefully unwrapping her covers to finally understand what she was about, but the covers never stopped coming. Oddly enough, each cover stretched out more than the one he finished deciphering, and he loved himself a good challenge. His thighs ached as he got up and his head spun around itself thirteen times. His vision was blurry and obstructed by these weird blotches of yellow and black accompanied with an eerie sensation behind his eyelids. Extending his arms out to balance the water in his ears, he finally got himself stable again. He laughed, half-heartedly, at how his feet looked like the only thing with a pigment in the room, other than the beautiful colours on the walls then stepped onto the balcony to begin his weekly talk with her.

“Dianne, would you listen to me at least? I know you don’t want to look at me, I know you think I caused these horrible bruises, but darling I promise you, I’m not like him. You aren’t covered in bruises, I swear. I swear, darling, just open up your eyes. You aren’t living with him any more,” he whispered into her right ear as she intently listened. She frantically searched for the bruises she saw a few minutes ago and turned around.

“How… They were he-“

“Yes, I know, honey. They were here, and here, and here, and here.” He said, pointing at the places she recalled to be bruised. Lifting her left hand up to eye-level he smiles and says, “and remember, you have a ring.”


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