Deaths of Former Selves

The spirals painted on the ceiling have been peeling since I’ve lived here,
Shedding memories I had buried deep in the flowerbed of my subconscious,
Those memories now shimmer and electrify, threatening to re-consume,
And drag me by the hair, back into the girl who used to inhabit me.

I miss her terribly, she had a special way of mourning for days at a time.
When she said something was beautiful she meant it with all her being.
But her manic neurosis had obliterated all the happiness within her,
The world never looked any better than a swatch of coral grey after a rainstorm.

Magnolias now flower where I had buried her, wafting pelts of sweetness into the air.
I wonder sometimes if the footsteps of passers-by echo down to her ears,
Shaking the locks I had used to shut her into the coffin. I could no longer open it.
I had tied the key to a rock and drowned it in a river because you had told me to.

This war has no victim’s, only strings of afterthoughts that sting my eyes.
I am blinded to the fish hooks at the corners of my mouth that force a smile,
And oblivious to the small talk that spews out of my mouth like a fragmented valve.
This happiness is forced, but the price of truth had too high a cost. And I was losing.


the price of abstinence

I couldn't decide what was worse
drowning or burning alive
I am wedged in a perpetual state of loss
searching for things I had discarded
when their uses had expired
and they had become an affliction
on nights like this when the sky looks half empty 
heartbeats would rise from the waste
the kind you memorise from a lover’s chest
I couldn't decide what was worse
drowning or burning alive
I am wedged in a perpetual state of suicidal losses 
and maybe that’s worse
wanting an ending you yourself had scripted
even if you were hated for it.


sometimes, just sometimes

sometimes, just sometimes, I feel better without you here
it’s not because you aren’t adored, I’d just rather be on my own
on days like today where the wind battles with the rain
and gusts of leaves rise into encrypted messages from the earth
I can sit on my own and spew the sadness I’ve been containing
indulgent in misery, as rain beats violently against my windows
please don’t read this and think that I have lost interest
without you
I’d be unattached
and fragmented
searching for pieces of myself
I’d lost
in the bottle green storm
of your eyes.



this was the fluttering daze of Sunday afternoons
the way the atmosphere slumbered into itself
was sort of a miracle – the brown paper bag of subtleties
hours of making tea, seeped twice, bitter but warm
and wanderings into the cold for the nicotine I’ve been craving
sometimes I think of calling you and asking if the sky
had the same pinkish hue as it did that night I told you I hated you
maybe you've forgiven my cold apathy
maybe you've finally gotten around to understanding
that the dusk inside my skull filled too many creases
to let you in to rest amongst the ruin
because my disappointments had sharpened thorns
that liked to nick the veins of the men I’ve loved
I think that I am too heavy from the blood of them
I am congealed with redness that I find it difficult to breathe
when I cough pink droplets escape from my lips
and a memory is lost, only to be replaced
by lethargic hums that had slinked up from my shoes
I did not want to betray you but you made it easy
I’ve never wanted understanding, I wanted to be restrained
to someone who knots burn and graze at the same time
because it meant that I didn’t have to be anywhere else.