Love Affair [Day 28]

Butterflies are fluttering inside your
teeth, lips, lungs, stomach, fingers cheeks
trying to slither out into the words
slipping down into the fiery mouth of a dragon
quite unambiguously insisting on plastering
their blues, greens, reds onto the skin-
a dead, important picture frame-
the dead, important, crushed laughs
of bright colours
plastered across all of your cells,

don’t you know?
your cells remember,
they carry it with you
till the end


Puppets [Day 27]

There’s an old locked door behind the
wooden locks of another old locked door
and there you’ll find the riches
of a little woman who fumbles in her touch:
there’s trinkets, and bobby pins,
little scraps of torn paper –
there’s bottled love, some potions,
a migraine inducing cry stored inside
the lovely casket of ‘goodbye’ and there
are boxes of hearts, very literal in their
details, very rouge-red-pink in their colour
simply waiting for time to flutter by;

There’s an old locked door behind the
wooden locks of another old locked door
and there you’ll find a treasure
from the time of sorrow, lust, greed:
behind the curtains which surround the people
you’ll find a tasteful glee inside more locked
doors, with more keys- always a little too out
of reach, and in there there’s always the little woman,
with her friends made of ceramic, having tea-
covered in little holes for skin, very literal in their
details, very grey-blue-black in their colour,
simply waiting for people to turn into nothing-

Palate [Day 26]

The taste of the air:
metallic, rustic, therapeutic
in the sense of a future that corresponds
to the very idea of existing: simply, carefully,
as the dust settles in to give the zest, as required.
your tongue frolics inside your mouth, rushing
away from the tang of the humidity settling into
the nest of your insides, the rain sputters
into the scene, and the expansive sky
seems to find your sweet tooth.

The taste of air:
lovely, wonderful, free.

Reveal [Day 24]

The incessant cries of a mother on forgetting her only child:
don’t tell her life belongs to the heavens, she’s not even
begun to realise of how empty her house is when she is
alone; don’t tell her there will be others who will take her
in their comfort when she is old, how her man will be her
man when she isn’t his woman; don’t tell her they will
remember her son a martyr when he died of his own
forgetfulness, mistakes, lies, she’ll begin to think of the
dreams she’s going to have to forget; don’t tell her that
the little boy left himself behind in some ways, for if that
is so, why does she look at his existence in distaste?;
don’t tell her the people he used to be, the people he
would’ve been, the people he could’ve been, for she
knows of it, and she always will, because for a mother,
her child is never dead- not really- until she herself is
no longer the mother the dead child calls to in the morning
for breakfast, at noon for lunch, in the night for comfort;
forget about her, don’t tell her anything:
she is no longer who anyone could be.

Vanity [Day 23]

Harvard’s MS Richardson 31, of a she-boar wearing a fetching new hat

A wholesome face, is it?
there’s course patches,
they’re calling you handsome, these days
the pig in the hat,
the lady of the time!

In the middle of the forest, she sits
unaware of the becoming life,
mama don’t want you coming home, she says
the pig in the glass,
the lady of the age!

The gruesome, vain skin
calls out to nothing near, nothing far
they aren’t calling you, anymore, no one says
the pig of worthy intellect,
the lady of deep neglect!

Red [Day 22]

Listen to nothing festering into everything:
it’s the sound of people falling in love-
does that sound like anything to you?
do you believe in love-

Don’t call out to strangers, never!
there’s things none of us would recall
if there was no danger- do you believe
in love? do you think we’re in danger-

There’s little flowers exploding into our skin
no, quite literally, dear, we’re being bombed!
don’t forget to feed the dog, the fish, the cattle-
do you think this is a threat? do you move on-

Broken doors, shredded letters: no we’re not
going to burn the house down, little girl!
does that sound like banging the furniture?
do you think we’ll ever fall out-

The war of the times is upon us, we’re missing
body parts to parts of our lungs breathing lies,
does the sound of death speak louder?
is this what they’re calling red, and dark, and harsher-

Listen to nothing festering into everything:
it’s the sound of people falling in love-
does that sound like anything to you?
do you believe in love?

Amygdala [Day 21]

I’ve been told we never forget the mistakes we could’ve prevented,
the lies we could’ve chosen to untell- “make it right, it’s better to make it right-”

inside frozen caves filled with warmth, I couldn’t unspeak my bitterness,
the hurried gestures to unexplain my faults, my shortcomings, fell short

when my hands physically held my lips together, the life kept slipping out of between them,
leaving behind hollowed cheeks: even more hollow felt the bones I couldn’t touch or reach

sometimes, the screeching of my voice would mellow down into a quite lull: you could make out
someone was breathing, very silently perhaps, intently lost in thought, or possibly devoid of any

and sometimes, I’d scream to unhear the constant monologue, swiftly tumbling back and forth
from right, wrong, nothing, while my ears buzzed and my hollow bones, empty but heavying

untook every unspoken word I took back, swiftly hung it from the palate of my mouth- un-unapologetic
in its persistence to be the cause of all wrong, all right, all quite mine-mine-my fault-

when hysteria jumped onto the bandwagon and proceeded to inform the crowd of how
untrustful I must surely be of myself, quite apprehensive about the ordeal of existence

and swiftly, undeniably “make it right, it’s better to make it right” wasn’t something you
could tell me, because everything was wrong, needing fixing, and conveniently, all that was left

was an unbelievable representation of me: a woman, a child, a life- simply unright, unexisting.


Liable [Day 20]

The vacuum of a mind, exploding with
particles of unrest, big colossal structures
linked within big colossal structures
buzzing with kinetic energy, quite
mistrustful of their very own space:
is that even for them- us. I mean us-
is that even for us to bother with?

Electrocuted signals each gushing
back and forth, preparing a war that
will never come, spurts of neurons making
up the unity of our thoughts: this love
affair is ill thought, we’re never going
to get out of deceiving ourselves
and when our last breath spurts out, helpless,
we’ll blame it on our bodies, not those who hold them.


Spill [Day 19]

cough up, slither down:
your skin is burning from the inside
and there’s a fire hose dangling from
your lips- cough up.

you’re dying of the words you’ve 
been waiting to spill;
last one on Earth, couldn’t you learn to travel time?
there’s only blood spluttering out of these lips- cough up

cough up
you’re dying and no words can 
save you now