Little girl kept her soul in a Tupperware,
The kind mom would get mad at you for losing,
but she shared a piece of it with everyone she knew
simply because that was what little girls did,
as if sharing crayons during show and tell.
Keeping what was left of it under the bed
till she met a little boy she though could share the rest.
He fed that soul for as long as he could,
but little boys quickly grow weary, I’m afraid they do.
Drowning in this permanent emptiness she finds herself
knocking on Death’s door as if a game of ding dong ditch.
What a shame she has to honour her childhood like this.


1:38 AM

Pick your poison they say, and oh how we do.
You smoke yours and I’ll gladly drink mine.
An instant rewind, me with every sip and you with every inhale.
Back to less complicated times, back to sneaky sideway glances,
to goodbye forehead kisses,to kisses everywhere.
To all the things we will never say we miss.
So I will take another sip and you, hit after hit.
Anything to revive the irregularity that once gave rhythm
to my tirelessly beating heart.


Your name escapes my lips.
It sits there dangling,
crouched, ready to launch
into the oblivion
you are no longer in.
Who am I kidding,
saving something
for sometime, but when?
Anything and everything
all at the same time
and I’m left empty,
but I know this much:
the past is always first
to reserved a front row seat.

No Religion

I am not religious.
I do not pray everyday,
but a priest once said,
you should never waste pain.
You need to give it meaning

and ever since then
I carry that around
like a ball point pen
yet nothing hasn’t changed.
Just some underlining,
exclamation points,
surrounding the big question:
what do I believe in?
Who do I believe in?
Left with a bunch of arrows
and lines that no longer connect
a misguided page
all scribbled
and erased.


Cheek against the wall for every vibration
because I know how much you want to be heard.
Rock me to sleep soundlessly and
hold me like you did the other day,
although I think you had alternative motives.
Please do not shake me so violently
I’ll combust into a relentless feathered storm.
I am stuck in this state of reminisce, you see,
quit telling me to get up from the floor.

Our Love Explained

Been searching lately
for the reason why
keeping a list close by
and I only came up with this:

Our love best explained,
was like two moving trains
going towards opposite directions
at the speed of sound,
at the speed of sight.
Maybe we were just passengers
whose eyes met by chance.
A fleeting moment perhaps
dragged on longer than planned.

Star-crossed Lovers

I do not need pictures of him
to elicit unwanted memories.
He is engraved in my brain
like the necklace I had made
carelessly with the wrong date.

Scratched into the dark skies,
a record that cannot be fixed
now to skip beat after beat.
A shooting star in flames
once bright, now fades.
A destiny defining mistake.

He used to keep it by his bed,
the necklace I had made,
covered in the letters I wrote,
but not anymore, not anymore.

I cannot help but question:
How many times they were read?
if they were ever read at all?

To My Younger Self

Gathered have I all the flowers
collected from the path
that was chosen for you.
Plucked are all the leaves,
barren now are the stalks.
I know my way and here I am,
but you have just started.

My protest, my screams
are feeble from over here.
I cannot help but watch you
find beauty among the thorns.
I am screaming at an unforgiving void.

If I could have, I would have
replaced every thorn prick
with the flowers I had accumulated.
I would have made myself
the first stranger you stopped
to ask for directions.
Your path may seem without direction,
but I promise abundance is yet to come.


I am a museum bound artifact,
though not because I am a masterpiece.
I am displayed for inspection,
abstract therefore questionable,
any explanation as a default is justified.
I am what they see,
what they think they know, I am.
A velvet rope divides us.
Try not to get to close.
I might just break,
the semiotics of your world.
I am a museum bound artifact
created by many artists,
conflicting judgmental delusions.
Bound to this glass case,
in this museum I break silently awake.
I am what they see,
what they think they know, I am,
but I am not.

Broken Love

It’s that kind of hurt,
when you feel something disconnect.
The shattered pieces don’t fall to the ground,
they grind against flesh, dancing inside of you.
It’s that kind of hurt,
when you know what it is like,
not to be broken, but to know
you were never whole to begin with.