Razors, a set
cheap but edges still oozing
with deafening metals, and I held onto the limb as tenacious as my index and thumb allowed
the bridge of my nose I speculated, thin hairs grew towards my temple and bone
which way do these turn
I do anticipate red at any anxious second now
vile sound, viler when I’m caught wondering if it had talked at all
every follicle is amplified to be tough and rough
clashing surfaces and I guide the collision to unruly brows
it was cathartic, like pulling roots out of an olive meadow
but no,
The blade hovered and tempted to thrash
I’m caught watching splatters on my mirror
back to baby hairs, the need to be smooth and slick and shining
I disconnected all and there it is - pores and pores and pores and pores
And there It is - the need to turn from the reflection and perhaps focus on

My eyes, rest on thin veins dis-colored swirl pools
My neck, I wish it’d be longer so I’m slim and swallow my sole repulse
My neck, I can let guys try to reach the end of me
My neck, I envision a slice already draining every milliliter of my body wined


Don’t be neurotic, please don’t be obsessive
They, with keen eyes and acute minds, they say that love is not all that – not. All. That!
May you hold in your hands what you have manifested in your mind, growing arithmetically, akin to the moss and fungi of a sturdy rock overshadowed by the dawn of your own predicament; like skin to skin cravings, recollection to recollection ebbing, bellyache to bellyache..
Ergo, pleading that every inch of me tainted can poison the wings of an unsolicited and unreciprocated devotion to a sheer illusion
Unlikely, unfathomable
Am I, Is this, akin to the thin sheet of a girl you have molded from the foreign ashes, to me
Teach me to speak in the chords of your favourite songs, teach me to speak in the strokes of your favourite paintings, teach me to speak trauma trauma trauma And I will abide
Unlikely, unheard of
Torn me already to figments of your imagination, this girl is
Unlikely, unknown
To me


Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas
O Exigency!
I abide by logic; reason; compassion; empathy no more Surmount epilogues-prologues-intermittent,
Intertwined with earthly tongue
Speak Sin
Speak Rotten
Speak Prometheus
What good are exalted origins when His odium is seen in every synapse; Host Me! Let me be your dancing plastic bag,
I will, I shall conceive atonement for directionless living
Misty eyes, begging irises
Taste beauty immortal made, immoral-like
Touch omens riding on wisps of Eden
Hold your soul, child!
(No more)


What happened to simply being able to be impressed, amused, touched?
Why am I no longer sentient
But rather a coagulated mess of
Disheartened yeses
Furtive stares
When hands reach out, may as well
Pass me and
Reach the wall I’m leaning against, holding Together ribs and pelvic bone and tendons and skin and fingers
But not a single
Figment of soul


Stygian eyes and
Mauve-like spine
Painted are Thee with the brightest parts of mine,
A reliquary! Of
Gilded scripture Thou has
Set, back to back
To meager scarce lies and
Yet these words I weave
Are merely votive offerings for
A gem, its facets potent to reflect even
The deepest parts of Thy mind
Artfully elude(d)
She cares not, aches, and sighs


I hold art in the chambers of heart
Don’t drive something out of weariness
For concepts’ embodiment needs nothing of your Heaviness, compare it to grey-scale swirls
Well, encapsulated are accounts of
Something that transcends all realm
Real reality
Plug up my voids, disoriented
Have you seen real art?
Have you seen real art?


This is your funeral
Banality, adhering to course
Of action of narrative
Me? My anxiousness?
In turn, this is a first
Creating something you can’t bear
As if you’re a martyr for my
Misdoings, soft… guiding
Velvet Ghosting
Oh (serendipity!) you remain
The golden goblet
Don’t spill, spoil
Purely naively savor
Every molecule hailing from entropy
This Is Your Funeral


I am a starvling,
brush away the cavities previously filled with honey blues, coalescing
eaten off by animosity, emptiness, idiocy
carve out my being, I Am
starved, of
corroded conversation, charred certainty
being, suckling any figment secularity
nurse me back to halfway between nothingness and