“later, love” said in a whisper standing at the door tomorrow now farther than ever my body yearns for your weight.
I need people to stop thinking I’m indestructible. I need them to realize that I bleed like everyone else, I cry like everyone else I feel like everyone else. I am not the Messiah, I am not the leader, I am not the blueprint, or the source of all things. These two breasts cannot breast-feed... Continue Reading →
Tears I remember when crying was the result of any and everything. Elation, rage, hope and hopelessness. Now I am an empty well. Is that what happens? I heard you harden as you age, dry up, lose the sensibilities of youth. I can’t cry anymore. Where has my water gone?Heavy eyes on my face begging... Continue Reading →
Patience is a virtue. A guru tells me that the root of my impatience is insecurity. I marvel over the thought. How interesting. This fear that if you are not chosen first you will never be chosen. This phobia of being forgotten. Instant gratification spoils romance. What happened to certainty? Knowing what you need and... Continue Reading →
with five friends I am five colours though, all shades of emerald green. —alexandrite & mystic topaz, from in transit matcha tea & bibimbap / sorry, Mr. Leeberman I met my first best friend, or at least the first best friend I can remember, in third grade. We hung out a few times at recess... Continue Reading →
2 Sides to Every Story “Just right,” the yellow-haired monster said, before she swallowed the remnants of their dinner. When my mother and I argue, there are always two sides to the story we write together. I said this, she said that; I meant this, she meant that. I find it interesting how memory can... Continue Reading →
I see you in the curves of the street On your skateboard Curly headed and hot from the heat My Parkdale prince First love, last love, lost love We meet in old places Tracing lines over memories Stamped into our skin, onto our Hearts, necks Sex, raw and passionate Unrelenting and selfish We crave each... Continue Reading →
My spirit is being threatened; today I feel the weight of Lucille Clifton’s line “won’t you celebrate with me… that everyday someone has tried to kill me and has failed.”
Is it the vexation of being misunderstood that shakes you so? Or is it frightening to know that someone, somewhere sees you clearly?