Swear to yourself, the only promise that counts

I will never love anything I can fit inside of.

A promise.

I will never give my heart to something that I can eviscerate.
Mere specks of dirt make this being, filled with the baser needs of man and yet I will strive higher.
Not God.
Not for me a benevolent spirit or goddesses that cannot even move the hearts of the men who pray to them.
My spirit is eternal and so is my love.
It will last after me.
Long after I have left for Valhalla.
He laughs and tells me it’s for the warriors.
And am I not one I want to ask him.
Does there have to be blood for me to be one.
Can love ever be without courage?
Can you be without courage?
Isn’t my father’s name my battle cry?
My womanhood scorned by lesser mortals for the mere act of existing.
Are we not warriors traipsing this wretched land?
I kiss him.
And as my tongue goes deeper, my name blooms like a prayer on his lips.
How could you ever think I could be contained within someone as small as you?
I will never love something I can fit inside of.


Bottom Feeder Lover

spindly fingers circle my wrist and pull me back
the hold is brittle, I can break it
one strong pull
just the one.

and because you’ve read these sad poems before
you know how it will go.
something of a cannibal in a bottom-feeder lover
lovers who can only eat and eat and eat and eat
your hopes and dreams and sense of purpose and inspiration
and all the light and all the dark//
Eat their way down to your spirit and your soul

the hold is very strong, I cannot break it
the fingers are entwined in mine and lips brush our hands
But I spot the wide mouth, opening as if to bite
and eat me whole.//

What to run from: a guide

  • if they revel in scrounging through the debris that is your heart
  • if they tell you they love your smile but have never seen it
  • when they ask to meet you but it’s never halfway and always the complete distance
  • if they run their fingers over your spine as if checking if it’s actually a wishbone
  • if they run their fingers over your spine and are disappointed to see it’s actually strong
  • if they love the loss of your appetite
  • if they tell you they love you


Unidentified Person

I spot the body a few meters away

the body is flaccid, soft and horizontal

The body is heavy, it is soiled in the very places I haven’t looked in the mirror since years

The body is in mid-twenties, it is young but feels old

I spot traces of ink on the finger tips and traces of tears near the apex of its thighs

I don’t know what came from where

The mouth is bleeding, the tongue ravaged with bites, curiously,

all from within

I peer at the mouth under the lens and spot the last fragments of broken letters vanishing.

The body has been touched, fondled, kissed, caressed, bitten, aroused, entered, groped, grabbed, pushed, pulled and held

The body jerks and twitches

The body heaves and lunges and seizes

And then ceases

Exit Plan

it will be winter
i will be old and grey and wrinkled

I will be near a century old but not exactly,
only near, almost touching but not quite
because that is how i’ve lived
almost touching but not quite

it will be evenfall but not night
I will look above and stare at the evening star

there will be a small burger in my hand
a small act of rebellion,
a small act of agency
and a small throwback to how I’ve lived

there will be snow and i will be the gray and black vision among it

nobody dies of a meteor shower,
i will have been told over and over
drunk on rum,
and my 18 year old self would be proud

and there i will be, waiting for the stars to fall




bent, corrupted,
a little jagged, a little jaded, a lot more dented
but not broken.
never broken.

we scramble like starving children,
hungry for intimacy,
kisses all mouths and tongues and hands
hoping to feed this rotten emptiness,
a little while longer
just a little while, longer.

take love, take all the love they sent your way
and replace it
with jealousy, with insecurity,
with loneliness and mind-numbing, crippling heartbreak.

and what are we left with?
a spine too weak to carry anything more than a text back,
eyebrows shaped in a frown and i-swear-its-my-face, i look angry but my smile makes homicide look cute
voices rusted with insecurity, that it takes every ounce of your existence
to form the words
“i like you”

but not broken,
never broken.

we’re healing B-A-B-Y.

I’ve gotten real good with sewing needles,
I knit and sew and loop over the yarn and under the stitches,
back to looking all proper and good as new
slap on a fresh paint of coat or was it the other way round?
and who cares B-A-B-Y?

not me. never me.
i’m good as long as every breath i draw
does not make me cry out that was this supposed to be so bad?

– make small attempts at life, tenderness will flow in, I promise.




This suffering is so vague that I don’t have the strength to define it, and yet, and yet it’s so sharp. Cutting into me, like hot knife through butter. But I can only register the falling-apart, the frayed seams and the resultant doubling over.

I can’t tell you how it looks, but smells just like you. Warm and musky with the hint of arousal still lingering about in the room.

It’s heavy most days and just like that, not there any more.

Is it loss? or is it grief? or is it the realization that you were always so fleeting that I lost you the moment I stopped chasing?

Epics on Post-its

a love letter

You are the fistfight in the local grocery store. Far more fun than you have any right to be, honestly.
You are the creepy mannequin at Janpath. Equal parts pretty and unsettling.
You are the blood spattered harmonica. There is a strange story behind you.
You are the substitute teachers bruise mark. Mysterious, a source of gossip perhaps?
You are distant booming laughter. Foreboding, but nice, in time
You are the barrel of antlers at the antique shop. Full of the prettiest parts of many dead things.