𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓲

there's this world where my mother is a pesky little girl.

wildflowers glistening on her midnight helices,

stygian locks frolicking over her honey coated face

and no one has taught her to care for things yet.

there's this town where my mother is a frisky ickle menace.

a peckish summer on the roof of her tongue,

where the sun dims before her 24k gleam

and no one has told her how to behave yet.

there's this house where my mother is her mother's child.

she hasn't learnt to soak in the rain,

she hasn't seen the butterflies dead

and not even her mother dared to show her yet.

I meet my mother at her childhood home.

I don't ask to comb her hair, I don't frown at the dirt under her feet —

I lend her honeyed words to help the venom go down that she's yet to accumulate.

I wrap her heart in the coziest blanket before even the first shiver touches her spine.

there's this world where she's not a mother yet

she's the girl I've searched for my entire life

long before the world chained her fate

and put a curse of womanhood on her limbs….

I meet my mother, her mother, all the mothers before them

to heal.

to dig up the hole I was buried in.

to say “I wish your mother understood you.”

I look for all the girls bound by blood

and tangled roots of their wombs

I uproot their world, their home

and scream at the top of my lungs, “that's my girl!”

I am but not one with roots deep

into the soil of motherly love,

I am not some forest with fire kissed locks

not an ancient tree, neither do I carry

eons of life debt upon my shoulder…

I am but a seed uprooted in heavy storm

sole witness to my displaced burial ~

an untimely bloom of dirt

I am not one to touch the sky,

not one to climb ribcages of this weary world….

I am no mother, I am no children

I am not one with a blessed existence.

but I am here.

like a half remembered dream,

like a faded hope, like an almost

I am here.

I am not one of you.

but my tears soak the ground,

my blood feeds the soil just the same….

my footprints upon the forest bed

a pondering moon over my head

the dirt under my fingernails,

the rot, the bloom, the wildness —

is here. and so am I.

I am no heaven. I am no hell.

I am but life, I am but death.

not one of you, but all of earth's debt.

I too, was a sunflower once

a summer song, a bard in motion.

I too, longed to be kissed by poems

to be fallen apart, crumbled against the palms like golden dust….

I too, inked moth’s madness onto my skin

chained my fate with ember sparks.

melted wax running down my shoulders

like sweet release of an angel's sin,

my ablaze skin

death's breath against my chin

but the fire that never really burnt out

was fuelled by the flames of my heart.

had the dead dreaming of the fireflies

ripped open my ribcage;

had the song of ocean turned my world upside down

had this bizarre triumph condemned me

to you for my heaven and inferno;

had my twisted fate, been a second too slow

I would've plummeted a supernova from the sky….

ruins of my hubris rained like burnt crystals

warped out of shape and time

was it my destiny to drown?

half ashes, half ocean in my lungs?

was it laugh of a madman?

echoing as I danced my way down?

one kiss. heaven’s venomous lips.

fallen. from one blue to the other.

to steal moment's golden bliss.

was it love? or damnation of a poet?

I know how it felt.

to long the eternity once for myself.

i. I'm painting my lips with the brightest red of life. it's bleeding into my mouth, staining my teeth. it tastes rancid and sits on my gut.

ii. I drug my feral heart every fortnight. cleanse the lovesick blood with my favourite poison. your eyes are deeper than the trench of my self deprivation.

iii. I visited the grave of my childhood yet again. it was right beneath my home where I buried it last. it's growing roots now, crushing my bones.

iv. My mirror's eyes are haunting me. I might kill it soon.

v. The walls are speaking to me. they speak a tongue of memories I can't recall anymore.

vi. I must've smeared my lips against my heart. It's taking over veins and screaming in plasmic angst.

vii. My parents raised a hellhound. It chewed its way out of the belly button. they named it sweetheart and fed trauma in flesh.

viii. Grief is stuck in my unreachable zones. in my gray matter, in my lungs. I forgot breathing, I unlearned thinking. but how do I shed my pericardium?

ix. And when I asked, even death betrayed.

I've been a sad… sad girl.

I'm one part atlantis, two parts ocean. tell me, is my voice blue enough to dilute this venom under my breath?

there's black ink dribbling down my cheeks, contaminating my river of sanity…. tell me, is my blood sound enough to imagine it's worst memory?

I named my heart after kintsugi, but this rage within is aqua regia — fuming, devouring the last of my dissolved melancholy.

I held the last glass of luck, but I dropped it into the fathomless chasm of my mind.

now I have mirror for eyes, fog for voice. and no gold dipped poetry to reconcile these broken atoms…

I, a lamb raised in a slaughterhouse — have the finest butcher of the famished town on my speed dial.

on a good day, I let him mince my grief to feed my childhood home. after all, it's where I inherited my mother's plasmic anguish and my father's bubble wrapped ego.

I was the virulent disease to the hypochondriac air inside that house. I made it sick with my grief and asked — does my sorrow make you uncomfortable?

I live in a constant state of drowning waves, crashing against the shore of my consciousness. I have two blades for a split tongue, that follows the scent trails of my misery in a garden of foxglove and nightshade.

I can taste the salt in the air, evaporating from my lungs to the ocean….

I've been a sad…. sad girl.

and there's a billion ways to torment me.

my forlorn heart is dragging me down,

is somebody gonna match my grief?

The neutral zone between me and august is a secluded fountain of violent desire. it is a bowl of honey dipped sacrificed wishes breathing into penny rust and yassified mold.

august is a man of dishonour.

august is the balm that burns my wounds. august is the goodbye that i keep like barbed wires between my teeth….

because it is inconvenient to give up in august.

I've been starving since the dead of february. but now the redolence of autumn is filling up my lungs and i'm throwing up summer with a lingering stench of spring — to make room for a sugar-coated bullet in my chamber.

i think i'm losing it a little more everyday.

sugar in my blood

lead in my veins ~

this glorious tide of august is just a mild poison and i’ve been immune since my last death day in june.

I smoked a joint with the moon the other day, sent haikus to september with fingerprint hearts.

it said, mama look

august has ruined my thank you

now i live again.

i’m as sentient as the collection of dead letters overflowing my mailbox.

I'm without a muse in august, unable to decipher symphony from the cry of a newborn baby.

august is a bare bodied symmetrical mess — holding summer's eulogy in autumn’s embrace.

august is a liar. ain't no one ever set foot in august and mourned for summer…. ain't no one ever touched august with a pocket full of rusty air and longed to die….

O august, you are born old soul

reeking of sun and burnt moon

your waves overhead, washing the stains away

that summer has painted on me.

O august, you deserve your time as long as a slow blink

for this neutral zone between you & me

has always been hope.

there's not one killer bone under you skin

so stay. stay for a moment & tell me how you've been.

A life sized stone wall between you and me.

but I watch wisteria locks spilling through these chipped rocks to this barren land

and I imagine, love must be the oldest shade of lavender.

I smell the wind blowing from your porch through the black sea —

carrying the same dying wish, drawing its last breath at my doorstep

and I imagine, love must be the deepest shade of gray.

I howl with the wolves in harmony, hoping for the moon to sing a lullaby my age

the morning has sun rays shimmer on the best parts of your face;

and I imagine, love must be the boldest shade of gold.

I might be on top of the food chain, but this yearning to put my heart at stake,

to give it to you in a cold casket, so you can pull a string & beat out of it —

is when I imagine, love must be a desperate red.

I stand guard to this behemoth fortress, soaking in petrichor decay

the sky owes me a summer, but then you brought fireflies into my hollow caves

and I imagine, love must be cerulean in your embrace.

all my youth, drowning in shades of blue in atlantis.

all my ruth, growing wildflowers in crevices of concrete.

all my years borrowed, sprinkling dust under the sun.

all my life, I imagined a rainbow death.

the suicidal vampiress….. they said.

but now I have summer in my bones, now I have the ocean's breath.

the wall between you and me, long fallen

I'm drenched in lavender, gold and gray

I left my cerulean heart at your crimson shrine

and now I'm home. and now I'm sleeping just fine.

Dedication:

to my beloved, to my fragile little cygnet

….nested inside these folded pages….

scar tissues over my lungs from breathing too loud, your fingers imprinted on my ivory neck…. like wheat surrendered to the sun, I too had a perfectly splendid song.

the harmony of night is yet to begin

but my skin too pale & my neck too long

and now even the ghosts are tired of listening to me.

you said your blood needs rest, so I left my heart stranded on top of your wine glass, toasting a half miracle.

crimson patchwork over white plumes;

for you my love. all of it.

phantom limbs over lost wings;

for you my love. all of it.

a baptism in poison water;

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders bleed.

your cygnet did.

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders itch.

midnight's screech birthed onyx feathers

it engulfed my skin, my soul, my dream.

come my love, rest on my lips. have a look at the colour before the glass cuts too deep.

the malignancy of swans has caught up to my neck — let your lullaby be my swan song, let my coal heart dress for the wake.

my love, I do perfect pirouettes over these folded pages as my shadow burns a chasm into their core.

Epilogue:

for my beloved, for my formidable cygnus

…..lingering over these charred pages……

I am a shiver down my spine, snow dust on the hemlock tree, woolen knots over my swan neck kind of girl;

a bride's veil over my backyard kind of girl;

homemade chicken soup with spicy ginger kind of girl;

runny nose in dark boots kind of girl; heavy blanket soaking the last warmth of a dying year and crackling fire logs kind of girl.

I am a humming carol, cinnamon talc under my fingernails, cookie crust between my teeth, crafting tales under mistletoe kind of girl.

I am a girl who sends billets-doux to every hill station she can dream of.

I am a december snowflake in deep midwinter, who sucks on the pale sun to ease her throat.

I am a girl with blizzard hollers for her first cry, blowing frozen candles on a numbing night.

I am a solitary rose on pristine ground, a delicate frostling, a runaway maiden from the summer sun.

I try to think of the prettiest thoughts I can gather.

I think of getting inside a nice box and tying a pretty ribbon all over my neck. If I can just be inanimate enough, wouldn't I make a perfect gift to myself?

I dig deep into my seven layered skin and cut out a big chunk to distribute to the party. I volunteer my face to smear in blood and watch merrily when strangers cheer to the demolition of my seven layers…….

I dip myself in a thick coat of confetti and lick the last of the glitter air.

And then I remember how ravenous I truly was. How parched I have been since no one watered me at 12 a.m.

Every year on my birthday, I dress like a fresh roadkill and have trauma dumplings for dinner at my parents’ house. The darkness under my eyes sings a haunting melody and I drink to all the passive clawing & active gnawing under my bed.

Every year, I venture into the sun and come back as a ghost of my memories.

I sit on the windowsill gulping down the ashes of my feral trail — potted in perennial docility.

I look at the prettiest bouquet in a vase on the center table and remember that….. no one has watered me in years.

you buy promises at your funeral.

and when we return to dust

would you care if the soil ate your eyes first?

would you fear the one beneath your flesh?

do we seek comfort or numbness after all?

A gaping bite on the fruit of sacrilege

sutured by threads of sin —

transparent pollution, free from redemption.

we named grief our home

and had freshly chopped tongue in our salad

it was bland by the time our tears had dried.

I speak so much for someone with a heritage of incoherence

like a hideous gargoyle, stagnant words rot my brainpool —

virulent strain of poetics under my fingernail

choking on an untamed beast gnawing at my throat.

We are born hunters, carrying poison pits in our collarbones…..

creatures of a merciless night

digging wounds deeper than the mariana trench.

we are fools. we are lambs.

slashing throats since the first dawn.

will you read a poem so terrible that it shatters the conjunction of your speech?

will you let it invade your neural ground knowing it'd feast upon your gray matters?

will you face a mirror so dark that it makes your soul invisible?

will you have a thousand witch's fate tied to your neck as it cuts deeper with no pain?

I asked you how it was to be a diseased poem.

was it agony? was it relief?

was it strange to pick apart a poet’s ribs?

you spoke of a thousand memories that learned to breathe.

but of all the tributes,

this is the only one that tastes like death.

it's all good. it's all bad.

are you too old to chase spirits in your dream?

maybe you should let it burn your throat instead.

I spread my arms out

there's extinguished sun in my eyes

nicked jugular ^

your blood is my buffet,

your body, like constellations written in braille over a stygian sky—

a shinigami, is I

won't you let me have your night to cuddle the last warmth out?

come.

with me. with you.

for you is I and I, is called no one.

we'll bloom like solipsistic dahlias holding onto our apocryphal necks,

we'll let the metal in our blood seep through our mouth and flood the roots….

you, child of misery.

you, who seek my name.

you, holding penny in your hand

will you toss it to sin or to suffer?

one sip. one guise.

one naive. one wise.

are you one? or no one?

A someone must sleep.

A someone of deed.

A someone has names.

A someone must play.

no one was, no one is, no one will.

there but here. here and nowhere.

this body

A cursed temple worshipping some unholy deity

this gaping soul

A missing mishap in the murkiest shade of raven pupils

regurgitated woe under this tongue,

I think I'm coming down like a wildflower with sore throat.

festered flesh of teenage mutiny

hollow skin, hollow bones

I might be the worst person in the world

but I haven't found the killswitch just yet.

I, the high priestess of desolation

I, the beast under guillotine of mockery street

I, the hangman guzzling cerulean —

crushing hecatomb of limbs underfoot.

Pray.

if you can.

when the mistakes under my cellulites are fluorescent in the dead of night;

dancing like burnt scriptures for one last time, in their beloved mausoleum….

this corpse is sitting too long,

like blood soaked ribbons tied too tightly around my wounds….

there's drowning livers in creeks of narcotics,

but I'm scared of my own heartbeat.

I got a ceramic tongue that rests on the kitchen counter

and a mirror with bite sized glasses.

thunder shoots through my veins

while my temple writhes and crumbles over arid plains.

what god should I bury? to reincarnate a human?

this life

is a raven’s act of unkindness.

which destiny should I deny? to tattoo the mistakes under my cellulites?

bloody knuckles. horse ride.

Two sisters.

wilting bouquet. blood rituals.

One mother, no father.

monologue cliché. confetti burial.

One mother, her mother.

tender flesh. rabid crime.

Fever dreams ache in momental glory.

Deads are rising, in family courtyard.

Of sisters, from brothers, to mothers

Do we father? Do we die?

Gene shots when clock strikes midnight.

Womb stitches come undone, biblical lies.

Did you unlove? When you cried?

Tear harvest, coffee eyes, ocean lies.

Father in checkmate, mother on move

Rookie disposal, one at a time.

Dried roots, never meant to survive.

A tree of fiction, bloomed, thrived.

One sister, one brother.

burnt phoenix. choking hazard.

One mother, one daughter.

Father, please. drown us.

You're just another pretty looking thing under this mellow sky. I don't know your name, but you look familiar — like a soft wound on my otherwise calloused epidermis.

like wrinkled bed sheet

like one side burnt toast

like broken nail

you're another gentle anomaly blended in my white-glove monotony.

does that make sense?

if i say, cliché looks good on you?

does it mean a thing?

if i say, you are so poet core, so doomed to life, that you deserve your eulogy in hieroglyphs?

i want you to die.

so the poet's ballad shall rise, and their angelic choir would hum in the rhythm of your still beating heart….

an imperfect crimson fist pretender.

rest easy, mon coeur!

and you leave before the curtain hides your footsteps….. my locked jaw cannot say your name, you're just another pretty looking thing wandering around this pathetic murmuration.

birds, bees, butterflies — you don't “b”elong

bats getting under your skin; your floating legs; your shimmery eyes saw all the darkness beyond your grave.

what if i tell you i'm so blind i let my gut follow you through the sunlight?

i never saw your face, i never heard your name but trust when i say,

you are just as impossible as home.

you are in my instinct that i smell everyday

but it's all in my head.

you're just another nightmare that longed to dream, a pretty looking thing is what they say.

yes, you are.

yes, you are.

yes, you are.

you are.

you are.

you are.

you.

you.

you.

honeybun! you sweet thing!

crawling through my veins, my limbs, my skin.

you are sweeter than sin, lighter than blood

your bite is poison,

not the most tender kind

but these scars i hold, smells of caramel and howling holiness.

sugarpea!

when we touch, we simmer

just enough for you to give a candy burn;

just enough for me to stick like the prayer beneath your tongue.

we play in vowels, devour in interjections —

like a creature of night circus

your nightmarish dress drips honey for the ants….

cinnabon!

you overpower my senses in your saccharine dictatorship

you beguile me, bewitch me, befuddle me.

i fed you my dignity wrapped in love

pulled felony in my body, arson in my brain

you sweet mayhem

you bring death soaked in nectar: i'm but a starving bee

sugar-gun my heart, now — i’m all yours to kill

you are my favourite hallucination

you diabolical treat!