I like to believe that time is pixie dust washing away in an hourglass. This year, it seems pixies were playing with the hourglass like Tiktokers play with playback speed buttons. I saw loneliness courting humanity, foxtrotting around the planet like Newton’s law of gravitation.
When did we start folding our souls like an origami of backspaced texts? When did we decide to play Russian roulette of “what ifs” before displaying fragments of our hearts to people? When did we become security guards with 7 years of experience to keep an eye on the people who wandered in our minds? When did we master the warfare of defense mechanisms with self-depreciating jokes? When did we construct an outpost to prevent the softness of vulnerability?
They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.
My heart and mind are caught in a bar brawl and I am writing a list, 101 reasons why I do not want to take a bath in a tub full of cheap barroom whiskey. I am under so much pressure, that every time I yell about my mundane frustrations, a diamond falls out of my mouth.
This year morgues served welcome drinks no one ever wanted. We inclined towards ice skating, tiptoeing with skates on sheets of paranoia and uncertainty. Silly! You don’t tiptoe on ice, you will plummet like snowflakes that never had the chance to twirl magically in a Disney movie.
They are building altars on bloodied grounds and calling dead gods to bless purging promises they made in their name. They are cultivating hatred for melanin sundresses and rainbows. They are killing trees, making paper, and writing “save trees” on it.
I am a liar.
Let me tell you a story you wouldn’t even try to understand: I have vanished into easels and thrown myself into an ocean of stories.
In my daydreams, I am cuddling the moon and gluing the stars to form constellations like the connect the dots puzzles that arrived in the newspaper every Sunday.Continue reading “Witching Hour: Snippet”
The story of Goddess Hestia is the story of warmth scintillating in the hearth. A place you come back to, kicking off your shoes, changing into over worn cartoon pajamas and light the scented candle called ‘home’.Continue reading “The Hearth of Kindness: Prose Poetry”
On days, my heart is a wreckage of Hiroshima and my pulse, echoes the final goodbyes of torpedo bombers in the battle of Midway. I cannot speak because my mouth is clogged, as if someone has force-fed me shards of the broken wind chimes instead of Cheetos for dinner.Continue reading “Refillable Glasses and Empty Spaces: Prose Poetry”
Oh, darling, I see you. I see you radiating like a kaleidoscope of aurora lights during the witch-hour, staring into the mirror for a little bit too long. A little bit too long. You gaze at your curves like they are swirls of sundae gourmet in your isolated hostel that rot during the quarantine.Continue reading “Elegance and Jamais Vu: Prose Poetry”
Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?
Tonight, the sky is the graffiti of stars, the salsa dancers seducing the manifolds of space,
Air, full of exclamation marks like conspiracy theories discussed in neon alleys over pawnshop cigarettes.
You see her, polaroids of wonders of the world in her eyes, casting long shadows on your wall visits you once in a while,
A fallen angel with a crooked halo and an ancient forest for a smile.
The Damned Poetry
They say, “Butterflies are proof that you can ride the carousel of darkness yet still walk out into something beautiful.” But I was reluctant to agree.
You live inside the phenomenon that Newton was never able to discover.
Metaphors and Paradoxes
She was thirteen when she became the artist of imagery, metaphors and Surrealism,
Her exercise books filled with irregular verbs and Vincent Van Gogh’s Impressionism. Continue reading “Metaphors and Paradoxes: Poetry”