I had torn open a wound;
Stitches made of gold
Medicine smeared of silver.
When it bled, it bled sounds;
Sounds of old people talking,
Sounds of young ones panting,
Voices of bright and dark colors,
Voices of you and me.

This wound,
This wound was mine and yours,
A depth measured by the words we fired at each other.

It had healed, maybe,
But I had a blade,
A brand new edge,
And I hacked at the golden threads,
I washed the silver away.

Here it is,
The open wound,
The loud, bleeding wound.

…I’m no doctor,
I’m just an assistant,
A slave,
A slave to my mind.


The way home.

I always used to think
I’m just a little far away from home
An arm’s length from my nagging mother
A minute from my brothers
A sigh away from my best friend
And a fall away from my love.
I am,
Just a little far away from home;
But every day
I travel a little further inside
The remote dark parts of my mind
Telling me
That I’m almost there
That I’m almost home
It’s just a little far away
A little cut away
A little drop away
A little hop away.


I’m empty.

Every evening after work,
I sit and stare at the walls,
Wondering what to paint,
Wondering where my words went,
Asking the void how I got lost.
And I see,
That I’m empty.

I’m empty,
But they say,

You’re half full. 

They say,

Don’t look at the other half.

They say,

You won’t break,
You’re strong.

But I know;
I’m empty.

I’m full of cowardice,
Full of anger undirected,
Of nonexistent faith,
Of pity at my skin, my teeth, my bones,
My very very core,
My fragile, cracked core.

They say,

Let us help you,
Let us see you,
Open up,
Open up.

But I’m empty.
What do I show you?

I’m only some bit of air,
Some bit of agony,
Some liters of blood and flesh,
And then,
I’m just empty.
Just, empty.

Some Days.

Some days, I am extraordinary.
Mostly, I’m just an average;
An average of all things I’ll never be.

Some days, I am the queen of it all.
Mostly, I’m a slave;
A slave to the image of the queen.

Some days, I am hungry.
Mostly, I’m the appetite;
The want to gorge on hatred and grief.

Some days, I look gorgeous.
Mostly, I’m a newborn;
Ugly and bloody and screaming my lungs off.

Some days, I am not myself.
Mostly, I search for my soul;
The one with no reason to exist.

Some days, are not like the others.

Some days, are just some days.

The Last Consequence.

There were candles burning with a soft sweet smell, inside the eerie room. Voices muttered inside her head. She floated in, wearing an elegant pearly dress that illuminated her face in a sinking but deep calm. A shadow moved somewhere outside as she closed the large window. The man sat at the table, his face half lit by the dim light. Her scent played around in the air with something else that he couldn’t comprehend. The brick walls reflected the glow in a darker shade, shifting the room into further uneasiness. She sat down next to him, and stretched her hand towards his head, in a gesture to comfort the fears he hid. His eyes seemed dead and stone-like. She inhaled sharply, feeling the cold resting on his shiny sweaty skin. Death lingered. The cut had been deep and concealed, the doctor said the next morning. Her death that followed, left scars that remained no secret.