be gentle

another bouquet of flowers, tenderly offered. the sweet strum of your guitar lingers. i wonder how to protect my heart while still allowing it to bloom.

sometimes, i say, i’m overwhelmed by his affections. and yet here i am, pen in hand, writing poetry about our connection. i know it’s unfair, this tug of war, but our hearts tiptoe around what we both know: vulnerability is both a gift and a risk. and yet as time bends and distance fades, hope blossoms with every secret we share. you could write me a song — or we could write it together.

oh, the tapestry of daydreams we weave; painting our desires with strokes of anticipation. i stitch in a kiss. and you, a brush of fingertips. we might grow to love whatever unfurls. we might stop when it begins to unravel.

how do i end a poem about a story that’s still being written? i’m scared of the unknown, so i’ll leave you with this: even if we come undone in tears and shreds, i’ll still reread our chapter with a smile. that tug of war, we’ll both concede; we’ll find a way to stay at peace.

A Thousand Minuses

there are ten million people in the city tonight
and no witnesses to my sleepless cries.

starless skies, the moon displaced;
echoes of a love’s lost trace.

feathery kisses, soft whispered names,
in glimpses of envy, perhaps a hidden flame.

boundaries blurred,
lines crossed in the night;
a strange resistance to the candle light.

a fragile dance of fleeting chances.
broken glass. missing pieces.

in shattered fragments, glimmers of hope.
a thousand minuses, a love I must outgrow:

you were the angel; but alas it’s true
you will never love me the way I need you to.

Kintsukuroi

they lay on the rug, curled up, with their head resting on an unraveled mess of turquoise yarn. it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s in your head, it’s going to end, these thoughts will dissipate, you will not feel so intensely tomorrow, just fall asleep, it’s going to go away.

the last time they coaxed themself into believing these words was witnessed by a glittery night. purple strobe lights, silver-gray smoke, the taste of pineapple. pink snow, soft clinks. they lay there, stroking the smooth iridescent surface of their lighter, wishing the colors were less explosive. they shut their eyes in protest but the kaleidoscope spiraling behind their eyelids gave them no respite. as their mouth went dry, washing away the bitter taste, their tongue was repossessed by a tingling like tv static. dark thoughts swirled within, and they succumbed to the erratic thump of their heart, the burnt air in their lungs. it’s okay. it’s going to go away. as the morning lured the moon down, the air lost its shimmer, and the hazy memories of the previous night forged a cold sharp promise to fill their absence. never again.

but this was different. this was reality, not recreation. real life could not leave their system; it was here to stay. so how could they know whether it was true? how could they believe it would be okay?

their walls were covered in yellowing pages of spiky handwriting, soft words that seemed to pour out of their fingers back when they were in love; no fresh ink, as if there was nothing pretty in their brain, now that they weren’t. they should have known that falling came with breaking, that reaching the peak meant that the only way forward was downhill. but this is not a shattered love story.

that was a long time ago. and long before, time began to build a fortress around their heart, strong, formidable, and in times past, impenetrable. the locks are rusty now, and rust is desirable, because rust means old, and old is familiar. rust means easy to break. so there was hope, sweet-talking its way through the cracks, transforming the little fractures into tendrils of gold and lacquer that zigzag across their heart. beauty is born from destruction. our universe is proof of that. the breaking is not something to hide.

so there is hope, for even their nightmares are stained with colors, and those encounters are not reason to fear the hues. for their ears still find melodies in the ringing. for while the words might escape them, their fingers are still so strong to sew them back together every time they fall apart. and it is with that knowledge that they can whisper with certainty. go to sleep. it’s going to be okay.

Vanilla Bites

1. riding alone on the shuttle or the T, watching the lights of the city and the stations flashing past, being rocked to sleep on my way back home, my fingers numb from the cold
2. shifting in my bed and pushing up against the pillow behind my back, cocooned in my soft blankets in the morning and in the middle of the night
3. every time i nearly pick up two spoons with a plate of dessert that’s big enough that you know it’s meant for two people
4. sitting in the common room with my over-sized jacket or sweater covering my body like a blanket as i study
5. each time i take a picture of my face, but also that i hardly ever do anymore (no one asks)
6. clear nights, dark, quiet nights, when the suburbs grant me a few hours with the moon and with the stars and with the special kind of silence that comes with watching them
7. falling sick and feeling too weak to look for meds and to bring water up to my room and to take care of myself
8. every confusing math problem i’m able to solve step by step, every sigma symbol, the way neither of those things scare me anymore
9. western classical music and what it does to my heart
10. the idea of actually being alone in my room in the middle of the night
11. my $15 Dunkin gift card and the fact that there is one single Krispy Kreme outlet in the entire state of Massachusetts
12. the view from the spot near Hillel, the view from Tisch roof, the view from my room, the view of the sunset while running to Aidekman at 4:30 knowing i’m late
13. taking walks, crunchy leaves, crunchy snow
14. the fourteenth of february, its loudness, and the way i don’t feel the need to shut it out

The Curse of Love

as the slush and snow come down, i tremble lightly, craving the warmth of your fingers. it has been days since the hands of my clock changed their story, eternity since the taste of your body reminded me of love. just to hear you breathe would do more to give me life than air ever could, and yet all i sense is the coldness of the rain on my window. the sun crawls lower and the darkness whispers hostile words into my chest. and it begins.
suffering comes in stinging waves, washing upon my lungs, leaving traces of dust on my skin. in the quiet static outside of my reality, the world offers no hand. the raindrops tap tap on my window sill, they try but cannot keep up with the rhythm of my heartbeat. water races itself down the cold glass as i fight the deafening silence. i wonder why in such a situation my mind is so cruel to scream your name as some sort of haven, but perhaps that is the curse of love. you cannot separate the happiness from the pain. you must share one and conquer the other. together.
a tiny warmth flickers in my chest and burns on at your name. i wish only my smiles felt the need to keep you apprised of their presence, but so do my tears. for that i am truly sorry. to think of cool winds murmuring soft kind secrets to the trees, to imagine sunlight glowing past the leaves through the space in my fingers, to feel your eyes gazing upon me with the tenderness of a child’s touch: these are the gifts i grant myself during times of desolation. the human heart beats for a long time before it stops and vanishes all together. mine has never come so close to protection like you. perhaps that is terrifying in the way the very real possibility of one’s only home catching fire is terrifying.
i notice i’m clutching my hands so tight there are marks, as if i can hold us together though time has thrown us apart. the days have grown short inside me, and the night brings back to my mind your arms reaching for my waist underneath soft warm blankets like rays of sunshine seeping through the gaps in my blinds. i miss the way your eyes used to hold mine. i stare at my fingertips and the tiny slices in my skin feel like only they really belong to me. there is only so much i can expect. and so much i can hope for.

Tell Me, Honey.

there are some people who possess such a vibration that they can illuminate a room without physically being present.
the mere thought of you is enough to send rushing my affection; to set beating my heart; to command the taut, prickling attention of my entire being.

slow down.
let me look at you.
let me hold your presence.

people build entire lives out of turning away. they turn away from sunrise kisses and clouds wailing and force their bodies into creaseless costumes and lock themselves up inside cement buildings with blank faces to match their own.
people build entire lives out of turning away, running, running, running, but not you.

you with your golden heart and the sparkle you breathe inside, dream inside, speak of and teach us without even trying. you trace the stars with your eyes and see more than black and white. you play verses on my skin and both fear and savor the confusing pleasure of it. you who have been made of something mysterious which exists only in the frequencies of everything beautiful the universe has to offer. you whose brilliance has shaken worlds where shooting stars make wishes come true.
you, the steady in this breeze.
washing away all my troubles until there’s nothing left but your storm and the lingering, peaceful scent of petrichor you leave behind.

we are sheltered tonight by an upside down carpet of stars.
underneath, you nudge music into my soul; I write the perfect melody to the rhythm of your heart. you sing; I smile (your every word is like a little love note spoken to me, but perhaps I’m just being sentimental). you stop time; I soak up the moment, inhale the colors, the vanilla, the erratic pattern of your breath, and then I turn to you – I cannot collect the stars in the sky, but I can have something so close when I look into your eyes.

your lips rarely part, but when they do, your croon beckons confetti storms from the darkest niches of my heart; they bloom with a mysterious magical quality and yet a comfortable familiarity (like how names taste, whispered right after first kisses).

and when you cry, love, the universe holds its breath.
I learned that sounds travel faster through solids than through air, so press your mouth to my skin; tell me stories of the places you were scared to have been. I will try my best to understand, and with all that I am, I will listen. eyes closed, heart open.
half of you and half of me. half of love and half of sparkle. half and half is whole.
yet I do not need you to be complete, for you have taught me to be it on my own.

tell me, honey. can I trust the hands of the clock to protect us?

. . .

Inspired by Allison Marie Conway

Disintegration

Your eyes had glazed over icy cool, more blue than warm. I always told myself you’re there, you’re in there, I know it and if only my arms were a little longer. I wanted to reach in, hold you, teach you how to love the way you taught me. You had forgotten your own lessons. When did you begin to run on this toxic combination of pain and oxygen. What happened to your fire? I wanted to rekindle your heat but your insides were too damp with uncried tears diluting your own wisdom.

I did not know of your new drills, that you choked on chords and your shower-songs had been washed away by pink-red water. That your damp pillow had taken over putting you to sleep every night, an affair I’d only trusted the stars with. That your pen met paper as seldom as your magic smile curved your lips. It’s so clear now, crystal clear, that you were never afraid of footpaths and heights and science lab root sections and apple seeds, but of yourself. Scars on your skin, scars in your heart.

Snapped wire, broken glass. You always used to say ‘shattered’ has a beautiful sound, only you stopped once its feel spiralled into your existence. I wish I had shown you how when you were 4, you played with a glass-painting kit and the broken pieces fascinated you because they were so pretty. I wish I had force-painted your wings with war paint before your knife decided they had to go. Why didn’t you let them grow.

I wish I could see you wave goodbye to airplanes once more, not caring for a second whether people were watching. And again. And again. So many shades of colour took flight when you left without a goodbye. What are the colours like, where you are now? Does your golden glitter heart see more than black and white again.

I remember you from when you left little surprise hearts in our notebooks and always sang the loudest as we blew out birthday candles and how you were more proud of us than we were of ourselves and how your soft chin quivered as you tried hard not to cry when we did. This is how I choose to remember you.
You taught me the science of time. Today could be my last tomorrow. Or anyone’s. And with this knowledge, I promise to learn to love living every day. For you.

Eyes Mine Know Well

has no one ever told you that
your eyes aren’t brown?

your gaze has borrowed from a hundred places
a colour I’d use to paint a million pictures
clay, I think,
soft clay from the hills and valleys
with the spring-kissed earth
on those postcards you send
only to the ones you love.
your eyes have every shade of colour I ever gathered
as a child from the old pebble beach,
and golden specks; I’m certain
the sun once danced in you.
the falling leaves of autumn
have swirled into the way you look at me,
teaching me new languages,
of storms, of sentiment, and of silence.
surely,
if the smell of rain were made of a colour,
your eyes would be its name.

did the fireflies learn from your piercing gaze?
I know I want to.
I know the stars slipped out last night,
with only your eyes as their excuse.
I’ve mastered the art of tiptoeing past
the crackle at their surface,
and into the beckoning flame.
a kind of candlelight;
searing at the edges, yet
gentle at the core

13/05/17

On Your Shrinking

you look at yourself in those mirrors on the walls of the bathrooms in the mall sideways now,
sucked-in cheeks, and I remember
that crop-top you bought, that crop-top, a scale for your chest and your waist, a promise
but you threw it out yesterday,
tag and all from the last eleven months because it took you a while,
a long chain of missed meals and feigned burps, to get there
and that cruel crop-top allowed, after eleven months of waiting and ‘controlling’,
allowed the moonlight to still dance with the new shiny stretch marks on your waist
the tag from the reject pile mocking you,
reflecting the number that you skipped ice-cream dates and pizza parties to save up,
to save up for this crop-top you dreamed you’d one day slay
what a shame, you invited the chain to choke you till you coughed your happiness away

every grumble in your stomach was a step away from this cage, a step towards ‘control’, a step full of pain, unimaginable pain, but
but, well, at least your jawline and your collarbones are now
nearly as sharp as the silver knife that offered you its company while you stared at your kitchen door with empty eyes
and turned your hollow torso away as it extended its warm, welcoming hand of friendship
with laboured ease

your fight wasn’t with your mum over the sugar in your cereal every breakfast every morning,
it wasn’t with your favourite cheesecake
you’re battling with your own body and your head,
they’re screaming as society triumphantly plays divide and rule and
you’re terrified and confused and just sit, crying, hoping
that the tears rolling down your cheeks will be enough
to shut both the sides up and have them retreat, or better,
make peace

fast forward four months, and hey, this is a weird feeling,
you’re seeing your ribs up close for the first time in your sixteen years of owning them
the lunch bell triiings in your nightmares every night and
you’ve now recognized that group of friends that doesn’t care about you enough to check what you’re eating,
whether you’re eating

maybe if you would just look at how your eyes become stars every time you smile,
you wouldn’t scold that little lock of hair beside your ear
for failing this once to cover up
the second little chin that makes an appearance every time
someone or something lights up your face
because your face lights up!
you are the sun.

look past, please, your stomach bulging over your belt,
and at the book that you bent over to pick up to give to the boy whose things those mean, mean girls and boys
knocked out of his arms,
look at his lips mouth thank you, thank you, you angel

your body, darling, is not you
those boys and girls, perhaps, whispered to your head to never be kind to you
but maybe you only need to be the beautiful, gorgeous person you are,
let your body feel as lucky to be your coat as you once felt unlucky to be its seed.
teach your body that it only encases the magic that is you
and has every reason to be so, so proud
you’re that many cubic centimetres more beautiful, concentrated.

From the Moon and Stars

Dear Dark Night, 

You don’t give yourself the credit you deserve. Sunshine, for some reason, equates to happiness (they call it “sunniness”) in the world we live in. People crave light. People see themselves in the daylight. It reassures their insecure selves.

How powerful you must be, dark night, for you make me feel beautiful when I cannot see myself, by only whispering into my head what I look like to you. You make me feel like magic.

Dear Dark Night,

You’ve taught me to make sense of the mess I am to create the matchless constellations that fascinate people so. 

Dear Dark Night,

Thank you for teaching me that sometimes it’s okay not to shine. And that never should the sun’s shining make me feel unimportant or irrelevant. I have to come back graceful, brighter, and more divine and know that I’m worth everything when the sun isn’t.

Dear Dark Night, 

Thank you for knowing to summon the clouds for me to hide behind whenever I needed. And for convincing me I must come back each time, because I am needed.

Dear Dark Night,

Thank you for coaxing me out of my retreat every time my flickering threatened to die out. I’m so lucky I can be confident that our love means you would be dull in my absence. Your sky would be less well-lit. I couldn’t ever do that to you.

Dear Dark Night,

You’re always there when I am, and I am ever so grateful for that. Your constant presence in my life comforts when I feel lonely, for you ensure that I’m never really alone.

Dear Dark Night,

Never doubt that you’re beautiful. Exquisite. Truly denightful. Never feel like no one sees you. You are not an absence. You are not a substitute for the sunshine when it needs to rest. You are irreplaceable and capable of things I, and everyone else, can only depend on you for.

Dear Dark Night,

You are, after all, what makes the moon and stars worth looking at.

Love,

Your Moon and Stars.