Slipping and slithering
in gratitude to her
addiction to
being incomparable.
With every
sway, swelter
up, down or tremble:
she succeeded.
With every
clamp, graze
twitch or clutch:
she did it.
With every
slip, break
hug, smile
she put between us:
she maliciously moved
beyond hills, valleys, mountains
beyond my love, loyalty
care and warmth.
Leaving me feeling lucky
to have her,
leaving me fighting
to keep her in my life.

As a last effort
to uplift her:
by cradling her chilly skin
in my tired claws,
she finally darted the skies she lusted.
I carried
her boneless spirals with
all the might I could muster
impelling my wings
to carry us both.
With that,
I became expendable:
I had offered all I had,
she turned to kiss me goodbye
and with the two small cuts
she forced into my skin,
I crashed:
unable to see.
I was numbed:
unable to feel neither
my broken heart beating or
my wounds bleeding.
Coming close to my last breath,
my blurry vision only
fixated on her betrayal.
I ceased to be,
to the sound of her cheerful rattles,
celebrating our parallel deaths,
falling in patience,
to our immediate demise.

His Warmth

Monogamy is
as natural as
How beautiful?
It is –  to unnaturally commit to someone
and display
the best act
of kindness and love?
In – promising to care
about their emotional wellbeing
above your internal lust?
Monogamy is unnaturally selfless.
It is the most
synthetically beautiful norm.
It is the warmest
summer breeze.
It is
a promise to your
best friend;
you will always
have his back;
cupping his spine with selfless hands
supporting each disc with
loving kindness,
that his warmth,
isn’t like any other
That his warmth
is balance.



is home.


Failing Anatomy


a child
associates security with
their mother’s;
voice or heartbeat.
I long
to hear yours.

It’s hard to lose you.
How do you?
‘Get over’ someone
who hasn’t actually
I feel lost
without you.
I feel
floating around waiting to hit land.

I’m married,
You know?
You would’ve loved him
had you met, before.
We want our own little family; I
can’t wait
but at the same time
there is a part of me;
this conflicting side to me;
who doesn’t want children
in this world.
In a world
the only thing they’ll know about you
is that you were sick
and how much that hurt me.

I want them to know
your strength,
your compassion,
your faith,
your trust,
but most of all; your love.
will never
know your love.
That hurts.
It hurts so much-
that if you ever met my children,
the picture
I’d have of you would be in a hospital room
surrounded by
machines continuously relentlessly
beeping; checking for pulse,
tubes inflating your lungs with life.

I want to name my daughter after you,
you know?
You didn’t live
the beautiful life you deserve, and
I guess some part of me
wishes you’d live
through her. I want her
to be as loved as you are.
As strong as you are, 28 years later
still fighting to stay here for your children.
I’ve forgotten so much of you,
Twelve years ago today,
you were standing
wilted spine
gleaming smile
at my high school graduation,
telling me how proud you are. You
always made sure I was happy. You
always made me feel like
my struggles as a woman
were only temporary. I’d give
to go back to the days
I could have a conversation with you. I’d ask
everything I could
and write it all down. I wish
I could relive all those moments with you. I was
tangled up in my own feelings about your malady. I wish
I supported you. I wish
I talked to you more.

Yesterday, I realized
I can’t remember so much about you.
Forgetting was
my coping mechanism; it helped me
take care of you.
I’m so disappointed in myself. I
should have been stronger. I keep
flexing memories
flipping through them
trying to remember something new;
trying to remember something,
I can’t. I am
afraid of days and years getting the best of me. I am
afraid of my memories being haunted
by the ghost of the weak you, the helpless you. I am afraid
of failing to remember
the loving mother
the fearless woman
the devoted wife
I am afraid of forgetting you.
I am afraid your dementia got me, too.
I spent most of my adult life
fearing your death.
Answering every phone call from dad,
with brace to mourn.
Years of tearful pillows later,
I’m still destroyed again and again
with every relapse you go through
again and again. I’d be
left slouching from the weight of a world without you,
needle and thread in hand,
sewing myself back together. I still
search for some of those pieces of me, never having found some.
They’re the root of
the gaping holes within.

I don’t want to live in a world
where you don’t exist,
but if I’m being realistic,
do you even exist now?
Without your memory of even us,
without your
arms, legs,
back, mind. What
are you holding on to? Why
are you even here?
I am so torn
between needing
the warmth of your hugs and kisses,
you to fight for me one last time,
needing you to
including us.
I want your freedom
even though it will be the one
destructive blow,
burning pieces of me
that I will never be able to reassemble.

I’ve lost the warmth of your voice, but I
I will always have your
inked into my skin,
above my own heart.
You will always be my security.

Defense Mechanism

The power
over anything
over everything else
is to be able to
push myself to
get over her. To 
push myself to kill her. Is it
murder if you’re doing it
for her?
Because you love her?

I’d explain that
is the biggest
heartbreak I’ve ever endured
the biggest weakness I have
the biggest source of strength I’ve gained
and the most draining thing in my life.

I’d explain that
is the strongest
woman I’ve ever met.
And it’s not fair for us to see her so frail and fragile;
that she’s incapable of even
breathing on her own.
It’s not fair that
her mother, sisters and brothers
have all given up.
But here we are, husband and kids.
Her true kin, watching her fading away slowly
unable to help her get to her destination.

I’d explain that
has given us the
superpower to
live with the weight of
her breathing carcass-
pulling us back
and back again
to that hospital
she’s existing in.

I’d also explain
keep gravitating to her because
our powers are fading.
We’re turning into shells.
We’ve been drained
of all the love
we could ever possibly have.
We’re losing.

I’d explain
it was

Unsaid; unlived

It’s as if
I’m living in an alternate realm where
only I exist
and my comprehension of people
is the only truth behind their existence.

As if
I’m bred from the love I have for myself
and the love I have for the ones around me.
Yet I remain uncertain:
As if I’m misplaced.
As if I’m myself,
but not really.

As if my other self is in control sometimes,
and I’m standing in silhouette
demanding X or O keep me alive;
too late;
I’ve died again.
And again.
I’ve let myself down again.
I’ve disrupted the balance,

My mind creates this
virtual reality and
relives my days
again and again,
whilst I dream.
to maintain
that I do good;
speak good;
be good.

You see,
unsaid words are not invisible,
they just reside in me until
my mind recreates
the night,
the day, and
the people:
what they’d say and
what they’d laugh at.

it reminds itself
to say that thing it was longing to,
to laugh at that joke it lacked to,
to hug that person it ached to.

The parallel separation of
my thoughts and my self grows.
As if I’m playing
a videogame
where I’m
watching myself do something I’ve already done;
or say the thing I wanted to
but didn’t.



found me
alone in
an unlit room;
running around
in circles;
chasing my tail.

what I was doing;
I smiled and said
“I’m content,”
(even though
that wasn’t really your question).

“but, are you happy?”

I cringed,
“don’t ask questions like that.”


reach inspired
hundreds; thousands; millions.

Her smile
cured every soul in her reach
from its own mayhems.

Her heart
hugged the whole world
with color.

Her mind
taught even vivacity
how to love.

was a dichotomy
to be poked at
and studied.

They didn’t realize
her secret
is her love.



But it’s;
the gossip,
the lies,
the deceit,
the arguments,
the tears,
the broken friendships,
the heartache. 

the trouble of picking up
all the pieces
of all those experiences
reshuffling your meat into place.

the angst of trying to sew together
a muscle
that’s supposed to beat
as long as you’re alive.

the sincerity in your pain
the innocence in your darkness
the anchoring of your freedom
the tongue thrashing your flesh.

It’s the beauty of the deficiency
the attraction to longing.
It’s the callousness of
your beating hearts
to be pumping blood
through the veins of living cadavers.

For what is
a heartbeat
without a soul?

Where is the beauty in suicide?