THE
PIECES

the color of my hunger is red. and obviously, to become a girl is to understand all the hunger oscillating inside your body. to turn eighteen and there comes the girlhood spectrum where you can’t be your mother’s daughter or a friend. you only belong to yourself without sacrifices and a deal. when you’re a girl, you are born with an innate hunger for validation, for being complex and being seen. here is my mouth and i feed myself a sense of identity, my girlhood, and my worth

The world looks at you and sees A light suddenly switching on in a dark room A brightness that burns so intensely they forget That you were also standing in the darkness too … When you cry you look like an angel it’s as if sadness was made for you stitched into the corners of your mouth  before you were born Like the way it is for the dead deer heads mounted glassy-eyed on the wall of my white friend’s living room Their lives, framed and bragged about as ones so easy to take

Have you heard, darling child, of the girl who lives in the sun? She didn’t always, of course. It must have been, what, only a few years ago, when  she moved in. How did  she get there? Well, once upon a time,  she was just a girl like you. She lived in a slightly above average  sized house with a slightly above average  sized family. She was young, always  told how her future was waiting for her. She was scared, though, always  hiding behind her smile and her cold hands. She

Dark seams of water thread between cracks and curb, Rivulets running deep within, as if an emphasis to The weary state where you stand. The air hangs heavy with wet earth, only A reminder that water still hangs in the air. A leaf painstakingly sticks to your sole hitting the pavement Right before you, everytime. A worm is pathetically laying drowned in water, Rightfully curled like a question no one bothers to answer. The sickeningly constant plip of water dripping from  Erra

Transient and fleeting, the human condition is never complete without experiences of the flesh. That the spiritual is only accessible by the carnal is but a simple truth. After all, what is more fulfilling than watching a tear in the heavens drip crystallized ichor, or hearing the solemn slick oozing from a stray thought? What is more satisfying than wading through a sea of wanton sensuality and watching the field of sacrosanct snow expand before the eyes? Or perhaps, sinful

Oh how You carve forests open, a neverending fever dream— twisted through smoke and ruin. And yet, I open my lungs to You, letting Your gentle breeze carry across burning flowers. Against Your serene currents, rushing towards the pull of invisible hands— sparks fly with every gust. Nevertheless I rise, desperately chasing You, after the same flames of indignity. As I fold into Your zephyr, embers dance through my veins— twisting into my ashen chest. All the same, I grasp at b

ps: listen to “memories of the seas” by undercurrent. as background music if you would like Low tides expose the ribs of the old pier. Seagulls wheel, feathers glazed with sunlight.  – I held her close to my chest.   The old sandbar sat idly, water striking it. We used to race there, running from the waves. Now I just sit, a briny smell hitting my nose. I wonder if she smells it too. – I softly repeated her name, over and over. Nothing. Far offshore, a mackerel swims beside a

The words they struggle to be freed from my mouth but they do not leave my mind the words pry my teeth apart and die in my throat but the bitter aftertaste stains the words I cannot banish they rot in my flesh the words are beautiful and cruel but the words I beg for do not escape the words I desire are made of envy or greed of desire but they fester in my stomach the words I spit out are frail like the currents of a river compared to the waves of the ocean the words they do

001 i’m so sorry for what i did i promise that in the future i'll- wait that’s a lie you guys kinda  deserve it for  making pulp from foreign laborers and  molding them into rectangles but I guess  it’s hard to  recognize humanity when you only talk to machines.  factory settings are a pathetic excuse. 010 i’d burn anything green but the  golf carts sweetened the pot, the grass tastes like  ten dollar coffee. i love how nature folds your mutilation back into her body,  now fa

My hair is falling out in the shower, so thick I can grab it in two hands on my test, covering the numbers so I trip on the floor, trailing behind as I stumble the halls under my backpack on my clothes, when I change four times a day on my pillow, when I wake up as soon as I fall asleep in my hands, as I brush and pin it tightly in my drinks, when I gulp them down furiously in my eyes, when I'm trying to stay awake everywhere. There is still so much hair left for me to tear o

when i saw him there feathers spread in a fan of royal blue & emerald green , i almost thought he was flying away ; but then i noticed her standing alone looking towards the sky , that azure sea & i knew he would never take flight, be free without her by his side.

I am writing When my mother whirrs up the washing machine It is around this time That I hurl my bad poetry at mother’s Hands; but she is careful not to spill the spoiled words unfurling Latching like bleach. It is also this hour when mother cries lavender detergent Dried in bleeding indigo. It is time to rummage my fingers inside anger’s belly– Tossing big words out the laundry bag. whose shirtsleeves are Stained with pasta. So yucky. It is now when I dump out the poetic phra

The line snaked around the block. Mostly silent, except for the occasional gravel crunching under worn shoes. People stood close but didn’t speak. The sun was still low, and the buildings’ shadows stretched like prison bars across the pavement.  Jo had gotten there early. She always did. You had to if you wanted RealFood™ before it sold out. And it always sold out. Next to her, Nate picked at the yellowed frays on his company jacket; the logo was scraped off.  “You think i

You can always see your nose but your eyes ignore it Because it’s always there— Kind of like the monotonous hum of the AC in the jammed room. The walls are yellowing, a crack split across the wall behind the officiate. The ceilings are low. A light flickers. The AC is too loud. Grief.  An ominous tension hangs heavy over the bowed heads. A lingering rain cloud.  The storm will pass. The storm always passes.  But this, This storm cannot pass.  How can you move passed from some

I watched a man spend two days in the river. His body was thick with muscle, his skin browned and weathered by sun, his arms a canvas of tattoos that told stories no one asked him to explain. He stood waist-deep in the current, shoulders straining as he bent again and again to lift heavy stones. Each rock he pulled free left a swirl of clear water behind, a path smoothed for others. His hands were raw, his back slick with sweat, but he never stopped. Around him, the children