THE
PIECES

A Winter Day Blink. A pervasive winter chill encases the only window. Ensnared by ice, the glass burns his fingers. Blink. Shifting to the wooden frame, he notes the condition of the window sill outside. There's cracks in the gentle slope, thin, bone-deep, slitting through the marrow and out the other side. A gentle wind now whistles through the sliver, breathing in new air. It has been long since the snow was last cleared off; the fissures, inflamed by the wet weight, pulse

within the ossuary’s crypt’s wet breath, this architecture of ivory; calcium scaffolding. not an elegant border, but a cage of yellowed lace, desiccated and frail, it rattles when encountered by gauche elbows and curious hands. it is the formal, final deathbed of absence; the negative space where marrow once worked in thickness and privacy. now a residence of other tenants: infested by soot, a home of larvae and nematodes, a canvas, engulfed by the graffiti of phosphorescent

the swimming pool drinks the twilight sky when sun’s fire yields to fireflies, and late summer smog chooses to rest its head on his shoulders, its breath the smell of chloromine. when he yawns you can see his ribs hold up his flesh like the water did: he were reed stalks drunken in the open breeze when his bare legs swung over the concrete rim and he are white sails shivering against his spine as he floats and watches the older boys dive, their bodies soar overhead like cigar

At 2:13 a.m. on April 15th, the vault door of Western Union Bank released its locks and swung upon. There were no shattered windows, no smoke-bomb theatrics, and no mysterious silhouettes working to disarm alarms. The doors surrendered with tranquil obedience as the locks– designed to withstand force and tampering– had seemingly complied. The night staff would later describe the event as peculiar, straying far from the safety protocols put in place. By sunrise, they had begun

See / Sea  *a contrapuntal  See, Sea,  The underbelly of the ocean, Wispy whitewash  Crass with barnacles, Cool like foxtail. I am  The joy you gave birth to, singing in the fields we played in, Chasing after my ruin, melodic like honeydew  You always ran ahead I followed your image, every night The grass turning into your voice;  Beating me, punished by my love.  Your hatred  When you looked back, I can no longer make out the shape of The wind blowing your hair against your

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