opal eyes

She always sat on the same swing, and no matter the weather or the day, he always found her there. Mostly still, hands wrapped tightly around the two chains like pillars and guardians by her side. When she swung in the air, the few rare times she did, her grasp would slightly loosen- and he often thought about how easily he could push her off. Did he plan on pushing her off? No, of course. Never. But it was simply a thought, in the myriads he had about the thousands of opportunities presented before him. He often thought of meeting her, but once again, it played out all in his head: as either a simple, “Hello, I’m Tom.” to “Hello, you baffle me everytime I pass this playground to go for work. I’ve thought of the many times I could introduce myself, and I guess this is it.” He never actually even dared to see her face. All he had to do was walk in front of the playground and not behind, but he was scared that too would ruin the moment, her moment. With her spine gorgeously upright, wood-colored hair tickling the swing seat, muscles tense, she seemed deeply engrossed or entranced by something. What was she staring at? Or was she inside the realms of her mind, just like him. So her, and the thought of who she might be and could mean to him always hummed like a bee in his head, disrupting the music coming from his earphones. At 9:20am, as he made his way to the office, he would witness the epitome of beauty. It was a moment in which he found he was most human. He was a simple human, searching for the beauty in life. And somehow, it had always presented itself to him in her form.

She always wondered who the footsteps belonged to. Everyday, when the sun took up a particular spot in the couch of the sky, a particular set of shoes would hit the ground. How could she tell?

She was blind.

She saw in different ways: the feeling of transparent heat tiptoeing from her lap to her arms, would tell her the whereabouts of the sun and whether noon had striked yet. She could pick up the movement and crunching of gravel and estimate the shoe size and heaviness of a person too. So just as she picked up all kinds of patterns in her life, she picked up this one.

It was a slower stride, the gravel moved languidly under the heavy soles. It was a man, she concluded, after the first 3 times of his passing. Sunlight would heat up her fingertips and that was the signal. Scrunch scrunch scrunch. Then there would be a pause. He was probably looking her way. She never turned around though, for she wanted to keep him spellbound, to keep her assumed beauty intact. Refusing to wear sunglasses, her blind eyes remained wide open, like two big milky opals dominating her face. They took all the attention away from her praised facial features, thus, ruining her to-be witchcraft on men.

And both of them went on like this, her hair melting down her spine, merging with tufts of silky clouds in the sky. Him, like a hungry beggar, following behind, yet never getting too close. Both too scared human touch and voice would interrupt the sacredness of the moment. Both never realising they had become each other’s highlight of the day, each other’s break-for-a-second, where breaths felt fresher and life, brighter.

She only ever heard him, and he only ever saw the idea of her beauty.

“Nothing gold can last.”

One day, when fall was undressing into winter, it got too cold and she decided to walk back to grab a coat. Picking the stick lying on the floor, she turned around a minute too early, for the sun didn’t shine that day. He was passing by, as usual. Both were slightly too slow to realise what was happening until a small gasp crossed the air between them. Tom pondered upon those eyes, then regained his footing and walked past her. He walked away, towards his office, and towards finding another source of beauty.

The next day, she didn’t sit on the swing, neither did he walk past it. And neither the day after that, or ever, in fact.

Like humans do, he moved on to the next spark and she moved on with life as if there had never been any interruption.


acid & tender.

tender airplane




grasping seemingly for


yet nothing.


acid like my


5 lamps stuck to

each side of the mirror

so I can better

hunch into furrows

I’ve dug in my


of you.


Acid like covering

your ears

when flushing,

in that tiny





All this trudging

of feet to find

a recognisable head,

TV screen,

“oh that’s my seat?”


in tampering darkness.


Acid spreading like this

cycle treading

takes over my


soon I realise


it’s all tenderness

compared to my thought

of you. Whispers

of you

even on this modern,




(yet you still creep in)


3 movies, 6 hours.

Inevitably, like a

prisoner paralysed

by their own



pixelated lovers

circling other lovers:

I’m wearing coloured

lenses, filtering

all these loves with

past versions

of you and more

of you.


I wish it could all stop

because it’s blinding

me from the true

experience of

a simple,


airplane ride.


They distribute

perfectly marvellously, moist

lukewarm towels.

Distracted only for

a few flying

fleeting seconds

before heat scampers

into frigidness.


i think i just

miss your heat to the

point where it’s






so before landing

i’ll let my acid love

spread up my legs


(i really don’t know

how you find tenderness in it,



Munich, time to turn

the hour hand back.


may you be

may you be

chartreuse liqueur

makes a small den

in the space between us,

wrapping itself up

into a small cocoon

to then slowly have itself


by my hands-

your hands


so as we unravel

and as it unravels

i find myself pinpointing,

us, on a great big


dotted lines suggest

where we were

where we’ve been

and it’s one long winding

road, tainted by the same

chartreuse lamps


sitting between the

rocks and your legs,



too often i find myself


the traced pencil marks

(on the map)

of places we could go

maybe on bike

or car or train

maybe with money or without

maybe the trip

is all in our mind.

so it’s all maybe there

or somewhere else

maybe i would like that

maybe not really


my limbs, tangled between

“may” and “be”

and i look up,

back to you,

and start thinking


you’re may,

you’re newborn summer

fresh and dirty

full of bee’s buzzing

and may you be


emerald birthstone or

simply the sudden rainfalls

you’ll still be buzzing with

that life that reminds me of

may. reminds me

of the day i was born

so i can be born over and

over again everytime

we sit side by side,

small little bee

in may,

you remind me of –


may you be


or something




just let me

envelope you.


maybe i love how you’re

maybe this or maybe that

remain undefineable

i find that entrancing-

to put it bluntly-


(and to put it more bluntly,

every time you’re here,

you surprise me with something



a new way of seeing:

like im wearing glasses for the first


over and over


infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

to my mother//tug of war

broken thorns




supple skin

arborescent fingertips


vines around

the heart

the lungs


and you’ll want to exhale

but your ribcage

is climbing up

your throat

and you’ll want to

stay afloat

through the wetblack


river of –





dangling from


sprawling over



it’s a tug of war

we switch between being

the rope

and the




each other apart

just to restart.


we’re both trying

to glimpse past

the haze between

our eyelashes

squeeze past –

sneak past,

the gap between

our two front teeth –

the gap between,

our heart,

our words


and we try,

and try,

and cry

and try

trip over each other’s

broken pieces

with glue in our hands


waiting for attention


sneaking glimpses


calloused fingers

spilling over the other’s cheeks

wiping away tears


dust from

everyday life

sinking into comfort

with a twinge of pain

but it’s home


so we don’t stare



and in the end

we look out


where the rain starts


and we’ll be



gazing at the sky



we’ll find each other’s


in clouds

and sounds of

faraway lullabies

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze




maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling


heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?


i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and


like what i am not,


let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical



being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill


I’m addicted





Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats


Coats and coats

of laughter


press record!



pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough


they’re made out of


posting pictures

that define their


because they are

nothing more


emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens


But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect



Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.


Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.


It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t



Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.


Better not.