crisis of faith


He twists a knife in my back
retracts & mends
and calls it mercy
He made a crooked design,
warped, nefarious,
criminal, if we could hold Him to account
and we are to marvel at the glory in its sidelines
while its failures, far worse
than all of our own, combined,
coincide with our blindspots.
I have cried at His altar
and watched infants be burned alive,
honorary saints be starved,
and wondered how He could construct something so cruel, so vile,
and fool fools into distraction
Why would a Father
who is any less than psychopathic
build a home where his children are dismembered, sold in trade?
Why would a Father
who is any less than spiteful
of children’s being,
hateful of their wonder
and distasted by their overflowing anguish
give birth only to cause regret of it?
They twist a knife in my back
i question, i sin
i say, so does He, so does He.

Tell Me You Love Me

Drive me to the beach,
with my feet up on the dashboard,
my nails painted the colour of your eyes
I will complain about my sandy hair,
and your laughter will wash over me like the sea
Tell me you love me

On blurry nights under the city lights,
let’s walk to the horizon
I will think about how we were once like the Earth and skies-
close, but far apart
On days when there are children skipping pebbles into puddles,
on days when there is rain,
push the drops against my cheek
Tell me you love me

When your arms are too weak to drive,
and the horizon lights blind,
let your scars out and I will kiss each one,
bleed and I will be painted red
When your words betray you,
and my heartbeat cannot set you free,
when shattered is all you know to be,
I will whisper into your ears that I am yours,
listen carefully.
Tell me you love me


An Apology To My Past Self

Dear old me,
I don’t know how to begin–how do you apologize for destroying someone?
When I revisit your memory, it’s like a rainforest has been turned barren.
It’s the ghost of a girl who bled through delicate poetry, lived for baking cakes and generic pop music, of a girl who whined about not being able to pet every dog in the world, and about how the littlest spice was too spicy and the slightest winter was too cold

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I pinned you against confined walls and strangled you, choked you until your brightness poured out of your eye sockets, and onto the unholy floor for pretentious men to step on.

I want need you to know I didn’t always have a choice. Sometimes life crept in through the back door, jammed its hands up my ribs, and carved out a deformity I did not ask to be. I realized it was survival of the fittest; and to survive, I had to fillet out your empathy softness kindness until all that was left was the skeleton of a fighter, the shell of a survivor.

I wish I had seen the good in you while you still had it. I wish I knew how to stop losing your smile like it was grainy sand running through my fingertips. I was kicking the cold water, screaming; running from the flames lusting to swallow me whole; checking my cheekbones every single morning for any monsters that might have survived the dark of the night; picking the lice off my brain until I was sans joy, a mere corpse staring at my life as it passed me by.

You have been long gone. But I hope you remember the good times. I hope you remember that no matter what it took, I survived the wars (even if it wasn’t worth it). I hope you remember that in my mind there are collages of your childhood art, mothers’ day cards, and burnt cakes. You have been long gone; thank you for visiting.

A World Alone

From the poet Rumi:

“Beyond right and wrong, there is a garden.
I will meet you there”

picture a world like this:

we wake with both our tongues severed,
for silence does not harbour lies
so that when love escapes from the splinters in your timber,
i know it’s true this time

where your love isn’t worn out by a diseased heart,
and my art isn’t born out of a violent past
where the stars in your eyes are spread against the sky,
where Orpheus and Eurydice are no match for you and I

[where] your beauty and my roses are as immortal as life would permit,
[where] your fingertips are dipped in a secret and it is only I who can uncover it

[where] you are a nomad and my body is a home,
and my lips do not play tricks on my intentions,
I will pick the termites from your mind and quell them all
I will be cured of craving you and the shame of shape-shifting you into verses

where there is a cure for love unrequited and for rejected poetry,
where thoughts beget words that translation does not steer astray

Beyond the ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,
there is a field.
i will meet you there.
i will meet you there.
i will meet you there.

//summer is in the air, heaven is in your eyes//

A Kaleidoscope of Me

Facts about me:

I grew up watching Final Destination,
with my sister yelling at the gory parts
I grew up writing poems,
and I still can’t stand when they don’t rhyme

Rhyming schemes, alliterations
and the act of stripping myself of pride on paper imbued me
I grew up naked- in soul and in paper.

When I was five, I broke my right leg
A motorcyclist rode over it
The sound of my own tongue telling me I’m worthless
is louder than that of bones cracking underneath me

A friend once asked me
roughly how many people I hated
I said
“all of them”

People scare me.
They’ll put your hope health happiness in a straitjacket
and when all that’s left in your skin is pain
they’ll creep up to your ears and ask “why so serious?”

I think thinking about the purpose of life is philosophical suicide
We live in a faithless world
and anyone’s who’s the least bit different
is fed to the wolves to be ravaged
I was, too.

My sister and I once shared the same favourite show
all we share now is mutual ignorance of each other
My only friend was my aunt
everyone else who ever met me thought I was a bloody lunatic
(I am)

My self-esteem fluctuates faster than the weather
the extremes range from judgemental to suicidal

I believe the greatest way I can punish those who hurt me
is by making myself inaccessible to them

When I was five, I broke my leg
I didn’t cry, not even a little
When I was fifteen, I broke my heart/
I’ve been heartless ever since.


Have you ever gotten that feeling, like you want to escape? Just be anywhere but where you are at the moment? I have.

There comes a day and there comes a person and there comes a thing that needs to be said. And I don’t know about him but I remember it clearly in my mind. The memory is of mere seconds, thin as a membrane, like dust on a kite but I still taste poison on my tongue when I think of it. It doesn’t make me sad anymore, just repulsed.

There’s a split second when you know what someone’s about to say and you want to do anything but talk about it. You’d rather talk about how your mother’s insecurities are slowly seeping into your spine, about how you jammed a knife into your palm as an infant, about how empathy is a rope and you’ve hung yourself with it. Anything but the words about to escape his mouth.

He told me about how he picked someone else and I didn’t tell him about how my past experiences have left me with a drill I can use every time I lose something that was never mine to begin with but somehow it hurts anyway, every time someone thinks I’m strong enough to take the bullets they throw at me (I never am), every time life is so funnily cruel that I can’t help but laugh at my own tragedies.

So I took all our inside jokes, promises, plans, songs, places, pictures, (and his warm hugs too); and I ripped them all apart in cold blood. And his wet forehead kiss was no longer anything but a blur in my memory. I took memories of his hobbit hair, music taste that I couldn’t even pretend to like, sunglasses-even-though-the-sun-isn’t-out, hoodies and braces and moved 4,193 miles away from them.

But I will never look at another melting sunset without thinking of him again. It feels as if the solar system has brought him to me. Loving him is a rope and I am hanging at its edge.

“And she said losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody know you’re blown apart. Everybody sees the wind blow” -Graceland




Don’t talk about us,
don’t run your hands over my scars
they hurt too much
Don’t give me that rush,
make me miss your touch
bastard, my psychopathic crush
I push our memories back
But something makes me hit replaylorde
sitting on my stairs, crying
asking you to stay

Seeing you for the first time,
love at first sight
you fit into my rhymes
just right, just right

Your wardrobe is over my shoulders
my laces,
you tied them to yourself

I realize that my arms,
they’re not made to hold you
but your hands fit like webs
in the depths
of my mind
they remind
I rewind
the love you left behind
oh, I miss your fucked up life.

But they’re just flashbacks
life is different now
you’ve lost that smile
it’s a facade somehow

And your wardrobe still is
lying on my bedroom floor
just in the form of tears
And your songs still are
sitting in my playlist, they
just haven’t been played in years

But they’re just flashbacks
i am different now
my favourite colour has changed
Those are just flashbacks
you are different now
your love is no longer deranged

You’re a better man
do all you possibly can
you make me different and then leave

You’re a better man
than when our saga began
you’ve changed in ways hard to believe

But these are just flashbacks
our stupid acts
making and breaking
our wills to live
just flashbacks
just hard facts
the love and the lips
that you couldn’t give

You and me on my roof
pathetic proof
broken love’s existence
my choked back tears
your holed up fears
horrid proof
our resistance

Just flashbacks.
flashbacks of a love that never was
but also of
one that never died
just flashbacks
of backpacks
and extra luggage
of past demons that shouldn’t survive