we played like children
on borrowed time—
fingers flying across foosball handles,
ping-pong bouncing between
your laughter and mine.

after supper,
we’d sneak into the library,
to the back, past the board games,
where a dinosaur waited
to beat me, again.
the librarian smiled.
we smiled back—
but we were never that innocent.

between the shelves,
you’d look at me
like hunger dressed in human skin.
your hand found mine,
and the air cracked.

i thought of kissing you,
of not stopping.
but my ribs still ached
with someone else’s name.
and so—
i stayed still.
i stayed safe.

later, by the bricks,
you found the space between my thighs,
and i followed you
through a rusted fence
into the school yard
where we looked up
at the stars,
and said nothing.

you leaned in.
i leaned back.

because no matter
how loudly
my pulse begged
for your lips,
my heart was still
a house in ruins.

New toys

They will always be better than the old musty doll

Missing half it's hair

Limbs bent in irreversible ways

Because a new toy brings with it

The ability to be broken

To be able to raze ruin upon a crisp fresh canvas

And the once loved-

Once cherished-

Once pulled and prodded-

Toy of the past

Lay face down

Receding to the blanket of dark abyss beneath the bed

Forgotten and replaced

Without oh so much of a second thought


-Flora🌼

I sit in solitude, my lone silhouette against the horizon.
Not a single soul left, it was just the ocean and I,
and darkness creeps in slowly as if it knew.

I gaze at the shoreline, the very place of
reunion between the waves and the sand.
The place I long to be, since forever.

But, I was forced, boxed, stacked and built upon,
with my body standing tall and firm, against my will.
I wish the waves could engulf me whole, and bring me home.

Simon does not say to put yourself down.
Simon does not say to stay silent.
Simon does not say to be the best.
Simon does not say to stop dreaming.
Simon does not say to give up.
Simon does not say to give in.
Society does.

I envy your mind. I ponder your past.
Which is the one behind those words?
So deep, so real. Who hurt you?

The Darkness follows without a sound.
So stay alert and be aware.
For the suffocating air is all around.

Be wary and silent, like a cloud.
Because you never know what is where.
The Darkness follows without a sound.

Take in a deep breath, any hope found.
As soon, it will be taken away, far away.
For the suffocating air is all around.

Sometimes, the dark is good, never to be found.
You can stay lost all you want.
The Darkness follows without a sound.

But sometimes it chokes, it takes and it bounds.
And you never know which you will get.
For the suffocating air is all around.

How much do you wish to stay lost and unbound?
And simply lose all to nothing?
Well the Darkness follows without a sound.
And the suffocating air is all around.

There has always been a lot of different ways to destroy yourself - there's the devotion to something that is not you, the cutting a piece off yourself and putting it in another person; that person becomes positive one and you are left with a gaping hole that misses itself, misses what is used to be.
And that hole will never fully fill itself again, you see, no matter how much you stuff it with wool and dirt. There will always be this swallowing-everything-you-see-and-then-spitting-it-out hole. And then you think, what if I completely give myself to others? And then there's chunks of yourself on the floor and you're as much human as your kiddy teddy bear that's been lying in the mud your entire life. And then there's a dead man at your feet.
 There's the protective layer - the fake, something that is not you, the stolen artwork that you placed on yourself because you're too ashamed, too scared, to fill the gallery with something that is truly yours. Something that is truly you. You're walking around with a camera in your hand that captures everything at a hands-reach. And then you pretend its your own until you fool yourself enough to finally grab your needles and thread and sew your own initials on the tag.
You can stab yourself well enough that they won't recognize you anymore. Take every sharp thing you see, and then jam it straight into where it hurts. But it hurts everywhere, so you keep stabbing, until people come up to you and feel sorry for you. ‘what happened’ they ask. You never know what to answer. ‘What happens next?’ You're afraid now, you're not yourself. I’m sorry, maybe if I rearrange your mirror you will see yourself again, but my knuckles will have to heal first.
There’s still blood on them.