à bientôt à paris

little did you know,
you’ve met a writer—
and you might just last
a little longer
than you think.

a three second novel
split worlds in two;
à bientôt à paris.


melody’s esteem

stretched taught between
patterns of pocketed
misty beams;
iridescence collected,
stumble and weave—

soak in the forethought
of melody’s esteem.

gravel’s wish

building blocks of cages and
buckets you proclaimed,
letting heaviness sift through
grasping fingers, framed.

your eyes water with the sky’s fluidity,
flowing from the ground’s
lack of stability.

a stalled joy, a gravel’s wish;
a hidden ploy for armour, adorn—
held within its premature sway and
an expression lightly stiff.

a vivid propulsion thinking of
the earth found bruised and dry;
tonal waltz meandering,
shading in your sigh.

wispy, flight-filled exchanges
demanding to reset the time
and the name, unknowing of
the loss within its ranges.


fog undermines the landscape’s terrain
in a coma of heightened consciousness,
surrounded by a stubborn muse—
a retired highway,
a hand-raked path,
a sign beneath the floodwaters.

epoch of escape

I write myself into worlds to try to feel my own existence, knowing that it only further parts me from reality. an epoch of escape, devoid of time and space.

I write myself out of worlds where I am a small, vulnerable child who is lost, has no idea what is going on, who just wants to go home. I used to wonder how adults seemed to always know where to go. I miss the comfort of guidance, of holding hands.

So I grasp my own skin and try again, again, to write myself out of this place.


lineage carves through minds outpaced;
a seminar of silky aftertaste.
time perceived, and misconstrued;
a bitter bruise, a chorus of
clashing hues—

lineage starves what minds erase;
a declaration of change misplaced.


peaceful tides
and freedom strides,
when what is within
flows through the drought;
stepping stones decorated
with shedding of doubt.

air so tangible, a gentle embrace;
a spirit of steadiness
held in its wake.

icicle cynics

new ways to reflect
the hall of uselessness—
in his own words:
a teacup in a storm
a forest in a thousand lanterns
a masquerade of almost-monsters
exiled to a land where
white wind once blew.

calamity physics;
icicle cynics—
a girl with glass feet,
an ice maiden’s layers
splintering above
bright and distant shores.

do you see it?

on the outside, looking in
held down by a chain of feathers,
connected by drops of dust
lingering in the air;

a secret garden
without a key
a chest
without a lock
without a location
invisible weight
bearing down

fly away with her
and see.

from the outside looking in—
look in,
look in,
and see it:
do you see me?

the plain, the plethora

the plain, the plethora of
forgotten pieces—
strung from the frills of
question, ceases.

a flicked light switch,
an upturned seat and
I am desperate to give birth
to poems that I cannot yet

one day I will replace these words
with something worth remembering;
something worth imprinting on my skin.

the plain, the plethora of
forgotten pieces—
strung from the frills of
question, releases.