Poetry

(a poem on intense female friendships, by Sheenam Sharma)   I put you on a pedestal, And now I look up at you looking down on me, like an enigma so forgettable… I told you where it hurts, And you didn’t hesitate to stab right there, like it was already rehearsed… You told me I meant everything to you, And I believe your words more than your eyes telling lies, behind the beautiful hazel hue.. I gave you my mind, my heart, and my soul, And you didn’t flinch a minute to turn that love into pain, taking a toll…

(a poem on casual sittuationships, by Sheenam Sharma)   Everytime you leave without a goodbye, Leaves this soul, full of desires, left to untie… Longing for the next sight of joy, Counting the days that take forever to fly by… The hazel in your hair, the innocence in your eyes, Oh, how it makes my body scream a cry… Wanting you to stay, escaping this lie, Still can’t hold you from finding your next high… From a you, to an I, If only, I could try, To alter the reality, and prepare to rely…

To be loved by a writer is one thing, To be loathed by a writer is another.  You can never escape it.  Her words will haunt you to your grave.  Her name is up in the lights.  And you're just a muse for her page.  You get a mention in the dedication, But you're so un-noticeable it's missed.  No one reads the dedications anyway.  And you'll never stop thinking about this.

Content Warning: Implied ableism, mildly disturbing imagery, existentialism, references to masking “Crack!” My face, it was smooth And shiny and perfect Not a piece out of place  Now these cracks  Are ruining my face   Fissures branch out Cracks chip away Peel off, fall away In the mirror I peer Between the cracks What’s under here?   My friends worry My family frets I’m no longer perfect “Don’t worry” they say “Don’t be upset The cracks will go away”   My face is falling There’s something underneath There’s something I can see I can see outside I can see through

Part I: Their arm is outstretched not at all tentatively. Purposefully,  their frame shifts to your eyes and lingers.   That’s how  they looked at your, owl-wide eyes it was like you were iridescent, through those years, like your eyes were pinned painfully open. Glimpsed in everyone’s peripheral, the glare affronting but you couldn’t say it hurt you you didn’t know why when you closed your eyes you dissipated into every orifice.      You didn’t want too disappear, but doesn’t everyone think that would fix it?

Content Warning: Discussion of Mental Health sometimes the falling feels like flying,  sometimes my head is calm without even trying.  sometimes it enters all at once and at other times not at all,  sometimes it hurts to speak, to listen, to walk, or even to crawl.  sometimes I want to curl up into myself and to become as small as i can,  sometimes I want to lay in bed all day and do nothing more than. sometimes it hurts to feel so much,  sometimes it feels like I will break, even with just the slightest touch.  sometimes I feel so

Jemima holds a star in her head like the limbs of her girls fanning out in the sun they are swans they are wolves with canines for days who hold the world in their exhale deep release with sweet sweaty palms clasped around forearms the earth is sprouting out the back teeth like the lock clicking at the back door only there is no passcode to renter no logical fallacies no perfect combination arrangement soliloquy Jemima can do now but fall deeply in the great bodies of water curdling dreams and arise with hair streaming molars pulsing

I want to write.   I want to write.  I really just want to write.    Like I don’t know what it is about writing except that same old cliché:  something inside of me wants me to do it, it wants me to write.    Here's the funny thing though, I am not sure what to write.  How I should write.  Why should I write it and not MYYY WAYYY ya know.   Frustrating it is, but frustratingly enough,  I still just really want to write. It’s funnier when you know my feeling. That feeling before writing, where I have

Content Warning: Gore, Death You love to play games, hiding under the bed waking me up with pretty fangs in my neck   Have you been waiting all these years  Carmilla, my dear?  i knew you before light, before time something ungodly promised  you would be mine   Angel of the tiniest death, leaving me shaking and struggling for breath how can someone so soft - sensitive, completely transform after sunset?   If heaven won’t have you than they’re nothing holy, this creature or demon has shown me more love than anything given by those up above   Hold my

In this recurring inspiration lies a craving for the inevitable– a hopeless desperation for a negligible spark to light the way.  Drown these misgivings.  Life begins again without consideration. It reveals its beating remnants in the irrevocable seconds between failures. There is no greater power announcing the start– It's already begun.

Content Warning: Discussions of Future Uncertainties I was once informed that life travels blissfully when moving ahead but if you turn around,  the road you constructed  yearns to retrace your steps.   Retreating, being surrounded  by our memories. Offering an escape,  a sense of comfort like a warm blanket  during the winter. It is so tempting   Should I stay. Should I try to relive the beginning.  Isn't it better that way? Or should I carry on with my journey i'm torn   Am I seeing things  through rose-coloured glasses or am I afraid  of facing  what’s right in front

Energy drips from hanging vines — your vascular form, twisting rope threads in a violent movement, conjoining semantic with somatic fingers, electrifying neurons to hold, to ink.   The page a stele of memory etched from the incision of cognition into rudimentary words, poor urns for the ashes of your “who”: pottery pieces fragmented and forlorn   like runes and hieroglyphs of heathens and romanticists whose reality’s rose withered; paper burning, pottery breaking— ink, a water colour drenched to pale nothings, bleeding white.   But the movement excites you if it does not memorialise you. Exeunt, the elegy and the