Coming Undone

The soul whispers

Scarlet mysteries
In sublime melodies
Above the neurotic palpitations
That deep, measured breaths
Can’t pacify;
Optimism rusts within the gray
Of a lone shadow
Left too long on its own
While precious dreams splinter
Beneath plucked lashes
Collected in the din
Where chaos and pain scream
With the same voice
And all the known things
That were once tangible
With the threads
Of a heart
Coming undone

Wrapped in Cursive

Blunted edges and blotched lines
Inked sinews and paper-thin fibers
Slippery threads of skin;
Obsidian-soft and raw–
The composition of thoughts
And their infrangible pulse
Carved upon the faceless white,
Where understanding may be found
Within forbearing flutters,
Always seem clumsy and without purpose
At first;
Like formless ideations
Writhing out of nothingness
Feebly grasping
Toward a sense of cohesion
Wrapped in cursive streams
That begin and end
Again and again–
Not in futility
But until the palpable essence
Of the soul
Is breathed to life
In words
An eternal flame

Thinking about waiting

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking. Thinking and not doing. Fretting over the particulars of when I should come back to this space and create the way I used to. I started this blog four years ago with the intention of growing in my craft, learning from other writers and being part of the creative community. But once I hit a creative block it became difficult to keep track of those things. I never stopped writing, truly. Whatever stray ideas or thought fragments, I penned them in several books or on scraps of paper. I still bought journals with the purpose to keep my mind active, but everything I wrote felt very…wrong. It didn’t sound like me.

There was something very empty in my words – almost disingenuous. Like hands searching aimlessly in the dark. I looked into myself and saw nothing. Almost as if I’d become separate from the intrinsic, more vulnerable parts of myself. That happened because I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts anymore. A shift had taken place, and while I was aware of when it began, I did nothing really to stop it. I thought I was fine.

Living alone was voluntary solitude; I’ve always loved being in my own space unencumbered by others. The loneliness that came with it though, was a different experience than what I was used to. Loneliness had been the inspiration for all my writing in the beginning. It had been my lifeline, extended in a digital space to connect with others like me. But when you live in a country far away from family and friends, where it isn’t easy to socialize because of language and cultural barriers…that loneliness becomes miserable.

I secluded myself, even from my own thoughts. I preferred using podcasts or music to fill that silence and flood all the deep trenches in my head. I wish I had known that doing such things – as innocuous as it seemed – would only make me less aware of myself and my needs. And by the time I wanted to use writing as my last salvation, my words came out feeble and frayed. I couldn’t pull myself out of that place. Each attempt to write only left erased traces – frustration stabbed through every line…

I couldn’t explain these feelings to my close friends or even my boyfriend, because I couldn’t understand why this was happening to me. And if I didn’t understand, there was no way they would. I was always anxious, running circles in my own head, trying to make sense of all the ambiguities colliding there. And then I realized self-neglect is one of the most harmful things a person can do to themselves.

You can take care of your physiological needs, but ignoring the more intimate details of who you are and what you need creates misery and melancholy. I had always been self-aware, so I never considered there would come a time when I lose touch with who I am. But it happened.

What I’m glad for is that I realized before it became too hard to truly fix. I made a vision board last year, of things I hope to accomplish between then and now. I’m happy to say I’ve checked some things off and seeing that did soothe part of me that became hopelessly despondent. Now, I want to focus on the other part of that vision board: writing and re-developing myself and creating a community once more.

I spent too long doing nothing, waiting for the perfect time to come back. I realize now that there’s no such thing as a perfect time. You have to begin where you are.

Hard Lessons

Discernment isn’t as simple
As the flip of a coin;
Whimsical in its submission to chance
Without hesitation
Or even consequence
And perhaps life would be more interesting
Maybe even a little more composed
If it were predicated on such whimsy
If we could easily determine another’s intentions
By the telling glint of heads or tails
Instead it’s left up to our own sense
To examine the smooth texture of others’ words
To test the true weight of their actions
Because it’s silly to trust every smile
Though I want to believe that all people are truly good
That their hearts beat with an effortless cadence
Echoing the fluidity
Of pure and well-meaning thoughts
Without a trace of malice tainting their veins
But I’ve seen the dual visage
Contoured in half-truths and lies
I’ve heard derision and its way of hollowing out
Kind words meant to convey concern
So how do I learn to extend grace
And still be kind
Without mirroring the disingenuous ways
Of those around me
Without leaving myself vulnerable
To the claws itching and ready to scratch viciously at my back?

12:40 AM

Restless thoughts

Scamper through weeded hedges

In blind pursuit

Of an antidote

That could soothe

Insomnia’s chaotic ricochet

And its palpable pressure

Like nails digging new wounds

Into the places

That never quite heal

So each breath

Feels more raw than the last

Cut upon the desperation

To find peace

And sink within the depths

Of a midnight lullaby

Staying Awake

A yawn stretches itself
From the inside out
Withholding tension
That sits crooked
Within the bones;
It’s the most peculiar sensation—
Wanting to exhale
The weight of lethargy
And its residual tangles
Yet it remains stuck
As if in a vacuum
Roaming with a palpable shift
Behind eyes
Already burning from the need
To drift closed
In a forbidden sleep
That only grows
With the momentum
Of an ebbing and flowing stillness–
Monotonous sighs of the day
That make it harder
To stay awake


An existence
Attached to pinprick perforations;
Blunted imprints and scabbed divots
Sealing off memories –
Dark figures roaming stone-walled chambers
Shrouded in the forgotten colors
Of adolescence
Masking itself
In nonchalant shades of grey
Because it’s better this way…
Distanced from the blemishes
Hid beneath long sleeves
And pretty fabrics
Without being fettered
To the ‘why’ they’re there
To touch them
With aloof interest
Without scratching beneath the skin
Of buried trauma
In unintended discovery
Unleashing agonies that bleed
Than every macabre hue
It’s better to remember nothing
Except these moments
As cherry blossoms
softly carpet the sunbaked asphalt…

Flummox – Weekend Writing Prompt #247

English was always performative for mother. She especially loved using big words in the most ordinary situations.

“How flummoxing!” 

“Just say confusing…?” 

“And that’s why your teacher says your essays are prosaic,” she sniffed. Inhaling deep, I left her in the kitchen.

I think I should give myself a good pat on the back for trying this one. Setting up the scene was a real head scratcher because of the word limit and the word was actually difficult.

Another great challenge courtesy of SammiCox! Happy Sunday to you all 💐

One Night Stand

As love escapes

The twilit tangles

Sweet dreams unfurl

To shatter on dawn’s

Gilded edge

He turns to find himself


Tangled sheets

Sillage of liquor

And sated lust

Stirring hazed recollections


With only stale tastes

Of passion

Stuck to the roof of his mouth

And a distant ebb and flow

Of heated promises

That never breached the shore

Of a fleeting infatuation