cuts and bruises,for me seem perfunctory now. like a prerequisite even. if im not blue black purple and finally gray,just the holding of hands would not suffice.
so here i am,walking away from hands that hold hands
to dagger plunges,wrist cuts and neck wrangling.

hallelujah!

im bleeding
because i was prepared to bleed.

sweet sir galahad

this is for you
i know how months ago we wrapped things up between us like so much clutter and confused yarn
that now on the anniversary of the night you handed me a light,i have curled myself in with all that clutter and confused yarn.
i know now, sweet sir galahad, that you are not. much as i knew all throughout that i cotton-ed my wise-ness. like an extension of my myopic eyes,realities of situations faded into nothingness soon as they were out of reach of my elbows.
you are not the dream
you are not the haven
you are not the sliver of God on a platter
you are not my utopia
you are not
you are not
you are not
but you were gentle in your clumsiness
and you saw the pieces of me that was me
and you remembered every smile
and move.

sweet sir galahad, as you move through Paris with your long strides and kind eyes.
know
that some things should never be forgotten.

how i loved myself this weekend

red wine

after two glasses of red wine
polly's ears turn
BRIGHT
red!

fish in small fishbowl cannot evade prying eyes. curious at her brightness, they stare.
stingingly. she is fed. stuff. she may not find it necessary. foreign food in her lair.yes! her lair. yet, they feed her, or at least try to.
futile.
the endeavour to shine in the shinyness of her shine for herself alone.
its not HER fishbowl
after
all

home alone on a week-end.
air
space
silence
goodness to myself
healthy