What the ravens told me

(1) how long will you sit at the marketplace, selling your flesh by the pound for such loose change?

(2) how often have you found yourself lying at the roadside next to a waiting vulture?

(3) how much pain are you willing to tolerate for the sake of art? or are you only using poetry as an excuse for self-destruction?

(4) where is your home? how far is it from here?

(5) who are you now? do you still know yourself?



Here, a piece of flesh.

I offer you a part of my skin, a patchwork of muscles and sinews, bared open to you like a live wire. Trace the green and purple cobwebs oozing with spurts of red. Watch how a tiny spider crawls its way in, weave itself a home, and be choked with its own trappings. This is my body

Which unravels before your eyes, and I break it for you whilst lisping a short prayer that you would not draw back.

No. I’m not asking you to heal me. Your hands are as cold as mine. Your sores blooming its way out underneath those layers of worn clothing you call skin. It calls out to me, latching on my fragile nerves, while I suck and drain both its poison and its blood.

We cannot make balms out of open wounds. I know, because I’ve tried.

Instead, let our skins be garments of each other. Let it weave a gauze on its own- a third skin that would hopefully wrap the scabs that we repeatedly scratch open. For the time being, lend yourself in mine, as I let the rough parts of myself patch your tender ones.

And when the time of leaving comes, when daybreak pierces through what we have made inseparable, let us peel ourselves away from each other- not out of repulse since we’ve already seen the repulsiveness of one another- but out of respect.

As beings who have been under the same skin.


A/N: I was sorting some old doc files when I chanced upon this. Written last 2013. Crude and sick, yes. But I was devoted.



If you ask me what beauty is like,

I’d still tell you that it’s the Sun.


That god of gold

Whose radiance I’m always blinded at.

Whose presence blurs everything

Into nothingness…

I could only see, only feel, only think


Always passing my way

But never stopping, never even coming

To me.


I know that bastard does that on purpose.

Revenge, he claims, is best served cold.

Yet his anger burns at my betrayal.

He’ll probably never forgive me,

Will never even cast again

A caring glance nor longing for my arms.

Even so, I am to atone by remaining here- transfixed

At his magnificence.

Yielding at his will.

Embracing his rage for sustenance.

Maybe for life itself.


Other nymphs tell me that I am getting mad

It’s getting unhealthy- my skin starts to be singed.

It’s best to run first and hide away, they say.

Any more prolonged exposure

Will lead to my eventual burn.

To my ruin.


But they don’t understand that

He has ruined me already-

What is burning compared to dying?

I will wilt without the Sun

And I will surely shrivel

If he forgets, if he forgives

If he grows cold.


He has already caused me to thrive

In the fields of eternal fire.

To Oedipus, Future King

Oedipus and Sphinx by Gustave Moreau

Oedipus and Sphinx by Gustave Moreau

Everything is only an expression
of what we really want to say.
speak of digits that I could barely understand.
And I
respond in letters that barely mean anything.
When transposed, these conversations turn into
strings of equations
where a slight invariable
would mean an automatic 404.
We try our hardest not to tip the balance…
Or at least I do.
But does this change something? anything?
In the long run, the figures will run on its own
Like irrational numbers.
No process could stop them
From adding more and more complications at the end of its line.
But are you still there?
I don’t know whose equation is this, by the way.
I don’t know if you are just one of the many numbers that will pass my way,
Or if I am just an unknown variable that you might encounter
As you search for THE answer.
I don’t even know if this is the answer that you are looking for
Or if this confuddles your worksheet more.
I couldn’t speak in Math
the way your ancestors taught you to.
Hence, I couldn’t be objective. I couldn’t be systematic.
I couldn’t be rational.
I am only at my best- a riddle. A line from one of the many ambiguous poems
You’ve probably given up on.
A sphinx thrown into your way
Who would probably let you pass.

The Morning After Pill



Waking at 12 in the morning, aching from a heart cavity.

Logging on to social platforms just to see that pulsing green button that does me more yellows than reds.

Decrypting the folder that I’ve once locked with strings of far-fetched passwords, cursing myself everytime I had it wrong.

Biting my tongue for every ultimatum, every finality that I’ve said. (Recurrence is a cruel bitch, I should have known better).

Letting everyone know how desperate I am- heaving years worth of sighs without any respite of exaggeration.

Realizing that aside from swallowing futility as a bitter medicine,  I’ve used a wrong preposition somewhere…