Out of the state of being paradoxical, we try to make sense of ourselves, to put together a narrative that we can verbalize, but human nature is a paradox, logic and heart is a paradox, the Self and our Desires is a paradox. Ultimately they are all parts of ourselves that make us who we are, different spaces that we inhabit depending on the given moment and circumstance.



there are trickles of blood
where dreams are skinned
like vampires they hold
no reflection in the mirror
they come and go as they please
and they hurt you because you let them

do you think
it’s really worth it
to be who you are?


I cup your left breast with my hand,
lift it, so that I may unseal your skin underneath;
as I venture through folds of secrecy,
I know, you are a small frightened thing–I see
your heart lies cradled, slumbers within
the bloody tapestry, a undeniable sophistication
that justifies all things–a voice
that convinces you
that you will not bleed
even as you cut into yourself
even as you scream
and that this organic fabric of red
is but a velvet dream

get away from that body

with this scalpel I exorcise you
I command you to leave
she is no longer yours
no longer your victim,
no longer your plaything

get away from that body

with this scalpel I undo you
I command you to cease
she is no longer yours
no longer your addiction
no longer a distant dream

she is mine now
she is ours
we are she
we despise you, resent you,
curse you, expel you
we are no longer yours
we are but ours, but mine

I command you to die

for I am my own thing,
I am my own person
I am mine
and mine alone

I am me


In darkness and vacuum,
every breath you draw
substantiates the truth
that you tell; time drones
away with every heartbeat,
a clock you cannot defeat;
perhaps, only gravity
can save you now
only gravity
can liberate you
stop you from spinning
out of control
stop you from spinning
out of reach and
stop, stop you
from spinning
of this

the needle that started it all

years later,
I at last find the needle
that started it all:
a small, thin, silver thing
asleep in the folds of my skin,
carrying my fingerprint
and all my intricate doings

slowly, I unwind what
I have done to myself
as I tear through the threads
of my shadows, releasing
the trapped breaths,
unleashing them like
butterflies and wistful sighs

until finally

one hundred and eleven
exhalations later
my own true person
reveals itself
and spins itself
into light