grief always finds its way back

I realized you were
never coming back
for the twenty seventh time;
I held your smiles, held
them against my palm
feeling their soft ruffles
with my skin, fingering
their soft crease
I let them go again
knowing that they no
longer belonged to me:
they belong with you
and you belong to the sky
and the sky belongs to no man,
no one; and there is no one
in the sky when I look
each time I look
every time I look
no matter how hard
I look


my chest opens

my chest opens, I am
found, by the gleams
of a silver blade–it is known,
I exist in chunks, shards, pieces,
and leftover clockwork
I run on satires, failures
and heartache–my body
is a malfunctioning machine.

Yes, doctor, I was born
like this and
No, doctor, there is no cure
for being a broken thing

a sudden but anticipated tragedy


sometimes even a jug of
orange juice can tear through
your sense of self,
a searing hole opening up
dragging you down like quicksand,
and you gasp for air as
long-buried memories escape
like poisonous gas from
the blistered chasm, and
you descend into that
long forgotten pit of darkness
too sudden for tears to be shed

So She Sits There

So she sits there, poised, her elbows resting

On the arms of a mahogany chair;

The bangs of her hair are arranged just at

The right degree—at ease and comfortably slanted—

In order to cast a protective shade

Over the cold uncertainty that still flickers in her eyes.


Her fingers, interlocking, is an attempt

To stop herself from yearning for a hand to hold,

And she sits there, with her legs crossed

To trick those muscles into forgetting

What it was like to walk beside him

Under the cherry blossom trees.


Such wondrous, magnificent poetry. 


So she sits there. With great consideration and precision,

She tugs away the floating anxieties of a girl, shoves the

Boisterous quirkiness into silence, and her innocent appreciations

Into carefully chosen interests that represent womanhood.

Abruptly, she redefines herself through the power of will,

And avoids mirrors at all cost.


So she poses for the camera, purposefully,

Occupying this moment with her practiced grace.

This picture, after it’s been transferred, cropped,

Colour-toned and uploaded onto her Facebook page

Is meant to be adored.


An intelligent dreamer at her best.


As she obscures the truth with a smile and

Mends the ever-changing world with meticulous

Automatic correction, like Microsoft Word underlining

A sentence that is grammatically awkward, or

A word that is misspelled. The brilliant intricacies of her mind

Delete and reinsert the letters of reality—

Ushering the story towards its rightful conclusion,

Against all odds.


This is how it’s supposed to end.


So she sits there, poised, like a wounded goddess

Falling out of love, the same way she’s fallen into love

Waiting to be seen, wanting to be remembered

Dreaming of becoming the thing he has lost.

The Sky Castle

(taken from Photobucket)


It was only for a second

But my eyes were caught

The corner of a shifting cloud

The accidental brush of the wind that revealed

Laputa’s castle walls

Glorious with layers of mythology

Centuries of adoration and

Dark amber coloured stones glistening next to the sun


I opened my arms like a silly bird

Outstretched wings

The sky loomed so incredibly wide

The voluminous air so full and rich with dreams

It was difficult to breathe that all in


But I managed

As I counted the golden stars

Resting on my brow like sweat

And I cried for what I never had.


By Kim T.


Emptiness sounds its battle horns.

Things start to get lost.

Collateral damage.

A thin layer of warmth lingers on the edge of the chair.

May have been someone you have loved.

An unfinished message dries up on the ghetto walls.

The red paint bleeds into oblivion.

The wind ignores the corner of a street.

The wind never looks back.

The bird gulps back its sweet melody.

Rips its own stomach. No regrets.

The car honks; the road shuts its melancholy ears.

Rush hours. It can’t take it anymore.

Greyness, seeps deep down into a man’s pores.

Bleaches the soul with painless acid.

A heart gives up living, but keeps on beating.

At night, it dreams of a quietly fading world.

Babam. Babam.

Emptiness sounds its battle horns.

Babam. Babam. Babam.


By Kim T.


First time, and also the last,

Drunken with lies

One day I woke up sober, disgusted,

My heart, resenting the bitter aftertaste

Of self deception,


My own dirty ugly hands that covered my eyes

I held my heart in my hand

Rotten with a depressing blue

I could count each teardrop that had never been cried

Frozen inside


I think it’s broken

It’s dysfunctional

Not by a man, for I have never loved a man

That kind of love I can slap myself with

Is not really love

When I swallow, within,

My throat burns a wretched fire

My own words melting, clotting my trachea

Like lonely wax

My words come out heated

Though they feel kind of cold


I think I want to fall in love again

I think I want to taste it without tasting my own stupidity

Without cliches, pink ribbons and chocolate bubbles

But I think,

I don’t think I quite hear myself

Because all I hear right now

Are cold heated words

That push the world away

From my crystallized heart