instructions for finding your soul mate

fill yourself up to the brim:
only share drink with
one that savours the richness
of your taste, swimming in
your colours and wanting more–
offering a cup of their own soul
in return


some songs are sung

when love scurries
towards the edge
a fist fails to catch the wind
the cliff-bound, faraway cries
drowns in itself as it
at the laughing sky–I look up

to meet the night’s eyes
tears soft as a lonely feather
fall like kisses on my cheek
the blur of starlight,
though fractured
by life’s lecture
once again
chooses to be brighter–and know that

though my throat dries, parched
from the pale laborious singing
that uses me up sometimes
it anchors me down
like gravity anchors me
anchors me down
sustains a breath, so true
a thriving beat grouped in twos
in, out; in, out
and in
a song in reverse,
heard or unheard
it sings its way back
back to my starlit soul

Clockwork Fairytale

I whisper dust from the withered pages
clasped within metal hinges; this,
is how I exorcise fear—what I gather
from the leather cover, strewn with
clockwork and untold adventures,
is purity, mechanical dreams
powered by bearings and clutches,
and as I open the book, I stare
into the ghostly gleam of the fairy’s eye,
and fall for the wild emerald pulses
that fill the depths of my empty soul


When Lucifer finally came

for me, I told him I

had no soul to give nor to offer and he

unseamed my body, searching desperately

for the lie and stepping back

with his monstrous claws clenched

when he failed. I laughed

at his childish look

of dismay and told him that I

had lost my soul long ago. It wasn’t stolen

it was just the way it was.

“Souls are precious commodities these days.”

I couldn’t agree more and he

asked me where I’d lost it.

“On earth,” I replied without thinking.

“And when?” so I pondered hard

in silence and

after a good long minute

I answered his question

with careful consideration:

When I was born. 


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.


My defeat consisted of exactly these things:

One nod, one broken heart, and

Sixty seven droplets of tears that burned my hand

When I covered my face

When I closed my eyes

When you became the missing number of my life

When your departure reduced my soul to half its size


Your victory also consisted of three things:

One smile, one plane ticket,

One other girl that took you across the world

In order to abandon me