He comes in
while I clean myself.
He leaves
and I’ve never felt filthier.



I tiptoe around the room, not wanting to wake him up as I pick up discarded clothes strewn haphazardly around the floor, shed from last night’s coition. Coition. I laugh to myself. Fancying up this messy dance between two strangers who barely know each other yet pretending to change the game and saving each other from a night of binge watching in pajamas and sipping wine or beer by ourselves.

It’s not the same when it’s not with you. I never let his hands linger too long on my skin. It feels wrong. Almost violating, to be honest. A small voice in my head protests with every contact, “Don’t! Stop! She is not yours to touch!” Silly.

His breath feels hot yet cold at the same time. It’s not the same with you.

Your breath fans the inferno in me. Your touch was always warm enough that it wraps itself like a fleece blanket that comforts my soul.

We tried to do everything and when I think we’ve exhausted all our options and move past the phase of exploration as if you’ve inhabited my body and I, in yours, there is always something to discover, new music, new rhythm to dance to.

But perhaps that was our undoing – we had everything and it still wasn’t enough.

So for the last time, in my effort to romanticize the word tiptoe and make it seem at least a bit poetic, I tiptoe out of the room and permanently out of his life.

Adulting #1

Being an adult means you can have whatever for breakfast. (i.e. chips, cake, chocolate, fast food)

The downside is that you also have to compensate for that moment of letting go and realize you actually must have something substantial.

Overall, you can indulge whatever and whenever because hey, you’re an adult but there’s also that responsible voice at the back of your mind just niggling for you to eat healthier because it makes you feel good.

Mother was unforgiving.
Says she loves me
through words that cut
like a jagged knife.

Says she sees herself
in the way I walk
so she warns me I will
stumble the way she’d done.

‘Straighten your back’,
she hisses from between
tightly clenched teeth
and a counterfeit smile.

‘Nobody will see lanky
in a child of mine.
I forbid you
to be so disinclined.’

You hear these words
so often as a child,
you construct this
miscontrued version of love.

Mother, see,
I am not like you,
but I am your daughter.
I am so much more.
Like you say I am.
Let me learn
to please me,
not you or men.
Mother, please,
will you ever see,
these bruises
and scars
were not from
falling down?
These transcripts
on my soul are
from your words
that leave me

[disclaimer: this is not about my mother. but it is someone else’s parent. it is real and it is heartbreaking.]