I opened books of ancient flowers, 
compared my bruises to blossoms faded
with the course of centuries. 
Sometimes I would find between the pages 
a wilted photograph of a couple seated 
side by side
in their wedding car, all
white smiles and sleek-tongued optimism.

Other times I
counted the words on each of the pages 
and saved their numbers on my phone.

Jasmin de Virginie.
Lilas commun.
Narcisse des poétes. 

And the shadow crept around
the sundial like a dancing planet.

I kissed each hanging head of the lavender plant 
until it bloomed again. 
I let my lashes stroke down
the jasmine bushes in the garden. 
I froze edible flowers into ice cubes 
only to obverse them melting down my naked thighs, 
the cat greedily licking 
the water off my toes;
her tongue a trickling leaf against my 
August skin.

Those nights, 
whilst you bruised me
I watched the wet petals on the floor 
convolving, again and again

their hearts limp and

scared, as if the universe
somehow might not have enough space for them. 

We lay there, wordless, motionless. All the words that you spoke; where were they to come from? The endless nights, the endless fights, all resulting in one poisonous kiss. And your hands around my walnut back, and my body dissolving into yours, our skins oscillating and my eyes searching for yours, longing to plunge in the waters of that blue, longing to wet my limbs with the cooling waves that were fingering your iris, while the music kept haunting the walls. That manly voice hidden in a chiffoned girl, whispering gray thoughts to us, reversing the lines and humming along the synthesizers which stroke down your neck. My hair tangling yours. And luscious like orange juice you ran down my thighs in the summer heat, while we were trying melt our bodies into one another. And you tried to save me again and again and again. “Stop destroying everything you are”, you whispered, while your fingers grabbed me from behind. And I touched your nose with my nose, closed my lids for once, and replied into myself, “You cannot love someone like me.” And we mumbled into each other, noses still touching, your warmth on my warmth, your breath susurrating Siddhartha like holy Ghazals hammering against the walls of my temples, and the cat trying to squeeze into the unbearable space between our feet, and all three of us so frailly aware of the fact of not actually being one, while you kept holding me closer and closer to yourself until I could not breathe, until the sun set among our heads, and I started to freeze, dispelling into that night out in the woods at the festival, reinvented inside of the smell of dewed grass and unwashed skin, that night we replaced our sleeping bags with each other’s hands.

" Let me be alone. "
by Virginia Woolf, from The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)

your hands are special,
no actually they are wings
made of India paper
reaching out for the dense air in windowless bedrooms
and while his 32 years of optimism are weighing down my chest
my eyes search for you, floating across the ceiling
I wish I were more like you
with a body that weighs less
than its shadow pretends to be

pharmaceutical-blackmail inquired I dig your writing... can't wait to see more from you

wow thanks…. I like yours, too, especially ‘I promised you wetlands’. :)

Once a day I suffer from heartbreak about the frailty of life and its transitoriness and the fact that we’re all going to die


And then I want to maximize myself to size of the earth so I can kiss every human being and hug them and show them my love and occasionally shower them with my tears because I am exceptionally sad and then I realize

Oops, I’m the weather.

you are the rings under my eyes,
the dirt underneath my friend’s fingernails,
you are the herpes simplex
he transmits with his beautiful genitals,
or my mother’s plastic rigid back brace
silently and lonely
sitting on the leather couch
every night till dawn,
the whole living room depleted, just
you, as this milky off-white substitute for
a scoliosis
waiting there, emptily
you are the two crooked vortexes
on top of her spine
and you are the book louse
crawling down recycled
default summons envelopes I
try to let my thoughts
evaporate from,
every time after the realization
of your existence
gives me something similar to lactose intolerance

this was a year of no regrets, and of all regrets; of making love on trains, of gaining weight, of throwing plates in arguments, of MDMA drained midnight mcdonald’s burgers, of realising a silent overpriced cab ride through rainy south london cuddled to one of your closest friends is worth more than any saturday night booty shaking party you can imagine, and then again, any spontaneous after hours party dancing on the new linoleum pavement with your friends, wrenched with cheap dry gin, is worth more than any stupid family gathering of the last twenty two years; that everything you send out is coming back to you, one way or the other, like a boomerang of visible molecules, stretched upon your eyesight like lacking spectacles, that it’s okay to have an asymmetrical face or hearing voices of your mind on the underground, that a single glance from a stranger can heal you, farting in your sleep, Marshmellow bedsheets, windowless rooms, burping into your tutor’s face, letting your fingers stroke back and forth shakespeare’s words, ‘fear no more the heat of the sun’, india paper folded into origami birds, your friends moaning on the floor above you, their elbows scratched and rubbing against cheap carpet, it was a year of playing scrabble in psychiatries, of cutting out the toxic off your lives, of sick girls with sick eyes, of pretty angels with manly voices, of cats, and kittens, and adipose dogs, of quitting your job at american apparel, of reading shoplifting from american apparel, of replacing yellow virtual paper with white sheets and stranger’s naked backs, replacing ink with icing, fading tattoos, of milchtritt, of losing iPhones, a year in which edward snowden kept on being ignored by any pretty face you met, of collapsing on oxford street, a year of snow, of dry kisses, of strawberry tongues, of failures and lies, and in the end, plane rides and golden german sun showers eclipsing through the little bull eye windows on the passenger’s hair crowns like photoshopped halos, of returning home, lying in your parent’s living room smiling with teeth of an opium hazed pearl, hair unfurled on the persian rug as a hand-held fan, reminiscing the melting chocolate in your stomach, and being proud of the fact that your finger print is not kept on your electronic ID. fear no more the heat of the sun, fear no more the heat of the sun. clarissa dalloway spoke, your hands stroking back and forth woolf’s handwriting, ink capturing words of long-lost centuries which fly through the winds and the clouds and skies since 1527 like black birds dissolving from your friend’s painted bodies, hovering away from their shoulder blades, on someone’s arms, into the oceans, and caves, back into your room, like moths or like bats, slowly and gracelessly perching on your brick wall into a flowing font, reading fear no more the heat of the sun.