something stirs
she who was slumbering in the depths of the abyss
shouldering silken sleeves
like the billowing curtains at the ghastly-lit windows
she sends a message
drawn in her blood, forged in her bones
and softly —
something stirs.


my heart on my sleeve


the two warring states inside of me:
let me free, let me out, the fire’s burning
watch me roar, hiss aloud

no, listen-
you’ve got to be patient
overreading, overthinking
listen to them, be quiet, don’t make a sound
then you won’t get thrown around

who am i
to withhold my voice
suppressed, repressed, distressed-
my voice tenors strong and free
i answer to nobody

no, listen-
not to yourself- to others:
they speak of truth and wisdom
(the two which you will never have) 

i. stand. tall. i. am. not. weak.

no, listen-

no, i will not listen.

no, listen-

no, i shall never listen.

to him.




descend, bandaged
into the vault of our dead ancestors
do not try to rip the plasters from your eyes
for you may rip them out

in the process.

fasten the folds behind your head
and descend, ever more
do not fear the steps you take
for every “real”, every “fake”
cuts deeper
than the soldered glass
at your feet.

tie a dead knot.
rip out your tears.
emotions do not matter here.
sweep all under your rationality
long-forgotten peers.

they haunt you.

but you always wake up
in the darkness



she doesn’t feel the tendrils
snaking up to grasp her neck
and squeezing till her throat’s all choked up
her heart compressed till she feels herself pummeled
and her lungs can’t draw in anything but sobs.

does it make her immature?
if she wishes to stay the way she always is
her last shred of sanity
compressed into a tiny
ignorant, naive

who am i

her last thoughts that night.

time passes.


when your table, chair, bed starts to shake
be still.
don’t you wake.

when shells raze your house to the ground
be still.
pretend you’re not around.

when guns fire, slapping into your cheeks, drilling into
your brows,
be still.
don’t make a sound.

when she yells and screams and
look at you like the greatest disappointment you are
and ever will be,
be still.
hold your ground.
Even as the Labyrinth caves upon your shoulders
even as you plummet ten stories to your death
be swift.
you won’t be missed.




today my tuesday’s thesis
blinks unproductively from the Word screen
writing about the Mother self and
the Monstrous other.

The nightmare that is the Babadook
who creeps audiences out not by his look
but by all the life he took.

I write how the Monster is the Mother
and the Mother is the Monster
live, breathe under the same roof–
and her son
St George
slays the invisible monster
inside her.

but the longer the pages spread
the words dim from my head
like every letter I ever made
and that unlikely, impossible A grade.

because the monster isn’t in the mother.
the monster i write
is in my head