Poems

The Compliment WarsShe said I like your coat and I said no this coat is trash,She said it looks great, I said it’s from a clearance dash,She said the color is so good, I said the cut is wrong,And we both held our positions for a beat too long. This is how it works sometimes […]

The Call I’ve Been Putting Off Since AugustSomewhere between the summer ending and the cold arriving without fanfareI made the decision not to make the decision—which is a separate affairfrom cowardice, I want to be accurate, it’s the careful maintenanceof the unmade choice, the deliberate sustenanceof a particular silence that has its own weight now,its

The Bed That Bites Back It waits until the lights flicker out and the silence gets thick,then the frame groans soft like it’s choosing who to pick.The mattress exhales in a rhythm far too slow,and the sheets start to tighten like they already know. The springs don’t squeak, they hiss like veins,twisting and coiling through

The Boy Who Refused to Speak They called him Patient Eighty-Two,but no one knew his name was true.He sat in corners like old breath,and stared through walls like he’d made a bet with death. He never screamed when the lights turned red,never twitched when they made the bed.He blinked slow, like time was wrong,and his

Texture of Restlessness I trace the world under my fingertips,seeking stories in every line,from the roughened weave of jeans to the warmth of skin not quite mine.Biting into the textures of life, a compulsive, insatiable need,every surface a symphony, in every touch, I feed. Walls whisper to my restless hands, fabrics murmur soft and low,in

The Afternoon I Watched the RainThe rain came in around two in the afternoonand gave me something I don’t ask for: permission.I set the to-do on the counter and the roomheld nothing but the window and the grey precisionof the rain falling straight on the cars below,the gutters running silver, and a strangerwalking fast with

Temple of Touch Don’t just touch, trace me like a sacred script,fingers preaching slow, where fervor and patience mix.Not just a body but a shrine beneath your gaze,worship every curve, every whisper, every phase. Your hands, soft disciples, learning every line,lips move in silence, speaking divine.This isn’t lust, it’s reverence in your touch,in the slow

Ten Shadows of Madness First comes the bleeding, visions dripping red,hallucinations sprawling, entangled in my head.Voices no throat should utter, whispers of the damned,spectral hands sculpt nightmares, in this no-man’s land. Next, the haunted flesh, a canvas raw and torn,with every pulse, the shadows of old gods are born.Occult prayers spill from lips that crack

Stuck on Repeat In the silence of my mind, a single line invades,a lyric looping endlessly, a melody that never fades.Not the whole song, just fragments on a loop,echoing in the corridors where my thoughts regroup.It gets louder with each beat of my stressed heart,a soundtrack unsolicited, that never departs. I turn up other tunes,

Static Skies Laughing in the mirror, eyes wild with the storm,been awake four days, my mind’s a formless swarm.Humming in my silence, shadows in my play,bought a bike on impulse, felt like night turned day. I filed papers coldly as the laughter rang,tears fell on the pizza, felt every pang.Danced beneath the raindrops, free in