Writing
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Memories and solid things
If I could weave the memories of you in a giant blanket
The night sky would appear
Or maybe the streets of that one city in Central America
The unspoken words caught in a language barrier
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I ask a lot of things
Why stay, when to breathe polluted air is to condemn your lungs?
Why stay, when to walk on hot coals ensures that every next step will burn?
If we, as people, seek water,
why do we always land at a mirage?
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She Breathed the World Through Poetry
And it tucked wildflowers
Between the pages,
Petals and pollen spiralled
Like constellations,
Still whispering of the breeze
And of the shooting stars;
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Father
An apology that will never happen
From either side.
Cursed with your pride,
Instead of emerald green eyes.
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She Was Blamed; It Wasn't Her Fault
“It was her fault
She was wearing that skirt
Practically asking for it”
No
No she wasn’t
She was 15 years old
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17
on the night that you broke your eyes open,
cried into candy packets you found at the petrol station smelling like gasoline and regret
in your still-standing baby teeth like slabs of sugared marble there were