For a winter that finally drifted us apart.
I've never been proud of knowing the language of violence, word by word.
Unknowingly we knock at the door of destruction whenever we measure our worth with beauty and cash.
This is a lullaby to self for I've never dared to sleep ever since I woke up from a heartache filled dream.
When it comes to love, enough is never enough!
To the self, I wish I'd never become.
They say all great poets eventually end up writing a final poem about death. So this one is mine on her third anniversary!
An ode to the taciturnity in the time when our social institutions are begging and buried in the salt of power.
What does love know about language?
27 hatred/love letters to let you learn from my pasts and possible future.
Was it love if she had to kneel down to kiss your pride?