I have always felt I was born with magic
and palms nursing fear like limbs.
Acres of consequences,
The responsibility of control.
Suppose we were all born afraid of
the guilt and torture
of casting the wrong spell
… like harbouring the curse of inaction.
Proofread your essays
not your stories.
Do not stain your voice with red marker
to feel publishable.
Be a notebook
pages out of order
so many words spoken imperfectly
on the perfect skin coloured parchment
She was a storm in a teacup.
Sip by sip
depending on the sip.
Is it still considered paradise
if we’re drinking volatility
out of a coconut?
Self-sacrificers always leave
what compelled them to stay
when the pain of compromise
outweighs the pain
of expectation non-conformity.
Nobody has ever loved me
in such a way that allows me to love myself.
The flaw is not those who are loving,
rather my belief that their loving controls my own.