Friday, 26 February 2016

caged birds

a caged bird – humming and afraid.
your own bones not recognising you.
you feel so outside of yourself.
is it consuming ?
to never be pulled into existance ?

blue hands,  no pulse in your voice.
so many ways of being alone.
sometimes i remember them all
right before i fall asleep.

maybe it’s not about getting out ;
maybe it’s about the darkness between seconds,
the silence in yourself,
a space so small and soft that
only a touch can destroy.

Tuesday, 23 February 2016


 era un loc pe podea de unde, întinşi, puteau vedea pe fereastră freamătul oraşului: aleile precum artere deschise, trecătorii împrăştiindu-se prin ceaţa dimineţii, blocurile cenuşii răsărind, dure, străzile ca o revărsare de nuanţe. făceau des asta. zăceau pe podea şi priveau în gol, oraşul pulsând în jurul lor , dar nu şi în ei, acelaşi oraş care odată li se păruse îndepărtat, plăsmuit.

 au vrut să ajungă până la stele, însă nu reuşiseră. erau mai mult păsări captive decât oameni, mai mult idei pierdute pe vârful buzelor decât scriitori. încă visau la drumuri lungi, târziu în noapte, fără să aibă vreo destinaţie anume. îşi închipuiau locuri în care ar fi fost nişte străini al căror nume va fi dat uitării. voiau să-şi simtă trupul tremurând,  însufleţit, iar gândurile să le fie o tulburare de constelaţii. voiau conversaţii şoptite sub lumina lunii. voiau pagini răsfoite printre degete.

 priveau şi priveau, dar oraşul niciodată nu răsuna pentru ei. rămâneau întinşi, spate în spate, fără să simtă trecerea orelor, aproape crezând în galaxiile ce le mocneau în oase.

Thursday, 18 February 2016


 you told me you don’t know what healing looks like.

 it looks like breathing in the space between letters. waking up surrounded by the smell of hospital. falling asleep with the sound of rain brushing the windows. dreaming with the power of comets crashing. guitar chords shivering. fingertips that make your heart tremble. walking into a foreign city, nobody knowing your name. bones coming together. wounds stitched. spreading your wings and feeling the air shifting, warm and conforting.

 learning to never stop reaching the stars. you’re braided from moonlight and your mind shines like a constellation. you were born dragon. you alone set the darkness of the sky ablaze.

 healing looks like living and having a story to tell. and i don’t know anyone who doesn’t have a story worth telling.

Thursday, 11 February 2016

beautiful and tragic in the fall down

 you told me that you were no work of art. just a blank canvas. but you were the only stardust that i could enter without doubts. you melted in my hands like paint. you’ve sewn skies in the blackest parts of me. you carry what you love inside and it lightens your eyes.

 i told you  i’m a galaxy of memories i do not want to keep. i’ve been teaching myself emptiness, wanted to unwrite every shred of my skin. wanted to become one of those blank canvases. i’m tired of being enclosed, dark-eyed and tense. there were the moments that made great poems. and then there are the restless ones that i don’t know how to let go of. there’s something beautiful and tragic in the fall down, you said to me. but there’s no pulse in my canvas. nothing that would remotely resemble summer nights and pastels. imagine curtains shuddering. imagine a heart calling out from a train station at midnight, love barely crawling. ghosts from a past life. this body of mine isn’t made to live in one place.

 but i’ve been learning to keep the scratches in my canvas. i am an ocean muttering storms, raw and real.  i’ve been learning a new meaning for without : without my scars , i would be nameless.