night-lock

The boy is granite hewn, Not marble like David, Nor is he cloudy-clear quartz. Or perhaps he is lodestone, and she is reluctant, rusted steel. He feels like mountain roots and the scent of dawn But his eyes tell nothing And she is a tornado and she breaks beehives Feet trailing honey He could be granite and he could be milk But she would stagger away from the precipice if she could.

You make me think of bird bones, half hidden under the mouldering shell of my skin. I used to crumble at your touch. Now I will give you vivid dreams of salt nights, fire-eyed girls running wild and uncaught. You will learn to ache with unlovely longing. I will keep my secrets and you can keep ours.

you brought my summer winter was self-inflicted désolé

I can no longer write. My detachment and cynicism cannot be cloaked by pretty words, they have colored my vision, stayed my pen. Living with life at an arm's length is what I do best now. Knowing or unknowing, I've come to the understanding that only those whom I allow close to me can hurt me - and so I hide. Watch me: I smile so winningly, jest and excel. Oh I can draw! Sketching and rendering my despair so perfectly, those wide eyes, those lips parted in a spasm of horror. My self portraits, they mock me. But words, once my solace, come difficult to me now. My catalyst? News of your illness fills my mind, how is it that you only tell us

i was at the supermarket to distract myself from eating. the air smelled plasticky. i dont know why froot loops cost more than plain cornflakes. or honey stars, my favourite. does rainbow colouring cost more? it makes me sad. some kind of thin, spiderweb-tearing sadness that i'd forget in ten minutes. the cashier looked at me strangely. i was the only one in the store after lunchtime, and it was the business part of town where no one ventured out except during lunch. save for hassled secretaries on a coffee run, and they wouldnt be at the supermarket. she saw me walk in an hour ago and watched me as i passed her counter with empty hands. m

Mama tells me that my name is a bad name, that it was chosen poorly. Jin Ling - the first character being that of fine cloth, flowers-heaped-onto-beautiful-brocade, all five-colour silk and shining threads. The second character signified sharp cliffs, humiliation, ice, and the darkness which is female embodied. Bless my fickle-hearted parents, earth-god. Having written my name on the birth certificate, Baba sought to amend it. He added an extra stroke to the latter to remove the chill nature, making it water and not ice. It was, however, a false, imaginary character. Perhaps it was deliberate. A third daughter born to him, a long eight yea

The morning rides me, presenting me a gift of palpitations and palm-sweat. I awaken to your shades, your scent of salt and bluepink chalk. Chalk all wiped into my eyelids from a late night at the pool tables, "one more set before we four head home" dragging out the hours. Chalk wiped along my damp fingers to better slide the cue. That night I slid my toes into the warmth of your blankets, I knew it to be a repeated mistake, one that I had yet to learnt from.  Your fingers find themselves tracing treasure trails along the outer curves of my thigh and mine crept to your arms: but no more no more, even in our half asleep/awake states, don't ale

Ours was a journey of almost-there's and not-quite-content, singing of spring breezes and sunrises and lacrymosa. You taught me the value of unblinking discipline, to mask despair behind words of encouragement - lies to fool oneself and all who listen, those who must listen. And you taught your lessons too well: strong words to cage your love, to break our hearts, so at least you could walk away and we'd never dare to call your name to a retreating back, lest your heart surrender and guide your unwilling footsteps back to us. Now I do see: peeling between the cavity in your chest the beating organ that leads you leads you l