Here
we are each other’s
only friend.
Here
we are each other’s
only friend.
I drink sparkling water
I eat capsicums, eggplant, tofu, and fermented soybean
I wear makeup
I gained weight
I stopped cooking
I drink Americanos
I wear contacts
I exercise
I made friends with salad
I quit my blog
I started my podcast
I have very few friends
It’s late, and I’m tired
but I can’t let this day pass by
poemless.
On the plane
I kept forgetting
whether I was coming or going;
leaving or returning.
Whether each passing minute
was bringing me closer to home
or further away from it.
I’m being stretched thin
over that pixilated yellow line
drawn across oceans and islands
I never really depart
I never really arrive
I am always in between.
Something about being here
makes me want to vomit
makes me want to cry
makes me want to run
makes me afraid
makes me feel like a failure
makes me want to turn back time
and never leave
makes me want to turn back time
and never come
To leave everyone I love
and all that is familiar
for a new unknown
is an adventure
but to stay there
not having found anything better
than the joy of loving
and being loved
is just madness.
A boring beauty
only dirt-deep
thinly veiling
the blood and bones
on which it was built.
Homes are like husbands;
you can only have one at a time.
And when you leave one for another,
the familiarity of the former –
once a great comfort –
becomes sickening and strange.
I wonder
if it’s possible
to start over with something
you have already mourned.
Waves like soft, cool glass
all the colours of the sky
washed me, made me pure