Sometimes, words

I should be telling you

are suspended

at the tip of

my tongue

So when you ask me

“what’s wrong?”

I can only make out

the easy


And the words

you didn’t hear

died in my lips

and aged with time

I have grown a forest

out of the things

I didn’t tell

and if you listen well

you’ll hear the rain

came from the

questions you never ask

and the weight

drags on every day

that you’ll find my smile

prepared to break

set to die

You see, when words left

Silence knocked

and asked me

to pack my bags

and let go

but you said



“please, let’s fix this”


“listen to me”

I knew I have to throw this away

I should let go

I knew I have to leave


Sometimes, words

I should be telling you

are suspended

at the tip of

my tongue


In Extremis

I’d leave my corpse in your hands and my name on your skin,

so you’ll never forget that I’d live there

I’ll house you in a graveyard and bury you like roots and coffins,

for you to feel how it’s like to be left alone

With frost and rain, I want to efface your memory

and I’ll teach you my name

it will be the only words your lips will kiss, the only tale you’ll tell

I hope you fall like rain, forced in its downfall, lonely and shapeless

with nowhere to go, nothing to do, but fall

Because when you leave, you used the windows and leave winter to sleep in my bed

and now sunlight is a stranger touching my skin

my body is a map of your lost expeditions but I’m the only one presumed lost and

you, the only surviving member

Now I dream, cloth with the memory of your face

enduring what remains of my withering self

She is a Book

I AM A BOOK. Opened by many. Read by few. Understand by one.

My covers are illusions. Alluring yet dangerous. Yet still many tried to unravel me.

Too many tried. Too many failed.

For their eyes only see what’s visible, neglecting what’s beyond the canvas.

Few. Too few have cross the boundaries and read between the lines. But my words are powerful.

And my sentences are explosion that shattered those who have read. Confused those who depicts.

After one crack, one explosion, most of them turn their backs away leaving the book behind.

But one stayed.

YOU stay.

Despite every dead pages and ugly sheet of papers, you remain.

Despite every missing lines and loose words, you hang on.

You lived with the fragility of the book.

You accepted the imperfection and blemishes.

You understand that understanding is not always ‘knowing all’.

That understanding is tolerance.

And you say “the book changes you”.

But what you don’t know is you changed the book more than it changes you.

It became your best friend.

It is yours like no one ever have. Never, ever have.

And the book always loves you back.

Because she is a book. Opened by many. Read by few.Understand by one.