of men and monsters

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

He loves me
when he tells me he despises me
and this I know:

because he does it in such a way
that his tongue stops tasting like bitter tea
and instead pours out sweet syrup
all over me.

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

He loves me
when he tells me he’s ‘helping’ me
and this I know:

because he does it in such a way
that each slap, each punch is a devious game
where he so lovingly avoids the obvious skin
so I can still ‘look’ the same.

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

Or maybe

He’s just a man
and deep down
there’s nothing but

a Monster.


Trump card. 

​They’re screaming in empty rooms as their cries echo in the stale air. Their distorted faces and sandpaper throats never once pause for silence or breath.

Their new world is surrounded with faces full of chapped lips and muddy skin; of matted hair and bloody hands.

These are their costumes of resistance; worn proudly upon upturned chins and raised solidarity. 

Keep screaming. Fighting.  Pushing.

Because the oppressed will always remain oppressed-

If they let the bastards carry the highest voice. 


Attachments breed a certain kind of desperation, and it’s a process that permanently taints you. Once you’re fully attached to someone, you each give and give until your souls start to merge and you lose all sense of boundaries. And that in itself is incredible. But what happens when it’s time to detach?

That’s why it’s so hard to move on. Because once you do decide to try, the separation process becomes destructive. How do you know which part belongs to you? How do you figure out where you end and they begin? It’s painful because even if by some miracle you do detach. You don’t realise which parts you still have missing, until you think about giving them to someone else.


There is something missing in me, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pretend that there isn’t some big hole gaping inside, searching to be filled. I’m not talking about anybody else – because the notion that you need to rely on someone else to ‘fix’ you has always puzzled me. No, this is all me.

I don’t know when I noticed I was discontent, but I’ve never really felt completely secure in the first place. It hurts because I don’t know where to start; is it even possible to change? Or will I forever be this partly empty shell of a person, wandering from one distraction to another? It’s harder being aware of it, because at least if I was better at pretending, things would be alarmingly easier.

I see it like having an instructions manual in front of you; you have all the theoretical knowledge you need to put the object together but you’re missing a few crucial bits and pieces. Those pieces aren’t even the extra parts that you can get away with leaving out, so you’re stuck with abandoning the whole thing: unmade, undone, and unfinished;

and that’s exactly how I feel.


I dreamt that I was seven again
and it gave my heart such peace,
to remember being back at that age
before I turned into the beast;
the savage who left ashes in her wake
and brought everything to ruins,
she was incapable of healing
with  no control of her undoing,
the freak who relentlessly destroyed
yet hurt herself as she played,
depleting her heart that once felt love
before eight came and took it all away.


“Just because I cover up my body, does not mean I am oppressed”

“Then why hide it in the first place? Are you ashamed of who you are?”

“Do you display all your most expensive belongings? Or do you protect it because it means something to you?

I am beautiful. I am free. And only I get to choose who peels away my outermost layers, to discover what I have underneath.”veiled