Airport
2 am. I wander through rows of
blue tombs in the waiting area
in search for a pair of eyes. Covered by
flies from the leftover fries.
You are my destination.
They licked my wounds. Wounded by
words shot from cities away.
The planes are taking off.
Which one is yours?
I shot all of them down.
Their wan concrete bodies
writhed on the ground. I hope we can see each
other again sometime. I just want to
see your viscous lips.
But the planes are empty.
Text me when you wake up?
His phone died.
My sleepless womb
Do my emotions spook you?
An ancient reminder
of witchery’s horror.
The blasphemy
of the blood that creeps through me—
the rotten taste, of unholiness.
I am
a crazy bitch,
a frantic woman,
a hormonal slut.
I am a soundless pond,
that carries cacophonies and wildfire
in my sleepless womb,
always, ready to give birth.
Am I
too intense?
Darling, please.
You’re still on the surface.
I will baptize you
strangle you and tickle you.
Sleep.
Rest upon my innocent pond
I will leave an innocent leaf
For you to lie on.
Go on, voyager.
Go explore, the big wide world.
I am the balletic whirlpool
that loves you tons.
Gore Motel
O savor the sadness,
for we are so past the age of feeling infinite.
Novels don’t even excite me now.
All we have
are fruit flies and wines in a Gore Motel.
No more swollen mood swings.
No more storms on empty pages
—you were nothing but my portable home.
Peel me up no more,
for I have been de-los angelized.
Synchronized and immunized.
Or does it even matter to you?
I am neither Frankenstein’s bride,
nor the owner of a floating fishing resort.
Just a brain shoved onto a body without consent.
And you,
you are no Gore Motel,
not even with jars of your dead fish,
the fetus of a cat,
the blobfish you are so proud of,
the real human skull,
or the jacket that reeks of morgue.
Granted,
the reader says:
but you are writing again.
The writer shrugs
and gets on the subway at 1 pm.
Panic Attack Five Acts
Prologue
Everything ahead of me crumbled into a huge ball of tangled black wire
I am sitting on my toilet.
Act I
here it goes again
the ice cube chokes
on the bottom of my
throat. it grows and
grows until my larynx
could not contain
it anymore it
splits into five ice
tunnels.
into my limbs.
into to my head.
Act II
the tunnel reaches my mouth.
freezes it until it becomes
a desert.
i try to water the mouth
but the sand evaporates the moisture.
then a tunnel reaches my fingers tips.
strangles them until they disconnect
from my body.
ice
cold baby.
Act III
i’m going to be paralyzed
or die
soon my whole body is invaded
by dry ice
like a corpse
is it?
i’m sinking into the tunnel
the heart rolls backwards as it skips a beat
cardiovascular disease for sure
yes ambulance but i can’t afford
Act IV
I've done it a million times
Breath in
Breath out
I wish I could bury my knotted brain
Fuck the this too shall pass
After this passes
There will be another one
And another
And another
And another
Act V
And another I feel
nauseous
and walk to the
bathroom
to find
Rationality
to vomit the
moulded
ice
nothing
the ice is woven to my
tissue
fuck my life.