A numbered poem for lonely people, again.


1. Rumi said closed fists and outstretched palms were both signs of paralysis. I stare at my hands disappointedly. Is there where I start to die?

2. My love has always been a few syllables short of being your favourite poem. I’ve decided to stop writing altogether.

3. Ponds without ripples make me uncomfortable. I can only stand to see distorted reflections. The sky looks like it’s dancing.

4. Do artists feel less lonely when we applaud their sadness?

5. My friend’s brother killed himself without leaving behind a note. His family looks weighed down by apologies, none to give but one to receive.

تعكساك هزيمتك .6
your eyes mirror your defeat.

7. If you iron out human skin into a sheet, it’s enough to keep one person warm. I don’t think I am that person.

8. I will always be scared of crossing roads.

9. The first thing you will forget about me is my smile.

10. What if the shore is tired of the sea?




I do not touch her anymore,

I can only stretch my arms 

Trying to cover the expanse of her 

Ceramic skin

And her skeleton made of china

That breaks under my bony fingers

A little like old quills and

A little

Like firecrackers.

I leave her on doorknobs

And antique furniture

As she whispers her soliloquy

Like her grandfather’s poetry

Into my mouth.

I watch her flicker

Like streetlamps in the winter

I am somewhat drawn to her.

She is mist fused with cigarette smoke 

And on nights when she forgets her name

I let her call out mine

Till her voice drowns in whiskey 

Till her body slips on ice.

She never says stop.

Or wait.

Or begin.

Which is why I let her coil around my neck

An amateurly tied noose.

Dipping my brushes in the violet of her skin.

She has always been a little violet.

So I watch her.

I watch her as she splatters herself

Across my walls

Filling herself

In the gaps where I couldn’t lay bricks

And the cement doesn’t stay.

I fill her up in my tea mug 

With traces of alcohol

And she doesn’t resist.

Only changes shape


I try to dip my fingers in

There are ripples in her eyes

 a slight aversion

From my intensity of not wanting to love


I do not touch her anymore

Her silhouette

Is enough to be

The death of me. 

A size too small.


nothing ever seems to fit.
not those jeans you would have killed for.
not those dreams that play on repeat.
it’s a funny story you say as his hand absent-mindedly rubs against your thigh
and tell him about the time you tripped and fell into a drain
but like always, nothing fits
not his hand in yours .
not his laughter in your ears.
not his breath trying to fill the hollows of your collar bone.
you wipe your eyes on the back of your hand
a black smudge that you know so well that you don’t need a mirror
to see how bad your face looks or a tissue to wipe it off
then again, nothing fits
not your ever ringing cell-phone in the back pocket of your jeans.
not your grunge rock playlist with the soft murmur of the wind.
not the 23 reasons they gave online for being alone.
you search the dictionary for the one word you hate the most
the action of dying
the state of being dead
the end of something.
it still doesn’t fit.
not the definition Oxford offers you.
not the hesitation you see in the mirror.
not the fear you have of moving vehicles.
there is blood in your mouth
loud banging on your bedroom door
one word in your head, ‘exeunt’.
nothing fits still.
not your obsession with Shakespeare as you die
not the metal you taste in your own blood
(you thought you were a rock chick)
not your bad puns with the horrified shrieks from your mothers aged body.
nothing ever fit you.
not even you yourself.
but your picture somehow did
in the obituary section of the newspaper you never read
‘she was a happy child, but she wanted to be dead.’