There’s a part of me tracing back memories, I 

Feel this heaviness in my chest; the weight of your promises on a frail, little heart. 

I love you backwards, from the 

Last day to the first. 

This way I know your favourite song before I know your name, 

Loving you backwards comes easy. 

I watch you fall asleep and then wake up into the dead of the night. 

We run towards each other, not away. 

I love you backwards because you confuse me otherwise. 

This way, I don’t write strange words on strange hearts after you go; all my misery comes before you do. 

This way, it’s a happy ending to a terrible start.  

I talk to empty rooms for days till you finally appear. 

Loving you backwards reminds me of how much I hate kissing hungrily; and this way our last kiss becomes a stoned blur and our first a heavily engraved memory. 

This way I know the sound of you saying ‘I Love You’ before you say ‘we’re not meant to be’. This way, it doesn’t hurt. 

Loving you backwards makes me want to love you more, makes me want to roll your silences and singular syllables and smoke them away into a misty morning. 

Loving you backwards, is like writing a poem to my past.

You see, loving you backwards is my answer to the void. It is all of my stupid theories about infinity burned to ashes. 

It’s my way of making this goodbye stop hurting. 

Loving you backwards is like drowning. I’ve heard the death is euphoric.

Playlist; shuffle.


​Welcome to my music library.


It’s weird. 
Here’s the song that my mother sings under her breath as she wipes beads of sweat off her forehead standing by the kitchen stove. 

I sometimes want to ask her to sing it a little louder. 

But then, it won’t stay the song she sings for herself. 

I let this be her song. 
Here’s the song that I loved when I was four years old. I knew every dance step, and I carried it off with such perfection that I was sure I could star in a dance reality TV show. Reality TV show.

 I didn’t know what reality meant, and I sometimes want to go back to the four year old me and tell her. 

But maybe not, my dreams were better back then. 

I let this be my happy song.
Here’s the song from the time when I was scared of death and couldn’t imagine that romanticising self harm was actually a thing. So I thought this song about being exhausted by the very concept of existence was nothing but a few words sewn together, that sounded nice.

 I sometimes wish I had someone to tell me that suicide attempts are real and I would want to run away from every single person who was ever so grateful for each one of my heartbeats.

But no, sometimes when an illusion is beautiful enough, it’s called magic. 

I let this be my song of innocence.
Here’s the song that a boy once sang to me. His voice was rough around the edges, borderline mesmerizing, a hundred percent made from the harp strings of angels and deadly stares of devils. A naïve little me thought he meant it, a naïve little me did not know that he didn’t. Love wasn’t supposed to come in faded gift-wrapping paper and already popped bubblewrap, was it? 

If only his voice broke when he tried to touch the high octave notes, I’d have known his heart wasn’t in it. 

But that’s alright, the cracks in my ribcage now have flowers growing from them.

I let this song be a lesson. 
There are a few more songs. 

And these songs are nothing but excuses to remind myself of a life that I am trying to wash off my skin. 
My playlist isn’t made for house parties, 

Or for sex.
It’s made for love letters and amateurly written pieces of poetry.
It’s weird. I warned you. 

I am too.