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.

After you. 



i feel a red curtain fall infront of my eyes; the unholy sight of your back, you move farther away, away, away, till you’re nothing but a little dot on the skyscape, almost invisible but eclipsing the sunrise.


i turn up the volume and try to scream along to a long forgotten song. all i manage to do is say out your name in a faint whisper. i say it again, and again, till my tongue feels numb. i say it, i say it to bring you back to me.

i redecorate my wall, rearrange my bookshelf, make my seventh cup of tea and throw it down the drain. i light the stove up to make the eighth, hoping this time i am not reminded of your laughter at my failed attempts of hosting a guest. 


i walk up to your house and return without knocking on the door. i wait, and breathe, and choke myself on traces of your being. search my skin for your fingerprints. i ask you why, you say nothing.


i stare into the horizon, i whisper your name again, i make another cup of tea, i tell you that i want to see you again. i tell you how we can’t leave each other just yet. 

you tell me the only thing people are good at, is leaving.

Bright blue train


A train, you know, bright blue, not very new,

But the brightest shade of blue you can mix up in your palette.
Rusty brake shoes, screeching tyres,
But moving. Always.

More often than not,
Greeted by empty platforms,
Or angry faces
“Could you for once be a little ahead of time”,
Bright blue train,
Empty platforms.

Half-heartedly, abruptly,
“Make it happen so quick so i don’t feel it at all”,
But halting, always,
Right place, right time.

It’s not nice
Being at empty platforms.

It’s not nice
Being empty.

It’s not nice



I break the nib of my pen against my skin;
I wait.
For you to spill from the cuts by my wrist
Asking me to write you a letter
Because all you ever held on to
Were my words.
I wait.
For you to hold my hand
And look into my bloodshot eyes
Send shivers down my spine
Hold me
Like your five minutes of sleep
On monday mornings
Or the last drink
On saturday nights.

I wait.

For you to smile a little
Maybe sing a song
Or light a matchstick
In a dark room because
You love the crackling of these flames.

I wait.

For you to notice me
Simmering in my sadness
Bathed in lavender
And anxiety
And irony
And your name scribbled with a ballpoint pen.
I wait.
For you to walk towards me
Your lopsided grin
Dead eyes and
Dead heart and
Dead silences.
I wait.
For you to wake up
Rub your eyes and
Stretch your arms
Pull me in
Tell me lies.
I wait.
For you to rush out of this house
Cursing at the alarm that refused to go off
All skin all bones
Perfectly executed puppet show.
I wait.
And wait some more.
For you to finally come back home.

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.’

I am War.


So honey, this is your final war cry.
Gather the trampled bodies from under the rubble;
tell them stories of fairies with blue coloured hair,
tell them stories of fairies that have disappeared,
tell them there were souls that bled only red,
tell them there were men that craved for bread,
tell them death is a monster living under their bed,
tell them all the things you’d never have said
had I not rained like a lifetime of pain over your city
of Jasmine and Swords and Lace.
Another city that I did not spare.
I am war.

So honey, this is your starry night sky.
Look up into a heaven that does not exist;
Pray for a miracle to save you from my wrath,
Pray for the fighters on the warpath,
Pray for some laughter in all this crying,
Pray for a voice that’s promising, not lying,
Pray for a day when your loved ones aren’t dying,
Pray for a home where debris isn’t flying
around and around and around, suffocating you.
Do you really want to live?
I have only death to give.
I am war.

So honey, this is your final goodbye.
Hug your mother but beware, don’t make a sound;
I know the secret word to get into your room,
I know the magic spell to cast all doom,
I know where you hide from me when you’re scared,
I know the news headlines before they are aired,
I know you cry whenever I come undeclared,
I know you cry all day, I wish I could have cared
for your tears and not the pockets of profiteers
that eat their dinner at the cost of your smiles.
Listen, another exploding landmine.
I am war.

So honey, this is your noose, your necktie.
Make sure you wrap it tight and firm;
Keep hanging till your heart stops beating,
Keep hanging, there are rules, no cheating,
Keep hanging even when your mother screams your name,
Keep hanging and then set this house aflame,
Keep hanging there is no life left for you to claim,
Keep hanging and your brother will do the same
and so will a thousand others like you when they hear me come
disguised as terrified screams
as the sound of broken dreams.
I am war.