A Lovely Madness


It’s lovely to think

that the mind has been healed,

that it works like everyone else’s,

until you realize

that you can never be healed

because your body opens new wounds

of its own accord

and applies half-hearted bandages

in a patchwork attempt

to seem normal.

It is lovely to think that

madness is beautiful,

craziness is kind,

until it turns painful

when it shatters your mind.

The Executioner

There is a space the length
of a small child's pinky;
a space that is harder to cross
than the harshest of rapids,
or the coldest of winters.

Unless you have needed to cross it,
unless you have tried to squeeze
the two sides together like
a pair of two clashing magnets,
it does not exist.

This space is the purgatory of being;
where you are stuck between
what you want,
and what your mind, your body,
allows you to do.

This space is the inch of room
between a guillotines blade and the
wisps of hair on your head.
One side a release, and one
a reminder of what is normal,
what is expected.

For this space is only rented to
the melancholic;
to those who have felt
the cold and nimble hands of apathy,
the wry smile of despair.

Those hands and smiles
lead you to the gallows;
to the inch of death rope,
the space of an empty pill bottle,
or to the space between your skin
and the green veins
you wish so desperately to slit.



Over time,
her mouth became
a string instrument
tightened with the tension
of constraining her words.

Measures between her laughs
and ivory smiles grew longer,
each beat of silence
lingering for just
a note too long.

More often than not,
tired sandpaper lids scrape
against the white expanse
of her eyes, exposing the
red vein strings
hiding beneath;
they turn the half note circles
below into shades
of a minor key.

At night,
her heart thrums to the rhythm
of a staccato symphony:
rising, rising, rising,
as if her conductor brain
commands it -
faster, faster, faster.

Frantic thoughts
create a polyphonic sound
of worry and dejection -
melodic harmonies to the
hasty trills within her
xylophone ribcage

These sounds echo
in the acoustics of her skull
like the clicks
of an

Prompt: “Write about a change you have noticed in your lifetime, but write only about the things that embody or illustrate this change. It might be a change you have noticed in a friendship, in the body of a loved one, in your hometown…” (Pagh 79)


An Open Letter to a Lost Friend


I am writing this
in response to the
overwhelming hole I caused
within my own heart.

A heart that was
blackened by darkness,
shrunken and shrivelled
by the overhwhelming urge
to cast love away.

You see, 
the first thing that books
never tell you about
is not the loneliness
you feel inside,
(lord knows I know enough of that)
but the loneliness
it creates around you.

(The very same loneliness that made
me push you away,
afraid of exposing the darkness within.)

You may ask why I kept silent,
but what you
may never understand
is that opening up about the darkness
is far more treacherous
than keeping it hidden.

(You can wrap a cold
heart in silence
until the broken beats
disappear from fuzzy ears.)

And it is for this reason
I never told you, friend,
and for that reason
I guess our friendship
has come to an end.

I am no better now
than I was then -
my heart is barely healed,
wrapped in patchwork fabrics of
silence, loneliness, lethargy.

There are days when I wake up
without feeling awake at all.
I am constantly
drifting in a sleepy conscious,
tip toeing a line between
the light and this darkness,
wondering if anyone
would try to stop me
from plunging into the deep.

The place where
my blackened heart lay, friend,
is the place where our
friendship is buried today -
wrapped in patchwork fabrics of
my silence, regret, and anger.

I am sorry friend
for the unanswered
calls and texts,
the cancelled plans,
and the friendship
I traded for rest. 

There's a lump in my throat
when I talk to you -
a painful lump that is there
because I don’t know how
to speak to you
without wanting to burst out
in apologies
and explanations.

But what you may never know
is how you still kept
the darkness at bay
even though I never
gave you a chance
to know that it existed.

So thank you
for healing my heart
without knowing its
terminal illness.