Blood On My Hands

Do you see her writhing in pain, slithering like a slippery noodle twisting through chopsticks, fingers outstretched one second, curled up, knuckles red, the next?

“No fever? See a doctor, drink more water”

Water made her throat run drier, she could imagine its walls like the floor of an arid, cracked desert that’s long gone, no flood or prophetic Moses could heal it now, for the sun would take away what was given in a second, leaving behind a thirst that would stick to the roof of her mouth like the plastic feeling of dried up glue on a child’s finger.

“Blood in your phlegm? See a doctor, drink more water”

Blood is not news to a woman; blood is a ritual. Blood is the alarm bell that goes off to remind her twelve times a year that she is, still, a woman. Her indifference was a constant, to nosebleeds and coughed up blood, both painless, both signs that the veins that sewed our flesh together are not the work of the finest tailor.

“Headaches, exhaustion? See a doctor, drink more water”

Throbbing, like the first night, except this time there was no pleasure involved, it was everywhere but there, there was no duty-free guilt and no stupid giggle to end the pain. Her head throbbed, her arms ached while her legs went limp in protest and her chest was drafting a letter of resignation. White flags everywhere, strewn all over the bed, crumpled tissues filled with the inheritance of her times.

“Still alive? See a doctor, drink more water”

Not dead yet, beyond it without having passed it. A convenient bubble of nonchalance that excused her from having to care about the living, they were alive enough to care and to protest those who didn’t. She didn’t know when to bring her bubble down, she didn’t know where reality ended and her feelings began, where pain flowed into life and stirred the waters of victimhood. All her smiles were subterfuge, all her screams only rehearsed echoes.

The doctor gave her water and a strange white pill.  She lies crumpled under a bed of rust coloured leaves but they say she’s happy now.




Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you sing
sing me your loudest secrets
your softest pieces

Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you dance
dance me your stories
dance them one by one

Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you paint
paint me your mind’s sunrise
and your heart’s sunset

Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you cook
cook me your fondest memories
your mother’s best, your father’s first

Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you think
tell me things that make me think
tell me riddles, put my mind in a maze

Come undone for me
Don’t tell me that you sin
Rid me of my qualms
Rip me apart and sway me

Come undone for me
as I undo
the threads
of my soul

Unsocial Media

You give your mind to influencers

you weigh your worth in follows

you sing for your unsung heroes

and for those caught in the throes

of choosing between selling art

and artfully selling.

You see them turning the corner

seeking the fame bubble

whilst around them

the earth turns to rubble.

You join the stage

crying for the spotlight

in their popularity theatre

are you any better?

And when reality hits you

like a meteorite sent from above

will you be able to leave

the billion shadows

the million stories

the thousand uploads

the hundred likes

the ten pings

the fake you?




I wish I was there
to hold your hand
when you were younger
crossing streets
with your eyes closed.

I wish I knew
the words to tell you
you are everything
my sunshine and my storm
my strength and my weakness
my love and my fear

Do you know
I love your name
To console
but none
consoled you

You cut off your wings
So I could have them
No happiness without gratitude
No achievement without perseverance
No knowledge without humility
No me without you

Yes mama, I pray
to Mother Mary
Mathave rekshikenney
Like you taught me to
she’ll save me
as she saved you

for what it’s worth
let me repay
your time, your love
your grace, your health
let me put you
on a pedestal
let me console you