short poem

you fucked me good

like a read receipt that creeps
on the corner of every virtual textual transaction,

you cannot erase this relationship.
you cannot evade the effects of correspondence.

if you try,
it sinks its teeth deeper
on the repressed side of your heart
like an anti-rape condom.

well,
you fucked me.

you fucked me good.

but not even a doctor
can help you now.

Depending on who I’m telling

I’m good
I’m ok
I’m fine
I’m meh
I’m shit
I feel awful
I want to cry all the time
I need a hug
I hear a constant buzzing like a grey cloud over my head
I am not great

*shrugs shoulders*

How about you?
You alright?
You good?
How’s it going?
What’s up?
What you been up to?

Not much.
Not much.
Nothing worth mentioning.
The same old thing.
I’m really boring.
Nothing worth mentioning.
Not much has changed to be honest.
“Just been working”
“Just been studying”
“Just been busy”

That’s cool
That’s nice
That’s good
“Aww”
“LOL”
“Haha” (even when no humour is involved)

I just lived the last 21 years of my life and all I have to say for it is
I’m feeling so “blah” right now about everything that I don’t even want to talk about it
Even though there are a million things I could talk about
Because my thoughts are like the threads of a bed sheet made of fancy Egyptian cotton
So soft, like strands of air that are barely there, existing
Similar to how wires and pipes are forgotten mechanisms of magic
bringing us the means to quench our curiosities
and keeping the mysticism behind it all
at bay
until a something is caught in the drain
and you have to call a plumber
who pulls out a terrifyingly large clump of multicoloured hair and shower gunk
letting you see the insides of your sink
and all you can really think
is
“Oh my fucking God.”

click clack

as she loudly talked on the phone
complaining to whatever friend who would listen
about her “miserable existence”
while swiping on her new iPhone 10
clutching her Gucci bag
flipping a freshly groomed haircut
hailing for a taxi
glaring at passerbyers
for their stunned stares
in reaction to this oblivious
and rather obnoxious woman
whose privilege
was more thunderous
than the sound of her voice
that had only faced hardship
in not always getting something
the way she wanted.

tic-tac-toe

tic-tac-toe
Three in a row
It’s usually a cat’s game,
So here we go!

tic-tac-toe
Three in a row
Who is gonna get it?
Who knows? Who knows?

And if I happen to lose,
We’ll play again.
And if you happen to lose
We’ll play again

The point isn’t to win
Even at the end
The point is that you’ve had fun
And made a friend.

dirty bus

There’s a big difference between a clean bus
And a dirty bus.

Although both take you
to where you need to go
And both will hoard random strangers
And both will have crying babies during inopportunely long journeys;

A dirt stained window obstructs all beauty that you may pass
Even if it’s right in front of your nose
Helping you fail
to realise
how picturesque the path is.