Padme and Anakin

Padme and Anakin

“It’s been.. ”
“Yes, a while. ”
“How have you been? ”
“Fine… like mad, I’m fine.”

“We kissed.”
“Yes. It burned.”
“We never should have.”

“I’m never leaving you, you know?”
“Sure, like a damn scar.”
“But not yet, not ever.”
“We can’t help it, can we?”

“I won’t let anything happen.”
“But you can’t help it, can you? ”
“But I can! I swear! I will!”


When Ophelia met a Monet

Come and meet me, darling
I want to be your lie.
I see your waters dancing
With every pencil line.
Every speck of paint, a peck:
A kiss of dew and time.
Those shores so soft, so cool,
So calm, so green, upon the eye.

Where every blossom could be picked
If I could reach the stream.
Where I could swim inside your eyes,
A green and painted dream.
I’d swing upon the branches.
Your waters I would drink,
With lotuses and crocuses,
And heady hyacinths.

I reached til green have touched my toes
And lapped my dress of white.
The slime had slid up on my knees
And up across my thighs.
The waters pulled and tugged my dress
I felt it grip around my neck.
I tasted green turn cold and black.
From which I came, I can’t go back.

Was I a fool to see the warmth
The dazzling dance of light?
But, Hamlet, dear, you pushed me not.
I walked into goodnight.

Pond Scum

And in the pink of you
I saw myself in green.
And from the white of warm
I tore myself in green.

And in the mirror’s depth,
my tiny tiny self.
Wouldn’t it feel great to look upon
The rows, the rows,
the Rose?
But in the mirror’s depth
I saw only myself in green.

And on the pond of still
I saw myself in green.
When will I ever learn?
I slicked myself in green.

And on the water’s skin
my sickly slimy self.
Wouldn’t it feel great to skate upon
the skin, the skin,
the scene?
But in the water’s depths
I’ve drowned myself in green.


Have you ever tasted dirty paint water?
“No, you’re not that stupid, right?”
No. No, I wasn’t. I never… but have you?

Anyway, I had sweet and warm coffee
right next to my wash cup
Did I dip into the wrong cup?
I dunno. Maybe.
It tasted sweet,
And red, and juicy.
And then I tasted salt,
metallic and red.

The thickness of the red covered my teeth,
My tongue, my lips,
And then my eyes were red.
And all I saw was that taste.
So I rubbed by eyes,
Hence, hands stained red forever.

All I touched was red.
Everyone stared back at me red.
I could not hear their hearts,
All I could hear was clanging, metallic red.

I dare not touch them.
Perhaps I feared my red.
Perhaps I feared theirs.

“Was it quinacridone?”
Nah. Cadmium, I think.

They say…


They say you took away my heart;
I say you’ve taken my feet,
Piece by piece the bottom part,
The skin that touch the ground –
My sole!

I can no longer land;
I can only hover.
Flesh too raw
too hurt
to touch
to stand.
Funny how I hover and shift
I can no longer put weight
on anything.

In a crowded room
I cannot stand
I cannot reach a soul
Was it just my feet you took, my love?
Alas, you took my hands!

I cannot reach, I can only grope.
I cannot touch, I can only burn.
I walk and all that’s read are marks,
No hope for my return.

They say you took away my heart.
Why have I none left
to give out?



a poem

I could have made myself precious:
salons every fortnight,
facials every month,
a bag for every outfit,
a wardrobe every season.

I could have made myself more … pleasing:
trimmer waist,
stick straight shiny hair,
a generous smile,
a witty little brain.

Instead of straightening my hair,
I chose to show every kink, every wave,
all the sharp curves of my brain.
Instead of slimming down my waist,
I chose to gorge on life joys and pains.
I chose to suck on the teat of life –
I imbibed. Too late to realize
That a thick waist will not keep a man
from holding me – or holding me back,
from completely embracing me – or completely crushing my breath.

I could have made myself precious:
Stone-cold marble skin
touched only by the highest bidder,
hands so light, I’d have flown away at the slightest slight,
a jewel, a treasure, a rare coveted delight.

I could have made myself slimmer.
Having more of me meant
more to give away,
more to lose,
more of me spread out on the table.

I could have been precious
but I let you touch.
I could have been precious
but I let you in.
I could have been precious
but I let you partake.

Yet, I can’t really be precious.
I’m not the type of girl that makes friends
or the type that men fall for.

Hell, I know I’m not precious.
Was I too easy?
Did I give too much of me?
I could have made myself precious to you.