I send my Siren to reside at an island

& sing all the songs that shall be sung,

sink all of me that should be sunken.

If I were Medusa, I would buy myself mirrors

to defeat all my snakes,

to grow feathers, to grow scales,

to become my own stone.

The shore a Greek stage.

I’ve been humping my grammar all my life.

Sometimes my verses rip the ocean open

Wake up

& rinse my hands

with god’s tears

before I scratch my soul

with my aging thumb.

Wake up

& rinse my hands

with god’s tears

before I scratch my soul

with my aging thumb.

I step into my tailored fate

every morning at 7:05

never sure whether it suits me –

the texture of the cloth

makes my skin itchy.

My nails lock my knuckles,

neck and ego,

but I can never turn my index finger

into the key to life,

with fingerprints like eyes opening,

wounds waking.



Should strip my crust off me,

skin the mantle and expose the core,

boiling. Should reduce myself

to bones, to the structure

of universe.

My greedy fear overflows

into a galaxy, a nebula made of gold.

I have to pray to be cursed,

to use the apparatus

by which I touch the world

to unwrap my tissues, organs and ribs.

To tear myself up:

But I haven’t hold onto something

warm for months, like his hands,

like my most delicate dress rarely worn,

always bathing under the sun in the balcony

at home, retaining a piece of tender fabric spring

And I have to enter a room and stay in it

with a non-native address, pens like walking sticks

yet with no feet to return, roads only constructed

on lines of letters. The building,

a monster asleep; corridors: vessels empty.

And I lock myself in a room, a tiny isolated organ.

I sit here all day, fear that I might be drowned

by the blood of silence

They give me an extra one –

only one so I still weigh so little, little for I keep on walking

without a local night, without a train ticket,

and without a mom.

Eyes nailing on me,

yet I shall never learn how to wear my flesh

properly, or even, which flesh to dress.

I feel my blood itchy, whenever

a gaze injects into my skin.

Have been weighed every day,

to witness how the absence of my heaviness

undulates the histogram of my past.

and I hump into my dream, handwriting

choreographed into a maze,

every stroke a wall, a twist in direction,

not allowing any deliberate exist

for my tears

You are my op shop, my cynical spring,

My silted skin, my unsayable saying,

Idiotic idioms that only I love to blabbing

– my grandly mistaken grammars, my intentionally

Incoherent soliloquy, my incoherent

Inheritance from an insane poetry

&I’m discriminated not because of the color of the skin

But the color of my soul

Yet I still remember those nights

When we light up fires inside our eyes

&how we were defoliated as we walked through

the scenes we wanted to see