Summer Night

Silence comes as mumbling cars, hushing winds, and distant chatter. The fan spins a soft, constant outward breath. Its cool breeze gently strokes the tops of arms, ankles, and an eased face.

Not eager to leave, sunlight still stands in the doorway, the moon standing idle. With a slight creak, the walls ease.

Her senses are fading, concentration going with the sun. Slowly, her heartbeat settles, breaths slightly deeper. For a few more hours, she can still muster sight, but the sandman begins to put in weight to her eyelids.

She unties her stresses from her spine, and puts them aside, hoping they won’t glow tonight.


Coloured Thought is Not Grey Enough

Electricity sparks. Entrepreneurial conceptions. Flickering from philosophy to colour. Words are sprays of colour from his lips. They are fuel. They come out stacatto, half stuck in different wheels that turn to further thought.

Another sits in the room. He throws grey paint over the coloured man’s words, accusing colour of being juvenile.

He throws dust inside the gears, with a strong stance, and flashing knowing smiles to others he’s primed.

The grey man’s words are ordered, and predictable, to comfort any crowd.

The coloured man’s words slowly jam, broken and cut. They become battle cries, attempting one complete outward thought among the many gears.

Attempting to splash a love of colour, grey will only ever be the one man’s choice. So the coloured man stops his words and leaves, for stranger ears more primed for growing flowers.


My skin is charged, not with ecstasy, lust or vitality, but with overwhelm. Words squirm barely beneath. They think my skin is boiling, that rage is the heat.

Each word, each touch, each smell, is current to my blood, movement to my gut. But I don’t know how to vomit. I don’t know how to undo momentum.

Allergy to what you eat. The smell alone makes my body erupt in adrenaline: fear response. It’s sour, and rancid to my sinuses and down, as sandpaper in my lungs.

Your hand reaches too close to memories of strangulation. Acid reflux. I visibly abandon you, pulling my body away.

Your laughter is like banshees that plan my next demise. That know exactly what words are the sharpest, and smallest knives.

How do you release the overwhelm?

How do you release words from their weapons, and touch from its violence, and smells from their poison?

I am affraid.

Tomorrow is Not Today

She let the light dim,
let corners be deeper gradient,
leaving just a small spot
where she could see.

Sounds reverberated,
ghostly machines,
that might as well be living,
observing and growling.

Her heart was stuck at one speed:

Time was all overcast,
smelling of sulphur, dust,
and stale adrenaline.

She clung onto long breaths:
a final faculty she still controlled.

Each piece of spine,
she untied.

she lowered her shoulder,
and rose her head.

Tight blinks,
forcing ownership.

The clock struck 1am.
And slowly,
she let everything go black,
so she could see again.

Tomorrow could still be hers.


Off-white walls laze on every side. Spiders have claimed the corners, without threat, creating home.

She slouched into the limp brown cushion of a musky couch. Hazy, her eyes point forward.

A scratch to a cheek, her blinks stick.

In the other room, the floor is covered with lists, charts, action plans, and journals. But, it’s all covered in bits of spilt coffee and grimy dust.

The food in the fridge is on the verge, just barely still edible, and it threatens with stinky screams to no avail.

She slowly sips her coffee.

Fleeing in Defense

Quills ease out his back,

Tired of paranoia
in flickering glances,
he’s grown a defense.

Distance and snaps
from once familiars.

Circling around,
they throw darts.

The quills grown longer.

Hibernation from social.
Loss of social.

For him they had been long gone.
Their glances surprise him
with potency of frustration:
connection only just lost.

He fled.