I Wish I Could Tell You

It’s been a while
since I finally accepted
the end.
But my heart still aches
everytime I think
of how we ended.
And if I could go back,
I wish I could tell you:
I stayed for so long,
not because I was weak
but because I believed
in the good person in you.
And I left, not because
you stopped wanting me,
but because I no longer
loved myself by loving you.



Day 7

Try as I might
To quieten the roar
the voices in my head
smashes through the doors.

To muzzle these voices
I must give up the fight.
Give up on love
If I’m to sleep tonight.

Give up on love?
I’d sooner face death
For a life without love
Is a life without breath.

So, these voices and I
shall continue this bout
for neither water, nor air, nor your love
will I survive without.


It’s only when you’ve reached
your tether’s end that you’re
asked to be patient, and it’s
only when you’ve given all that
you can, again and again, that
you’re asked to be kind, and it’s
only when you can’t, any more,
that you’re asked to go on for
that one last mile, and you’ve
asked of me patience, and
kindness, and tenacity more
times I can count, and that’s
why I sigh when you ask me
what’s wrong, because in trying
to demand all that you can
from me, I think you forgot that
even oceans, in their vastness,
are to silent shores, bound.


I would say I want to know
your body for all its curves
and undulations and dips
and peaks, but to know your
crevices would require a
sculptor’s touch, and my fingers
are clumsy from refilling my
pen with ink all day, so I’d rather
distill your every inch into a
language only the two of us
can speak, and write you down,
each line, each frown, each
scar, further polished into
yards and yards of poetry that
I read out to you every night,
with fevered kisses as our
punctuation, and slow
rhythms to which we breathe.


Missing someone who doesn’t
Miss you, or misses you a little
Less than you miss them reminds
Me of when we were packing up
My house in the suburbs, and my father
Told me to pick up a box carefully,
For it was heavy, and I could end
Up hurting myself, and I went up
To it, and geared myself up to put
In a lot of effort, and lunged up
With the box clutched in both of
My hands, but funnily, I picked up
The wrong box, and this was much
Lighter, so I fell, stumbling on my
Own feet, and hit the ground with
My head. I remember passing out
For a moment, and waking up to my
Mother’s concerned face, and she
Helped me get up, and said something
That I wish I could imbibe, for it
Would make my heart ache a little
Less today. She said, “don’t try so
Hard to make an effort with things
Before realizing how much they weigh.”


I’ve been asked to treat my body
Like a temple, again and again, like
A sacred sanctum that needs to
Be saved from sacrilege in any way
And form, and like an idol on a lonely
Pedestal, held high above any harm
Or pain, but all I know is that my body
Is just that, a body that is mine, and
It’s mine to tattoo with words I may
Or may not regret, and it’s mine to give
To those who love, and if I wish, those
Who simply lust instead, and it’s mine
To keep, and to tarnish, and to repair
And it’s mine to scar, and heal, and
Eventually count the delicate, pale lines
And marks, and stretches on, because
Temples are open to those who wish
To come and go as they please, and they’re
Open to those who trample delicate
Flowers as a sign of faith and peace, and
It’s meant as a symbol of enforced
Chastity, and my body is none of that,
It is the simplest expression of me.