Herr im Himmel

Tears are peculiar things.

Like my cat, they never yield when you chase them. They slither their way into your bed, your head, your heart, only when you seek deviation. Do tears huddle in your chest, settle there a while, wait for you to breathe them in, breathe them out, acknowledge and atone for them, before they climb up your throat? Warm like you, elusive like you. Somehow somewhere, perhaps, parts of you have conspired to wreck you, exchanged hushed words of your frailties, knew where to poke. So deliberate, loved one; when you know yourself most, you hurt yourself most.

On what we’re mourning, we might both disagree. It’s a claim we won’t make: no one takes pride in losing. But I come now, with my easy words and the pictures from before, and I have it in me to miss, and ache, and need: offerings for endowments I can’t repay. And you’re the sea, darling, Poseidon, so much for my so little. Your waves are promises and threats, to take away, to drag down. To swim through your storms with worn out arms and drained lungs. It was to either drown in you or spill tears at your shores.

And I’m spilling.


The Lamb of God


There’s a certain brand of knowledge you can only attribute to experience. And in that sense, among others, Will Graham knows about suffering. Will Graham is also drunk tonight, because rarely does lucidity offer, or allow, anything the slightest bit close to reprieve. He’s being told he belongs, and the concept is foreign to him, and he finds himself longing for the heavy accent and the assured voice to brush the words against his ear until they are birthed into facts, and Will is aware he’s inviting this, allowing manipulation, because otherwise what grounds are there to stand on? But the voice remains at a safe distance and Will asks, pleads, for another drink. He is saying something incoherent about this either being a full consumption or it’s more whiskey. He’s not given it. And his limbs are too heavy to actualize the need and the guilt burns, burns, burns, and he’s not above begging. He’s being told he’s devastating and Will feels devastated and he dully wonders if he can simultaneously be both. There are eyes on him, and a presence too close and too imposing he’s squirming beneath it, and he feels penetrated, folds of his brain contracting and tightening around an intruder. He wants to vocalize this, his lack of consent and a “please don’t” and a “No.” He doesn’t, and he notes with some detachment that the longer he keeps his own voice muted, the more the voice in his head sounds like him. He asks, and there’s futility in this defiance, he knows, but he asks anyway, “Is it free will, Hannibal, if my consciousness becomes an extension of yours?” It’s drowsy, his syllables are stuttered, and Will thinks it’s undignifying, but the pupils focused on him are still fond. There’s something imitating a smile, and then there’s a hand on the back of his neck, and the touch feels strategic, like a chess piece moved with intent, with an agenda, and Will is losing his pawns. There’s some form of pleasure to this loss; he feels it resonating in his blood and he’s aware he’s being told, not in words, but in skin contact, that he’s denying himself a truth. There’s a promise there too to fulfill it, and Will is reduced into want, want, want. It is coursing through him like a virus and he feels an overwhelming urge to speak to drown it. His eyelids are draping over a warm wetness and he’s being asked a question; it’s whispered somewhere over strands of hair and he feels it vibrating, engulfing his head as if a suffocating embrace and Will needs to breathe, needs to reestablish some sort of conception of self before the whole notion is drained from him. There is an interrogation going up there, in the parts of him that can still function, and Will is saying things, and he knows, on some instinctive level, that he shouldn’t be indulging this, or that he should be indulging it all the way. He’s being told of choices, of liberation, of a loss turned victory and celebrated, nurtured, accepted. He leans closer, because where else would he go? And his mind is a fog and every thought is a reflection of something that isn’t his. He’s so thoroughly infiltrated, opened up and taken apart, every piece of him rearranged. He’s something pleasant now, something other. It’s not sinking in. So he sinks in. Aching face buried in the shoulder beside him and he’s heaving another plea against soft fabric, and it hurts, it hurts all over. The voice tells him to transcend the crucified Christ into an existence beyond Heaven and Hell and original sins. And Will is biting into the skin beneath him because that’s apparently what you do when you’re leaned against Satan’s shoulder, and he thinks he’s drunk, it’s retaliatory and it’s juvenile, and it’s stupid, so stupid; he can’t stop. There’s a tightening around his neck and the hand still resting there is guiding his head up with minimal force, and he pulls up with minimal resistance, and he looks feral, he knows, lips parted, showing teeth, and there’s an unfolding of a smile that greets him, something of pride and approval, and Will feels it wash over him like an addiction momentarily sated.

Next time he reaches for the whiskey, Will knows, not now, but, eventually, he knows, he’ll reach for it instead.

Art belongs to @lorandesore

Das Feuer liebt mich

-“There has always been an underlined caution to everything I do. I’m… ironically too wary of the butterfly effect.”
-“Sounds unfair, to hold yourself accountable for what you can’t possibly predict. Cause and effect don’t necessarily pertain responsibility.”
The air remained hot and heavy, clinged to their skin like blind bugs. Denzel would have pulled his shirt off if he hasn’t an hour ago. Whatever remained was flesh and blood and a thin sheen of sweat that he wore like a second garment.
-“I’m not concerned with judgment.” He told him, eyes squinting and darting to the horizon in a frantic search for something, anything, “Or fairness.” He added, and it sounded like spitting, like the very word offended him.
-“What are you concerned with?”
-“Chain reactions.”
He hummed the response indifferently. In his defense, he never sounded particularly concerned with the things he claimed concerned him.
-“Well then you’re only as responsible as the person before you was and as the person after you shall be. You’re aware, Denzel, we don’t know who started this.
Denzel snorted. He breathed through the heat and felt a rising burn in his throat threatening to overtake his vision. He spoke to distract it, “By ‘this’ I’m assuming you mean ‘life,’ because we most definitely know who started that.
-“Biggest chain reaction of all, huh?”

-“I’m thirsty.” The child hissed, voice loaded with a desperation Denzel knew he could identify with. His companion soothed, “We’re almost there. Just a bit more.”

It was a blatant lie, one that tugged on his chest and pulled where it hurt and he found it crude, vulgar… the outright deciet of it. Man lied and titled it a kindness since man knew how to use words. He thought it oddly provoking, how chivalry always seemed to walk hand in hand with hypocrisy.
-“How many hours do you suppose we have left?”
-“Before what?”
-“What the fuck, Denzel?”
The child snapped her head up to them, her shadow laid before her, taller, less frightened. It will probably survive; it always does.
Denzel wanted to punch the mortified scolding expression on his companion’s face, neutralize it into something with the slightest resemblance to acceptance. It’s the only grace they had left.

“Momma taught me a prayer.” The child told them, edging on tears, and she made an attempt at reaching for Denzel’s hand. He recoiled from the touch violently. And if he had the words, if he did, he would have explained that bile gathered at the back of his throat and he tasted acid. Instead, he bent at the knees and clutched on his neck, retching and spitting whatever sustenance his body still thought to preserve. It wasn’t much.

Not graceful, no. But less demeaning than prayer.

His companion, nonetheless, dragged the child aside, knelt to face her, and with trembling lips and an intense yearning, a pitiful sparkle of hope in big tired eyes, whispered, “What Momma taught you, let’s recite it together.”

They did.

And Denzel caught himself foreseeing salvation.


Evaluating the intensity of one’s feelings towards an emotional prospect is an unnerving process. This is it. This is where the horrendous truth of your gradual fading into someone else surfaces and strikes your denial in the nose. This is the moment.
In regular circumstances, the realisation does, and should, scare you shitless, but for me, and owing to my lack of cognizance at the time, I wasn’t scared enough.

I was smitten and I saw cartoonish stars that promised security, bliss, and good things. In my defense, there were no signs to ignore, all the red flags were dressed in white inviting attires demanding me, kindly, to give in. There is safeness, salvation, shelter; this is everything you’ve ever wanted.

The charming demon’s lips dripped of honey and poison. The poison tasted as sweet. I loved it all. There wasn’t a single element that aggravated me, and, had I been wiser, I would have found it suspicious. But the magic was blinding.

I think optimism is childish. I also think that the first grave disappointment of said optimism marks the death of said child. This is the story of how my childhood died.

We met on an angry Thursday. I call it angry because I always thought the sky mirrored God’s mood.
“Then God is always angry in England.” He giggled, when I once shared the above ‘theory’ out loud. I stared at him with nuisance. Cruelty made me physically sick. And ridiculing one’s naiveté was cruel.
“There are many gods, sweetheart, you think? Ones for coast cities, ones for the countryside, and others for Antarctica?”
“And do we pray to them all, or only the ones above our heads?”
“…I don’t know.”
“Do they visit and socialise? Do you think the clouds are so grim today because our God is lonely?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“What do you think, baby girl?”
I thought I didn’t love him anymore, but only for a fleet second. For the following days, I just didn’t love myself.

It would be unfair to solely blame my self-loathing on him. The weekly visits had the capacity to damage only those prone to damage. Desperate dreamy children make good victims. My mother insists I should have “at least said something,” but a child’s brain is too small, too pure, for big academia concepts like emotional abuse, and it seemed, at least for a while, that knights could do no wrong; only little princesses were stupid, only little princesses were unworthy.

I haven’t seen my father in 4 years. I don’t wish to. But today I spend the morning with a lover. The sky is still angry. His poison is still sweet. I’m still waiting for the horrendous truth to strike me in the nose.

This Is Not a Love Song

The strange familiarity.
Out of all human feelings, my ever favorite is familiarity.
Familiarity, more than love, more than passion, more than fulfilment.
I guess you learn along the way that constancy wins every race. The instant spurts of emotions, the temporary fire, the agonising excitement, they all fade away. The rabbit tires out quickly and the tortoise scores the gold medal. So it is.

I told Samuel today that humans are enslaved by their urge to move forward. He blinked–he always does on addressing ridiculous statements, and made a joke about idle hands and devils and whatnot. He could have argued that I secretly don’t stand by my own finding, that “enslaved” has far too many bad connotations to associate with what we’d both eventually agree is a human norm. But I suppose he spared me the trouble out of kindness.

I scrubbed my bare feet against his rug. It had an uncomfortable peculiar color but I envisioned it would probably feel warm to make love on.
“Turquoise is girly.” I mumbled.
“Don’t offend your own tribe.”
“Feminism is also girly. And I don’t have a tribe.”
He blinked, “I find your fetishization of lone wolves very amusing. I’ll paint your toenails. Tell me more.”
He grabbed my feet.
“I think the epitome of equality is never having to talk about it. We shouldn’t need to say that the tall and the short are equal; they are, but we needn’t say it. Uttering it nullifies it.”
He colored one nail crimson, “You always choose to ignore the inputs. In a world of your design, one with no witch hunt, rape, or women in burqas, the need to publicly state that men and women are equal would be nonexistent. Do we live in this fantasy realm? We don’t.”
“Awful color. And you’re wrong. We constitute our world. If we consistently need to establish that my lack of penis shouldn’t have anything to do with my constitutional rights then we’re implicitly asserting that it’s natural for it to do. Then equality would be a favor. I’m a woman and you’ve granted me equality because I worked hard enough to earn it, not because we are equal by default.”
He drew a rose on my ankle. it tickled a little. He whispered, “Your inner misogynist self finds soothing colors girly.”
“‘Girly’ is an adjective. It’s language. Only the butthurt political correctness enthusiasts would be offended by language.”
I could read the dismissal on his calm face and it was rather satisfying. My angry rants never disturb his rivers. It was our cornerstone.
“I messed up your foot.” He declared proudly and I smiled.

“Do you think you could ever go for guys? Like if you were in prison and were really horny?”
“And you’d take it up the ass?”
He laughed. I smirked. Prepared a speech on typical masculine pride.
“I just think it would be too painful to enjoy. I know what is going in your little brain. Cocky is derived from cock and we’re a joke to you.”
I thought that him thinking so was endearing. Security works in mysterious ways, one of which being embarrassing confessions.
“Would you fuck me on your turquoise rug?” I asked casually. The red rose on my ankle already distorted.
“No. I’d rather eat. I’m taking your active libido for granted.”
“Did you just reject me because you can’t stop thinking of black prison dicks inside your ass?”
“Yes. Also pasta.”

White sauce. And garlic. And a side of familiarity.


But they don’t warn you that perhaps after you’ve walked your thousand miles, perhaps all you find there, all that’s waiting for you on the other side, is a broken mirror: your horrified face, staring at you, calling you a waste of life.
Words fly around in your little head like armed butterflies, with swords; you can’t catch them but they won’t let you be… poking holes in the corners of your brain, drawing blood, bathing in your blood.
Victorious drunk lascivious soldier butterflies, singing their war songs, fucking their queen, claiming your lands.
Hide from people with me today, under a kitchen table, at the center of the universe. We’ll see their feet moving hastily, orbiting us. We’ll be their sun, but they won’t know it.
Be the Greeks to my Troy, demolish me, fool me once, twice, thrice: the shame will always be on me.
I won’t be your victim, we’ll do it in unity; it’s kindness.
It’s kindness to unbuild when your only construction is debris.
We’ll be the heroes of our time; we’ll be the martyrs of self-destruction. Our statues will wear scars.
We will be a stain. A glorified stain on an ancient history book that no one reads.
But I will love you, and I won’t loathe me, and we won’t break hearts.
We won’t break hearts.

A Plea She Shall Never Read

I remember a time of my life where you were the coolest person I know.
I used to stay up all night with you, we’d watch a horror movie, something that marked the peak of my badassery as a kid who didn’t know much, or knew nothing at all.
I used to clone how you spoke, the cool words you used, how you secretly smoked.
I admired you. I imitated you. I wanted to be you.
Now your presence suffocates me.
I can’t tell when it all happened, we grew up, you grew old. I’m being cruel.
I think I expected the admiration to grow with me but your achievements, that once looked so big, started to shrink and fade as the years stole more of you; as I stole more of them.
Now when you throw a joke, like the old times, I look at you and I pity you.
I look at how old and used and repetitive the joke is, how old and used and repetitive you are. I’m being cruel.
I’m scared I’ll be you.
I wish if someday I’ll wake up in the morning to see you, not waiting, not bitter, sticking your tired dysfunctional hand in the jar, snatching what ought to be yours.
I want to see you making yourself happy.
I don’t wanna pity you.
I don’t wanna tip-toe around you.
I don’t wanna hide you.
Fuck them for making you the you you are now.


How much emptiness have they filled you up with today?
He’d tell you about the green-eyed 20-year old who stole his heart decades ago
And the gap in his chest the size of her fist where God chose to hit him
He’d talk of oblivion and angry mornings and sunsets
How empty are you today? Not enough?
Remember when what kept you up at night wasn’t heartache? I don’t.
But I remember when it was too black and white you had to drown yourself in colors others splashed
And you’d draw a mountain on their backs each time you climbed over them
Did it feel like victory?
Did you fuck the melancholy away?
Are you empty enough? Not yet?
He’d fill his dark corners with names and stories, shadows crawling for company
He’d watch them ignite a fire he knows he shall step on
But the efforts, the blood, the sweat, the warmth
He’ll kill them. He likes his cold.
Remember when I asked you if the light meant anything?
It didn’t, we just didn’t know.
Next time you fill your gardens with artificial roses, would it remind you of me?
I hope it does.
How empty is your emptiness today?
Because mine is empty enough.


Have I told you I love you today? I haven’t. Because I don’t.
But before you worry, let me tell you something.
Sometimes I don’t love you, sometimes I don’t love anything at all, my heart freezes with whatever beauty it carries within and I don’t feel anything.
It passes.
Sometimes though, I love, I love passionately, but it’s not you. Sometimes I love a stranger, my cat, a new movie, a quality, a dress, a book. Not you.
It passes.
Sometimes I beat my heart up, I drag it to a public square after another, show the world how much of a disappointment this little piece of flesh and blood is. Whip it for all to see.
It passes.
Sometimes I loathe you. Sometimes I think of hurting you, I think of breaking your nose, or your favorite antique, or your pride. I think of stabbing your aura, of sabotaging what we are, of rebelling and throwing you off your throne.
It passes.
Sometimes I question my promises, I question my sincerity and the confidence with which I use the word “always.” Sometimes I realize we are fragile, I realize we are breakable, I get that we won’t last.
It passes.
But sometimes, sometimes, my darling, I love you. Sometimes I love you so much my heart trembles with your weight. Sometimes I fall to pieces for you, count your stars, run your circles, fuck your demons, wrap myself in your white flags and burn myself in your fires.
It, too, passes.

The Modern Man Dilemma

“Who are you?”
You’d think that’s one of the easy questions, one of those inquiries you’ll always have a default answer for; “I’m X and I do Y.”
You’d use a name to identify a soul, and a position to mark your usually unfulfilled ambition, and then you’d sit back and relax, for that’s a question, unlike many, you can respond to correctly.
But you’re wrong.
Your name doesn’t mean anything; it’s a combination of letters set together in a particular order your culture agreed is acceptable. If you’re lucky, your name would be one of those you can trace and find a significance for, although the significance is almost always irrelevant. Your name is a repeated pattern that, without a face, doesn’t even deserve the capitalization. Your name doesn’t tell me who you are. It doesn’t tell me what you stay up all night thinking of. It doesn’t tell me how your heart aches. It doesn’t tell me if you find the moon beautiful. Your name is empty.
Your job doesn’t tell me if you’re happy, it doesn’t tell me how you got where you are, it doesn’t narrate your story, it doesn’t talk of your struggles, it doesn’t admit your shame, your pride, your loneliness, your stupidity.
And then you’d expose, or hide, a number; thinking your 35 years of living mean anything significantly different than another’s 17. You’d think the quantity guarantees the quality. You’d think you’ve got all the answers.
But you’re wrong.
When I ask you who you are, please, pretty please, reply with your favorite flavor of ice cream, tell me about your ex, curse the universe for being so unfair, cry, make a statement, scream, kiss me, tell me to fuck off.
When I ask you who you are, please, pretty please, show me something you drew, spit on the floor, tell me you cannot sing, ask me for forgiveness, lie to my face and lie good.
When I ask you who you are, please, pretty please, tell me you’re scared of death, tell me your parents disappointed you, tell me the sunset is overrated, reveal a secret.
But please, pretty please, don’t tell me your name.