April 2016
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FRUITLESS Every evening, the pushing of the hour, and the staying of the day, you listened. Every time we touch, I count. But all I learnt in this exile was that every muscle in my hand ached for yours. Yes. We are not alright. This isn’t love, but a close second. Careless creator, why do
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death: it looms, above our car i can hear her, knocking on the sunroof a cloud, she; our car nothing but a coffin when the two of you fight over us i am reminded that i, too, am but dirt i suppose that’s all we were. when the car stops at a red light when
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Q. How did you know you loved? (5m) When we had ran all the streets to the end, learnt these veins weren’t enough to contain young blood. We could have traced these roads to each other’s heart by heart. When every flat was a hill and every sunrise we saw was first and the last,
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Stifle your stomach. Unswallow the thigh; grind chicks to bloody mist. White men in suits hung out to dry: unclothed all this meat’s the same mess. Unfill the vein, empty the conscience. Blank it. Blanche the brain. In this diet skinless breasts are but vital. Who washes away the blood does not matter. The product
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draft 5 after a lot of feedback from fellow participants of #SingPoWriMo. Much thanks to all. This is hopefully the last draft: I am content as is.
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Prompt for Day 24:
ugly stage 