No. 11


“6, 4, 3, 2, 1.”

The elevator drops.

Stars sparkling on the ceiling,

all in white.

My feet gives in and my butt touches the ground.

Its door opens.

They grab me in.

Put me on a ring.

Fists and kicks landed on my mask.

Not just this,

but many more.

I wish I would forever be locked.

The light resumes.

I keep biting my nails till the flesh soaks with freshness.

My hair falls all over my shoulder.

My heels trip itself and go out of pace.

Men streaming into the handicap w/c.

I follow suit.

                                                    Open my legs.

                  Squat widely.

                  Expose my nipples and nectars.

                  Have a warm clean-up head to toe.

They all hold a visitor pass

as if the card can slice your face right open.

I hand them my body

which they deny access to.

Outside the w/c,

the guards prepare some juice.

I gulp one glass down my throat.

It appears as fluid,

but tastes like chili pepper.

Stung by a syringe.

I give them a look

so vacant that the corners of their mouth wiggles.

                                                                             Fingers massaging my sore spine.

                                                                             My skin and flesh attached to a mat.

                                                                             Mouth connected to a pipe,

                                                                             feeding on honey secreted by bees.




“You’ve trespassed some place you’re not allowed to be in.”

I suck deeply into the tube and spat it out.

My tongue scratched with blood.

This neutral voice encompasses me.

“You have no identity,

no proof,

no nothing.

Are you a thief or a spy?”

In an instant,

my head fills with blood and I bang it.

“Or just a psycho?”

That voice stops right on top of me.

Lifting my mask.

                        It is not a he or a she.

                        Not an animal or an insect.

                        Cannot be described as an alien.

The next second,

my right eye is poked from within.

My eyeball is fished like a fish ball.

It eats it.

“Tell me.

Who are you?”

I close my other eye.

“I don’t know.”

The atmosphere freezes.

The time shifts.

The existence inhales.

“I know you don’t know.”

It leans near me,

whispering to my right ear.

“But you want to be here.

You came here yourself.”

My heart skips a beat.

I sweat all over the place.

                                        “And you want this.”

                                         It licks my inside.

                                        And intensely cutting my body into pieces.

                                        “You know what you are doing.”

An overwhelming sense of liberation dashes onto me.

I come,

I see.

My only eye focuses on its core,

only to recognize how familiar it is.

“Come on,

even without everything,

you still know.”

It knives and dissects my organs one by one.

I don’t feel pain,

like this me doesn’t belong to me.

Right before my heart is stamped into dust,

words spill out from my vocal cord.

“I conquer.”

                 Everything dismisses,

                 like it were a dream.

                                                  The lift reaches the 5th floor.

                                                  A long corridor appears.

                                                  At the end of it, I see me,

                                                  waving its hand at me.



No. 10


“Stop running around the house with no pants!”

I turn around and see a woman hanging.

It is the most advanced of times,

where technology can reach the human brain in no time.

I am just a clerk.

Paper works dominate the majority of my life.

The alarm rings.

The phone rings.

I walk into the bathroom with the phone clipped on my shoulder while urinating.


just please come back for a while,

we are in desperate need for filing in the documents and we gotta zip the excel file no 235 and 467 to the management dept asap.”

Sitting on the toilet,

I make sure I mute my own voice and I cut the call.

I return to my room with no pants,


Probably having a hang over after a night’s crazy drinking.

Climbing back to my top bunk,

the woman hangs herself right next to my pillow.

I reach the edge of the bed and leap.

Thought it was morning,

but it was not.

The images flush my brain with excessive blood till my eyes can bear no more.

Times when I graduated from high school;

when I traveled to Europe;

when I dropped out from uni;

when I screwed over my first job;

when I painted my own book black——

The woman keeps hanging herself on the top right corner of my canvas.


I have a loving family.

They love me so.

So much.

Blood streaming down my face as she force feeds me porridge made last night.

Today I go to school and write a poem called My Family.

My teacher boasts me,

saying I am an endearing child of truth.

They are kinda satisfied.

2190 days after,

we are on a bed with lights closed.

We do not want to be in a car or in a park this time.

I make sure they hear every voice,

every sound we make.

That night,

I am homeless.

But I still have something to trade with,

so I still have shelter and food.

I used to love learning.

I am the top notch student in every grade.

Their perfect pet.

“Dont be naked in our home!”

The kitchen sink speaks some filthy words.

Even an underwear gimme too much stress.

Upstairs I go, then being lifted down.

I have tasted heaven,

my taste buds remained with an aftertaste of hell.

The woman ties my neck on the rope.

My arms cling onto the back of his neck.

And snap.


What a relief.


The lights dimmed.

The curtains fall back onto the same routine.

The puppets dance the recurrent pattern.

In the control room,

I shoot one or two of them down.

The woman swings her feet above my head.

I thought I were naked.

Even my skin turns dry and the blood stops running.


365 days back in time,

a few seconds ahead,

my birthday.

They bring me the best of foods.

He puts up the perfect mask.

And I climb the highest peak,

just to fall back down.

With a string holding me back.

A sting engraved on my back.


I thought I have returned to the office.

OT again.

I have received a mail

from 6 years ago.

I click into it.

The woman hanging sees herself being hung.




The crows bark as the crispy leaves drop.

Love birds stroll hand-in-hand around the fountain.

Runners and cyclists bite their lips to brave against the intoxicating radiation.

Ducklings moisten their pure fur and flat beaks with the clear pond water.

Willows bend and arch their back like a puppet loosen its string.

My eyes cannot contain such serenity.

I cross my fingers and my legs,

sitting very still in front of a cottage,

in which its presence the visitors often have overlooked.

Her slim fingers engage in an agile motion.

Three rings glisten in mid-air as she hits every key with succinct accuracy.

In her soul,

music takes up all the space.

She lives to create the rhythm of the living.

The mantelpiece is quite warm.

I warm myself up there,

and walk back to her.

She is closing her eyes as she plays the instrument.

As a complete idiot in music,

I feel deeply ashamed of my inability to comprehend such artful creations.

For the next two hours,

I have probably formed a solid fortress surrounding my acquaintance.

The piece has ended itself.

I take heed not to exhale a sign of relief.

She raises her hand in joy and bows for applause.

Then collapses.


I take a closer look at her childish face.

She burrows her head into my arms.

Eyes still closed.

Even her snores puts together a beautiful melody.


Someone pads my shoulder and sits right next to me.

As vexed as I still do,

I fall into a maddening silence.

The sun droops as the plants wither.

The moon arises to take its place.

If time is a something that can be wasted,

I am a big spendthrift.

My legs begin to get sore;

my back aches;

my hip hurts.


I am still looking at the cottage.

All the same whatsoever.

“Why not go inside?”

I think I deliberately ignore this person who attempts to initiate a conversation with me.

She knows I am nursing her on my lap,

in my arms.

She giggles in her dreams.

I wonder what she is dreaming about.

Her breath fuses scents of blossoming sakura in the ambient surroundings.

Her being represents all the lovely combinations of nature and peace that many have pursued all their lives.

I take out my letter from my purse and read it over again.

This is my first time meeting with her,

my pen pal.

How can she be so trusting to me?

My palms sweat involuntarily.

Within seconds,

I can’t catch her bouncing up and squeezing my face near hers.

I thought our lips come into contact.

That induces a miserably excitement that I wish to deny.

“You must be Miss. Garret!”

Her beady, watery eyes lure me to caress her golden hair and down her tiny back.

“You look exactly as you have described in the letter!

Not a nuance different!”

I feign a reassuring smile.

I must not speak.


“Miss. Garret, can you do me a favor?”

We have taken up two spots on this bench for I don’t know how long.

“Why don’t you answer me?”

The cottage is still in my central vision and she only counts as peripheral.

Out I sigh,

white smokes are less dense than air and they rise to the higher altitude.

She is wearing a frock like Sara in The Little Princess.

With the typical doll face,

she is the prototype of a higher class maiden.

Her tiny fingers stimulate mine as they brush past the tips and the joints.

“Unbutton my corset,


As if I have lost my mind,

I obey.

My letter has magically flown under the bed and laid dormant ever since.

The space is no longer a realistic one as long as her eyes are wide open.

To my disappointment,

corsets away,

she is not naked,

still covered with layers and layers of onion skin.

How many layers are unpeeled?

Green eyes peep from the windows and she shuns them away with a fling of her handkerchief.

Before this meeting, I remember it is not supposed to happen.

“And why not?”

My legs are crossed even tighter.

The lip gloss feels plastic on my lips.

The gown,

the gloves,

the hat…

with their stitches are causing intense itchiness on every inch of my flesh.

The perfume I wear blocks my pores.



My acquaintance looks me in the eye and takes me away.

Music plays from nowhere.

The keys on the piano automatically move along with her swift dancing movements.

She carries me to stretch out my arms and rotate according to the sporadic beats and spontaneous pauses.

The auburn bun proves its weightiness on my light head.

It slips down and the ground absorbs its absurd presence.

My tiny shoulders are not wearing the gown right.

It hangs on till the last minute of the dance and breaks loose.

She grips the valleys on my hands with such strength that brings all of me back together at once.

We leap;

we spin;

we dash;

we lash;

we jump;

we soar.

We make a perfect symphony.

When the dance ends,

the music still goes on.

She and I gaze at our bare bodies,


“You do not need to speak,

you know.”

She tilts her head slightly to the right.

I stand frozen,

inches away from her,

captivated by this familiar moment of intimacy.

Goosebumps make me fidget in the same place like hamsters stuck in a hole.

The cottage houses all the once,

all the forgotten ones.

The blue reflection of the night pond returns a cool stare at me.

I thought I hear myself speaking to her.

“I know.”

He burrows into my chest,

holds my waist with tenderness and we are engulfed in the blankets.

The piano plays the same tune again and again.

Repeating the chorus because a CD player is hiding inside the organ.

What a fool,

both of us.

I bite onto his lip,

without gloss this time.

I release myself in front of my acquaintance,

my temptation,

my intoxication.

I put my ring onto his finger,

my fingers are finally long enough to match his.

I have peeled the last layer off from us,

crossing the boundary no soul dares.

She whispers love.

I whisper lust.

A man has entered the cottage and finds a deserted piano.

A woman has stepped into the cottage and finds him sitting,

playing the piano.

But what am I.

I uncross my legs.

Air blows into my bare bottom.

My dress feels surreal.

I put on the brown wig to cover my golden hair one last time.

I rise as he welcomes me, back.




The texture of the yellow fruit is queer.

I poke at it.

But it is solid inside.

I snatch some in my basket.

And walk out of the store from the entrance.

The entrance leads me to another entrance and another.

Doors open and close.

I am compelled to deliver me on a conveyor belt.

This is by far the most ideal transportation,

despite its airtight nature.

You might want to bring along a water bottle during the ride.

I lick my lips as it turns dehydrated.

Jets surround the only living channel with arms and ammunition.

As they fire inaudible,

invisible spears towards the snake-like tube,

it decomposes itself and drizzles into a tiny Rubric cube.

The black hole eats it up.

Seconds later,

the universe explodes with fireworks.

“That’s just how magic works.”

She skips forward with one leg,

all the way with her hand attaches to the wall of the channel.


Eyes with the color purple.

Rarest condition ever.

He sets her up and takes her eyeball for further experiments.

Machines continue to detect the slightest error on her fragile body.

One of the handcuffs malfunctions,

she grabs the edge of the shears with bare hand.

But she only gets hold of section A.

Section B is already dissecting her right leg.

“Metal reaction!”

The man returns to the laboratory with no agitation.

And his face is so calm that nobody would believes he stabs the girl with a syringe a minute later.

The leg is completely separated from the core.

Machine 204 vacuums the remnants and blow dries the flowing liquid.

The man takes over the table and examines her himself.

Both her sockets are contracted,

yet pulled open.

“Another eye.

It ain’t that purple after all.”

Her nose and throat are leaking out torrents,

torrents that find the only drainage system to be the missing eye.

As he looms over,

the system inside her finishes loading and connects.

It clicks,

blowing his head off.

It takes time for him to regenerate.

She yawns with chains all unfastened,

robots all annihilated.

On the marble floor,

a chalk is beside some scribbles.

She reads it loud,

“tester 000319”.

He recovers half of his face and holds her ankle.

He twists it.

She twists his neck.

Her swollen ankle seems to fit in the unfitting high heels anyway.

There she kneels and confronts him face-to-face.

“Do you think you and I are the same?”

All the cells burst inside of him.

On the outside,

he lies flat like a piece of skin on the tile.

A vacuum machine automatically recollects the pieces and sends them to recycle.

“What I have missed cannot be resumed.”

She pulls out her channel lipstick from her pocket,

applied some on her puffy mouth.

And spells C-H-E-C-K-M-A-T-E on the ceiling.

The paint is dripping down on the extermination spot,

tracing his silhouette.


By the time I have reached my destination,

the lemons have expired.

Their rotten existence is even more endearing.

A pair of scissors are ready on the couch,

I pick it up and slice the lemons.

Using them as a dish washer,

I mop and squeeze each with my two hands.

Arcs fly across the canvas.

“Who are you?”



I have no time to look backwards.

Their rifle aims at the back of my head.

I doodles with wider gesture and in a pace exceeding all limits.

Consume the rest.

Let pure dust judge.

They pull the trigger.

They see me.

I see them.

I am not as horrified.

The day breaks the night,

illuminating my work of art on the window pane.

“What’s the date of today?”

“8th May, 4040.”

“Queen Ainsworth’s location please.”

“ Error.”


The voice hardens.


A moment of silence.


“I’m afraid you would like to see it yourself.”

“This time, she chose to.”

“To what?”





For an unknown number of times,

I dug up my guts and climbed the stairs.

Billboards lured visitors with their bold,

intoxicating red.

Soft music pervaded in the narrow corridor.

My scandals had legs on their own,

crawling forward to the source of mystery.


A bunch of hot girls hit their glasses of wine with fervor.

Some of the liquid soaked their silk garments,

highlighting the transparency.

Tapping my hat twice,

the bartender winked.

She produced the Bluemoon for me,

a summertime specialty.

I bit onto the straw hard as my visions went wild.

Maybe it was never right in the first place.

The guy with shabby jeans walked out of the McDonalds with a hamburger half eaten in hand.


the sign drew him in.

The next thing he knew he was in the elevator.

The disco ball kept rotating in an anti-clockwise direction,

emitting red-green-blue intermittently.

A live band was playing some hard-core music.

Three middle-aged with moustache flinging their hipster head to create chaos.

I sipped the remaining ice water.

The bartender refilled my glass,

trying to get me engaged in vain.

“Alright, see you later, babe.”

I kissed the two men on the cheek and dismissed myself into the crowd.

My feet hurt from this unfit pair of heels.

Somebody threw up next to me and pushed me to the side.

I lost my balance and fell on the dance floor.

Worn out snickers and denim trousers.

Ideal match.

At least they looked quite entertaining.

I let the projection radiate on me like I am a superstar.

Someone grabbed me on the shoulder and pulled me on stage.

“You gotta be responsible for this woman’s injury.”

She and I exchanged glances and I had no grasp of the situation.

I ignored the mad man with sunglasses.

He initiated a fight,

which I wrestled him down the floor without any verbal confrontation.

He scratched his head.

His hair couldn’t be any messier.

The next thing I knew,

he knelt down and lifted me up.

He carried me to the booth seat and laid me down.

I swallowed hard and evaded any eye contact.

“Oh babe,

are you hurt?

Oh dear.”

I still couldn’t manage to return to reality while the flirtatious man came back at me.


I choked before I responded anything.

The denim guy crossed his leg to separate me and that flirt.

“Sorry, but she was booked.”

All listeners must have their irises expand to the maximum at this moment.

“She was mine tonight.”

He burrowed his face into mine,

demanding reassurance.

I nodded unconsciously.

The flirt displayed signs of frustration and disinterest,

then set out to hunt for better preys.

I tapped my hat thrice.

The bartender chuckled and handed over a pink flamingo.

I straightened my suit and bounced upright.

As I walked on the stage,

the audience had their eyes glued on me.

I snatched the microphone from the band,

“What a lovely night,

ladies and gentlemen.

Now we are playing a little game here.

We must have ourselves paired up by 2am.

The one singled out would be disqualified.”

The crowd was skeptical,

yet invigorated at the same time.

The entire atmosphere was hyped up with hot-headed singles searching for their lost one night stand.

The man with the suit vanished without even explaining himself.

Clouds of mists blinded me.

The girl was no longer next to me.


Memory is a funny neurological function.

It would trick you into believing something which ain’t real.

J is the best example.

Rewind back to the times on the beaches in winter,

which I learned how to swim because the water was too cold and his body was too warm.

Rewind back to the times when we had a party at my place,

which both of us bought formal attires and danced all night imitating professionals.

Rewind back to the times when he drove a mini cooper and brought me to the hill top,

where we made out with the dazzling city lights in the middle of the night.

Those were the times,

people always said.

But when were these times?

Aren’t they all rosy retrospection of some stained reality which we all desperately tried to deny?

He pushed me to the wall and held my wrists up.

His body leaned on top of me without hesitation.

Supposed I was made to feel ecstatic.

Supposed I should be relishing the moment of reunion.

But shots of scattered pain pierced into my mind,

reminding me of something toxic.

Hereby in front of me was nothing but a scorpion.

The whole setting was chaotic.

People rummaging for partners.




Maybe the next level was streaking out of the bar club.

I couldn’t care less.

I left the main site and into the corners.

A few smokers and those on drugs glared at me.

But what I had noticed was them.




As high as every one approaching me might get,

she was not any of those.

Maybe once was,

but no longer remained as one.

“I thought we were still like before.”

She was unresponsive.

“What are you doing here?”

Did I sound silly keep asking her questions that she won’t reply?

“I am here as my friend invited me and he withdrew the last minute.”



Not for love or sex purposes.

Just investigating something.”

She muttered mhmm.

The night was almost over.

They were still together.

A sudden surge of fury flared up.

Adrenaline arose to the boiling point and I felt like I was going to rupture any moment.

I walked up near them.

The fire alarm was set off by no reason.

Sprinkles of water poured in all directions.

The two men revealed themselves with no barriers between.

The denim trousers were broken.

He seared bits of it and ran towards him in silent domination.

I am sitting on the couch watching the live broadcast of the burned down pub.

The one on fire and most of the others were in hell right now.

They suspected it was arson originally.

But they now would be to dissect his body for testimonials.

Checking on my phone,

I had 10 miss calls.

I unsealed the latest letter to get my new passport out.

I stuck it in my suitcase.

I looked down on the streets and spotted my mini-cooper.

Before I left this place for once and for all,

I took a long last glimpse at the mirror and straightened the back of my wig.

I was no different than J.

Hopping into the car,

he grabbed my tie and ate my face.

I tapped my hat twice and thrice.

He smiled wryly,

“Your Majesty.”




A pencil sharpener wheeled over a butterfly.

Its colors squeezed all over the marble.

His legs dangled on top of the collapsed TV set.

Dusk had fallen.

Glimpse of gold seeped through the curtains.

The room resized back to an ant hole.

The light had gone off.

Gravity had taken its toll on him.

He spoke of a mirage with his arid lips.

When he had hair of black and a face of a child,

he carried his foot to villages miles away.

Nothing remained like his deserted home with decay souls.

It was a tough ride,

especially with his backpack full of empty letters.

His knuckles were breeding roots and the top of his head is blossoming flowers.


His lips were all so in sync with the ebbs of the river.

Looking down at the lucid,

agile spirits,

no shadows of him were existent.

A motionless hand fixed above my chest.

The protruding index finger was held back.

A pencil would be ideal to break the static immobility of this gesture.

The finger began to trace ellipsis like overlapping telephone line.

The ink had dried up like expired tomato sauce.

It won’t escape the jar by any means.


Would you tolerate such incomplete work of art?

The air compressed the paper and it crumbled.

Fell apart in a few minutes time.

Day in and day out,

the traveler never delayed his schedule of delivery.

Still not one letter was in contact with another human.

He guarded them like they were meteorites in the universe.

The bag was stuffy and smelly.

They grumbled in agony and some of them jumped out of the sack.

Drowned in poodle of mire,

leaving no traces of good will.

Grey strands watched the horizon let out an outburst of melancholy.

They stood still, detached from the very end of each pore.

The body was tilted sideways as if he had been shocked from left to right alternately.

The pendulum was inverted.

It chimed too often,

causing an ear block.

I wonder whether I would recover or not.

The child picked up his steps and slipped again.

This time down the cliffs and into the undergrowth.

By this time,

he weighed no more than a sheet of paper,

including his backpack.

The finger tips traced a necklace of the shape of a heart around his neckline.

Two palms rested on top of his heart.

We were just separated by a layer of skin,

a layer of muscles and some ribcages.

A whisper echoed from afar.

The fingers tapped accordingly.

4 letters.

The butterfly wiggled among swarming ants and flies.

Its insides were devoured.

Maggots in its vision are titans,

which were about to finish this savory meal.

The last connection flickered absently on a blurry level.


Darting frantically,

his eyelids could not contain the rapid eye movement.

Eagles pecking on his flesh was no different than a girl pinching his cheeks.

Below the mattress laid a letter not too empty.

The tea was cold on the tatami.

He had liked green tea since he had forgotten when.

The misty air rose and descended.

Glasses with golden frame were in fragments by the tea set.

How he once injected his energy into every walk he walked.

Still a maze caught up to him and threw him back.

Vaguely, as you may be able to see,

an album was lying afloat on the filled-up bathtub.

The pages had loosened from the binding.

The words swam as tadpoles in a pond.

Look closer and notice one thing.

No photos.

From the beginning till the end.

The nails dug deep into his aorta.

The vein was attached to this familiar intimacy.

The other finger wiped the corners of his mouth with tenderness.

No matter how many times he was forced to see the sun or the moon,

he would choose to fall again.

Every time he held tight to his backpack like it was his parachute.

His toes pointed at the ripples on the pond in this confined space.

The solace he seeked was nonexistent.

The skin began to crack up.

Veins blotted on top.

As wrinkled as it might appear,

its fingers were respondent to the slightest sensations.

The child ran and leapt in mid-air.

This time his suspenders had built wings of their own and decided to leave their master.

His backpack vacuumed into the opposite direction he was heading,

spiraling to nowhere.

And the surface of the rocks penetrated into his skull.

The ground was moving.

The room was shaking.

The building was hanging.

The screw shattered.

A mortal condemned.

His print was scaled on the mattress,

right above the letter.

He had not cut his nails for years.

His nails pierced into the mattress and into the letter,

craving letters automatically with a will of its own.

With his eyes wide open again,

his stomach was the center of balance.

A branch took less of his life.

The sky had fallen.

But it was not dark,

not grey;

just pale like the hair of his when he last knew his existence.

His finger tip was soaked in blood.

The blood that had once moved his ink.

We were thinking of the same thing.

The hands talked to each other.

A white one and a black one weaved grey webs with tangible fingers.

They clasped into each other,

exhaling 4 letters with hyper staccato.

I want more.

You and me.

The letter unveiled itself.

Hearts stopped breathing.

The room is clear and clean for lease.

But the lamp is not functioning at all.

They say each minute of light costs a butterfly’s life.

And the bathtub is tattooed with M.O.R.E on each side.

Not big enough to cast an impact,

I thought.

Ready to go.






I hate mushrooms.

I close the fridge and slip into a pair of trainers.

The door is closed behind me.

I forget my keys.

But I leave it.

I leave the leftover rice too,

which I usually would consume it all out of boredom.

The red taxis passes the shadow of me.

Housing estates on the right,

secondary schools on the left.

I walk sideways,


plugging in the MP3.

Same monotone pictures are forced into my hippocampus.

I am programmed to take it all in and digest it to produce something else which the society would accept.

The red light is still on,

I cross the pedestrian crossing without deliberate awareness.

People from behind follow in a bandwagon pattern.

In this way,

it is my every single day.

She is back again.

She eats everything in the dining room.

Her stomach is comparable to a whale’s.

Take it all and left us none.

I spit onto her laptop and cross out all her faces in every family photo.

The car is running out of fuel today.

The rent is due tomorrow.

She is not going to school and is depressed.

He is hating on her.

The heart is aching.

Summer is unpredictable.

Sun combines with rain to reduce the risk of sunburn.

No umbrella.

I realize this too late.

I glance at the snack I have bought.

One piece missing.

It must be her.

Doors are banged,

glasses are shaken.

A mini earthquake is escalating to a volcanic eruption.

Whenever it is slippery and moist outside,

I evade at all cost.

I hibernate indoors.

With food as company.

With online buddies as solace.

But this time is different.

I have had enough.

He takes her bank card and cuts it in half.

She climbs on a hill a little too high.

The rainstorm strikes.

And my car loses control.

It is crashed on the highway.

I am flung outside the window.


This year has 365 days.

4 months done.

8 more to go.

Rewind twenty years ago.

Before my existence,

things weren’t fine from that point onwards.


I sit on a rock,

wiping my glasses with my dampened jacket.

I stare blankly at the silver lightning birthing a mark on the face of the clouds.

They capture me blinking with great sigh of relief.

The news reporter hurries to the accident venue and begins broadcasting live.

She is nowhere to be found.

Live or dead,


He catches a glimpse of the BMW on TV.

The cutter bites his index finger.

The skin peels off like contact lens.

The vessels squeeze out streaks of blood that attracts mosquitoes to feed on.

How can we erase who we are and how we are in people’s mind?

I doubt.

I am perplexed.

I continue walking bare footed.

The socks are stained red.

I sneeze and shiver.

Phones for connection?

I do not need it.

Purse for money?

I do not need it either.

Keys for home?

I do not want it.

But I may need it.

I am hands-free,

with a key in my pocket.

The torrent does not cease its unrelenting force.

It pours until the soil is completely waterlogged.

Without the glasses,

nothing is not blurred.

I cross my legs and sit near an opening.

He wakes and finds his missing piece of toast on his desk.

His saliva sunk deep into the pages of his textbook.

He looks into his phone.

The car is fixed and the tank is refilled

. Tonight he can get to her office as usual.

My ten fingers are stretched wide apart.

Through the valleys,

I vaguely spot a rainbow.

I pick myself up,

wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand.

The sun is melting away the last effort of rain.

I have my socks removed,

my vest removed,

my undergarments removed.

Myself removed.

The creak of the horizon responds with a radiating glare.

The halo salutes itself in face of the solitude of my silhouette.