this existence hurts my skin…


they say tomorrow might be the waves i cannot see
the sheer anticipation of what might have been
we’ve grown so old from heartbreaks so young a dream
we’re so vast a universe but no words to swarm in
this existence hurts my skin it hurts more everytime it doesn’t bleed
here in this dark place everything is shameful and unforgiven but
there’s a rabbit hole down here and there’s you and i and the world disappears we need to be somewhere else
but here we are, bloated up
and shrunk down into an instagram post

Don’t Look. Don’t Look Where We Are…

she was nine, he was on tv,
she’s fifteen, he was already on his own, then twenty
twenty one, he was old before
his time, “where did you guys meet?”

I don’t know I don’t know
walmart, maybe, at midnight, he ran out
of pop tarts, but he said
at a party in London, too much gaps in

what we’re saying. yes but I have
no sense of time
and space. I meant we. we’re just good that way. of forgetting.
of forgiving again. it’s toxic, I know, this infatuation

don’t look. don’t look where we are. we are too old now. we are stale

from same old stories. “fame tore them apart,” …not true, not true!

he wakes up then decades
sprawling across and in and out of
his bedroom walls

she grows fonder of distance, she took a step
one day and has been running
eversince. “what an unstoppable force
she is!” was. was.

he wants her to wait but never quite saying
it right. she keeps running and she lets him
watch how far how fast her steps could go
how her jaw her fist clenched. she’s got no time
to spare, “but she has no sense of time,”
he was so young, “but he was old before his time.”

And There Will I Be

for-ever

I dream you still. And there I will be.

You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.

And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.

“I Want These Dreams Inside of Me”, When I My Own Daughter

I Don’t Know, Kid

thinking of how you light up the dead parts of me

i seem to know how to pick them

 

out of a bunch I picked the darkest one

who’d call up cancelling whatever whenever

just to watch me dance all night

 

my then insecure boyfriend asked what’s going on

 

i don’t know, kid

 

i didn’t. but i knew i was

in for trouble

 

you stared and stared and oh that gaze, i wanted

those eyes staring at me for the rest of my days…

 

daisy jones

In My Dreams, I am You

claude lazar

When I look into your eyes, I realise I came from a long journey across time, before yours nor mine. I knew this from recurring dreams. They’re so vivid that when I wake up, my arms my feet my body’s broken, sore and tired. These dreams are more than just a realm in my subconscious, they’re real.

In my dreams, I have your eyes, your smile, and everything’s new under the sun. In my dreams I am lost looking for something, anything feels like a mother. In my dreams, I too am abandoned, unwanted. In my dreams, I am you.

When I Look Into Your Eyes, When I My Own Daughter

I Can’t Grow A New Heart

kurt cobain baby

these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline

I dream you

sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark, we are not in the shadows

in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away

they live and we give

names to their innocent loving faces

the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile

in these dreams we’re not bitter

we’re not numb from pain

in these dreams you are standing tall

little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet

her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.

he’s falling into another dream.

in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah

and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum

before we went to sleep

about lovers

lost

and again,

found.

 

On birthdays that are wiser,

On Letters to Lovers Lost. 

 

Something Borrowed, Something Blue…

 

I imagined Mum running wild with her ponytail, perhaps clawing her way at a concert to get closer to Dad on stage. I never picture her as a free-spirited human being (or a groupie who jumps around at a concert). In my mind she was timid and sad right after she was born. I noticed she forgot to breathe at times, she was the epitome of absence. It’s hard to imagine her being beautifully present. Even to this day I couldn’t for the love of god see the very thing that made Father fell madly in love with her that he literally gave up for her his fame, and eventually, his life.

 

And Then I Felt Sad…

And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.

Life After God, Douglas Coupland

Morning Song

Morning Song

skin to skin I could feel us

-the liquid beneath our feet,

trampling into endless vacuum,

bleak and emptied I barely

recognise your bald cry, a far sea

distant and I am no more

your mother–

 

you have arrived into

a morning song

 

“It’s Him”, IV, Letters to Sylvia

hello, goodbye, i love you

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you are

hope, hopping

you trample here

and there and in between

existence

for absence is what

you do best, to make

the heart grows fonder

resilience

isn’t your strength

you’d stay in bed for days

for tiny heartbreaks

persistence is

when you speak

of love you never

speak low

even in silence

your screams

aloud

loving to the end

longing to be

found

again

 

you’re my star, my big big shining star, I met you

one night, I met you under the limelight

your oversized shirt and my boots a number too small, they hurt my feet I’ve been limping dancing my years away

if only I knew how to tell you how I long

to hold your hand, but your fingers show me you want nothing but to slip them into mine and be vulnerable

so I held my guard down for that one. minute.

you didn’t turn the lights on and sat in the dark with me and I turned sluggish swimming an ocean of pride,

where’s my life-jacket?

still I let you

I let you love

you’re something big and I am

nothing more than forgotten dew in

a windy morning, but you,

you are sunlight

you are a new day

you have that smile, that

held back smile and a twinkle

in the eye

that says that I am

more than what I show

and I feel that I am more

than I want to be

hello hello, you said hello

I said goodbye, I love you, goodbye

-hello, goodbye, I love you

from Letters to Lovers Lost, re-published just now.

ou·bli·ette /ˌo͞oblēˈet/

a knight with no name

Far beneath mother’s womb rests a story of a knight who one day, in a faraway future, will speak of the truth. 

The dragons in knowing this had prepared him prior to my birth for a future quest to find mother. Ali would settle me in a little basket near the river, for I was unwanted as Moses. And when the bell church rang three times, the knight would kiss me and present me to mother.

The day came and after a long challenging journey, the knight found mother. Mother and the knight finally met and shared a long kiss. Secrets were dripping out of their mouths, pearls born into the longing sea.

The knight, then, upon seeing an abundance of affection in mother’s eyes, bargained for her love. Mother stepped back, wailing.

The dragons, having the ability to hear her from far-off distance, alert and awake, realised the knight had betrayed them. They ran amok, flying in a speed of light and took me away from mother.

So much wind I feel in my heart and I cannot in the slightest remember flying back the time father was long asleep. But I vividly remember that he was. He was there but he wasn’t, it’s the only thing I am familiar with. But I remember flying across the sky with no end in sight.

In Ali’s stories, the dragons brought me back to father’s side. He was fast asleep so they put me on Ali’s lap instead.

They told Ali to never speak of mother, ever again.

“The Cave and The Truth”, When I, My Own Daughter, 2019

Everyone Wants A Piece of That Fame…

Rachel Galindo.jpg

everybody wants a piece of that fame

you bring to the table

so they put you on a silver plate at first

but then they feel it’s too fancy for

a hollywood roadkill like you so

they move you to

a worn out wooden cutting board

slice you up real nice into tiny bits of pieces

each to their own but

you’re there for everyone, suit yourself!

they happily

chew you up real slow

saving every flavor splattered on

the walls of their mouths their gums they lick

their teeth and lips everytime they got

that fancy exposure

they swallow you and finger the rest

of your blood

on their knives

 

and I sit there watching

thinking if I should get

my share

of that fame

but I am not

made for the public eye

I spill your tea on

everyone’s table

this fame of yours

hardly fits

my brain, should you

know what I want, it’s

your crimson blood

rushing through

                  my flesh

I want that             lush

         I want that    rush

when i you                       and you,

                                            me

“Mirrors”, Letters to Sylvia, 2019

“Wherever You Are in Life, You’ll Always Have Tonight”

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These were the nights when gaps spotted in our time loop and father came back to us.

He’d travelled to stay for few days, playing house. Mother’s smiles reappeared and she’d dance under the moonlight.

At night I would see from a slit on the door slightly ajar, his eyes turning tender and kind, her complexion radiant.

I’d see them holding each other, her breasts upon his chest. He’d tell her places he’s afraid of, she’d tell him her dreams.

She’d say, “Wherever you are in life you’ll always have tonight.”

They’d look each other in the eyes and after a while she’d lead him but she’d be the only one who was dancing. She’d twirl to the ticking clock, she’d circle through time while he was drinking –one gulp after another, gazing intently at her –a much younger her, at their younger selves.

He’d hum her old letters he knew by heart with a voice barely heard.

Time would stop and in that second I’d know, wherever I am in life I’ll have them forever in my heart.

 

from “Drinking Games”, When I, My Own Daughter, 2019

When Everything Was Everything

baby-beach-blur-1166989

there was a time when 

everything was everything and

we didn’t try to be anything

 

what do you carry around all day

besides a bucket of flowers

and heart full of promises of a new day?

 

here’s a tiny sting of guilt to share

there there, i’ve been there

nobody likes anybody in this town

forgive me i didn’t know better

Everybody Thinks They Knew

Lately I’ve been thinking of the reason behind all of these words that I am writing (and carelessly spreading into this fucked up wounded world).

But then I remember this young girl who changed her mind about jumping out of her window, because of my words, and I thought that is enough of a reason.

Camus died of a car accident, and not of his lungs. Life is absurd. Everybody thinks they knew the answers.

The One Thing I Love About Love

These words have been kept, hidden, for almost eighteen years. She was born just to be, but never meant to be shared. But almost two years ago, her presence became urgent. She was cut in pieces and put together in a hurry but did made it in time to be read by people who needed them.

If there’s one thing I love about love, is that it expands as you grow. My love for her imperfection has never been this courageous, and I’d like to extend it to you.

Now celebrating her two years arriving into the world, she will be available to you lovely people in Asia. If you speak Bahasa and is interested in providing her a home, message me.

Love, Maia.

There Are Clouds in These Dreams

Letter to Sylvia Cover “…there are clouds in these dreams and i am flying hard between ashes,

did you not get burned at stakes?

there are words in these dreams but I am not one saying them,

to swallow alone is pain. to breathe, a sin.

not one word out but here are letters for when you wake up,

she said, you will tell them how to say it out loud,

even with tears in their eyes. tell them.

and so I write.”

 

Get this book here.

Forgiveness and Revenge, All in One…

New Upcoming Covers (6)…But death, death was real. She and mother, they made a promise to see each other. They waited patiently and then the one day, that one day she’d knock on her door and not the other way around.

She never counted me in.

In her stories it was always her that was lost (and found), but never me. I was always here and there, existed in static equilibrium, already defined, captured.

She was the one who decides where to go with her words. She was, to me, knowledge and ignorance, forgiveness and revenge, all in one.

Pre-Order 60% off throughout April.

 

Stories of A Little Girl Named Lara

athlete-balance-ballerina-591679.jpg

i’ve been carving memories on dry walls

four seasons of loneliness and you came bearing your own

stories of a little girl named Lara

 

her face her smile her every breath you inhale her

a picture perfect deep into your soul

she exists to you in ways that I could not

she has a smile that’s similar to mine, you said

her hair is golden like the sun,

 

this little ballerina and her pink tutu

and when she cries you cup her tears in your palms letting

them soak into the lines of your hands that once

a fortune teller told you, you wouldn’t make it to forty,

 

that you would be entangled in a story like none other

she said I would write them for you so daddy’s little girl

could forever lives in rhymes…

in bedtime stories and lullabies…

 

“daddy’s little girl, paints the world with her magic wand…”

 

from Letters to Lovers Lost

currently progressing, Lara