love letters

A short love letter to you

Vulnerability places feather kisses upon my face. It steals the wind beneath my wings and says things like “Choose me” and I draw my breath my in as I await your response. I hate how small I feel as I present these little offerings I have to you; Things like “I will always be there” or I saved you a seat in the third row right beside the window because I know it offers the best view of your favourite tree in the courtyard. This vulnerability scares me visible, who knew you could perceive me?

As winter draws in, I find myself daydreaming, nightdreaming and just dreaming of moments where I could offer you the warmth of my soul and a tender hand in your hair as your head lay in my lap. I find myself greedy; searching for you in every stranger’s face and I pray you do too.

I write and I discard these sentiments like bees swiftly suckling from one flower to the next, hovering but never close enough to commit.

I tell my friends that writers are cursed with words and an inability to use them. So forgive me as I stare into your eyes and hope that you can read all I have to say in my own.

for you

always you.


Hi’s are rocket science.

I am not terribly good at hellos or goodbyes. I have never really been all too great at the whole human interaction thing. I suppose only a few of us are really “great” in the sense of the word. However we all get by, I suppose for some of us, this pandemic has kind of spared us awkward greetings and chance conversations. 

Though sometimes I see a version of myself, who is incredibly charismatic, she laughs and places her hand on your shoulder ( as the books say you should.), she chats up everyone in the elevator and makes them giggle in delight ( or chuckle for those manly men out there.). Point is, she understands.

Other times I am like, fudge it. Perhaps my predisposition acts as a buffer or a barrier between people who are worth it, or wouldn’t hurt me ( because sometimes, I like to refer to myself as baby.) although I am fully aware that is a childish way to view the world. I know that my inability to be ‘great’, does sometimes equate to missed opportunities.

Though as I grow, I hope to embody that version of myself when I get older. So perhaps years from now, with my mask on, I’ll place my hand on your shoulder and throw my head back with laughter because I finally understand.

daily poetry

Our creation, our damnation

I stumble to the highest point
stand in front of the widest column
my stomach jutted out
pregnant with love, I am not
for I swallowed our regrets
and fed them our demise.

I wear your hands around my neck
as blue black beater bruises
with tender eyes and staggered
– steps
I drop down to my knees
and birth this being
in a bloody splattered mess.

disgust brimming at your eyes
you reached out –
encircled it in your arms
lifted it up to my hooded eyes
and proclaimed it to be ours
– toxicity
our spawn

daily ingredients to life longreads

The little terror

“You’re scared.”

The night had matured around them, the final streaks of the warm reds in the sky disappearing as the cold settled in. Autumn was his favourite time of the year, he could almost taste the earth in the air, it brought upon him a strange feeling of calmness. Something he tried his best to summon in this moment.

“Most of the time.”, he replied into the space between them.

She let an ugly silence pass between them before she threw her head back in a fit of laughter.

A manic fit of uncontrollable laughter ripped through her body, it started from her steel-tipped toes and rushed past her core then escaped through her mouth in stilted puffs of air, making her feel light-headed.

She felt so hollow. Her mouth feeling parched from the laughter and their previous screaming match. Her limbs were exhausted and she suspected that her mind was too.

“You lied to me. You looked me dead in the eye and lied to me. What do expect me to do?” her eyes failed to look up at him as she let the words shoot out of her.

“I don’t know? Maybe for starters, not put a knife against my throat?” He said hesitantly.

In the moonlight, the blade glinted ever so gently, he even dared to say that it looked enticing.

She stared at the knife in question. It was not the first time she had felt its ridged base pressed up against her skin.

A breeze blew through the slit between them.

“I’m sorry.” The knife’s edge bit into his skin a little more. It was hungry, she was hungry. His eyes connected to hers, the fury bubbling up in her as she replayed those two words in her mind.

Some would call her desperate, but those who knew her better knew that it was just her past rearing it’s ugly head and demanding to have an audience with her life as it is now.

“I said I’m sorry, it’s just that I have never -”, The look she threw him, made him pause midsentence, she was terrifying, a beauty but terrifying no less.

She drew out a heavy sigh. The ground beneath them felt unsteady.

“I heard you the first time you said it.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you continue to say things that I do not want to hear.”

He flung his head forward, it startled both of them. She tried to yank her hand back, to pull the knife away from his throat but within a flash, his hand found hers and kept it right where it was.

“ Wh- wha what ar – are you doing?” She finally managed to stutter out, her eyes wide, searching his face.

The full edge of the blade was warmer than he expected. For a man whose mind ran a mile a minute, he felt oddly at peace. He drew a deep breath, fully aware of the warm stinging sensation radiating from his throat.

“This is something, I’m willing to die for and you may very well want to spill my blood after this. You walk around this world like you are a hindrance because you think people hate you. As if, at any given second we would disappear out of your life and that we don’t care for you.

Well listen here, and listen well because I’m not gonna let this blood spill for null.

You matter.

I’m here to stay.

I said I’m here to stay til my very last breath.”

daily ingredients to life poetry

A little girl’s dream

When I was little
I would write poetry
That failed to reflect my experience.
Victorian flavoured
Shakespeare tainted
Lines filled pages
Of moments that weren’t mine.

But how couldn’t I?
My upbringing looked
Like the diary section at their grocery store
And I consumed it daily –
I had no understanding of what it meant to be
Lactose intolerant because
There I was everyday,
Stomach painful
Hands clenched
Eyes shut
Without an explanation

But poetry was ingrained into me
The same way my ancestors
Could sway their hips insync
With the sound of wind passing through reeds
I have this seed planted within me
That pushes words and my thoughts
Into a groundbreaking symphony.
I stumbled upon this talent buried deep
As I excavated towards my core being
In search of some sort of guidance
A bright sign
That I would amount to anything and be seen

Lately everything I write, I can’t bear to read or complete. So this is from my personal archives. I have no idea whether I’ve had it on here before, my mind is incapable of tracing the fact. All I know it was the first time I openly wrote about how I felt to be a poc “writer”.

Anyways I’ll push on and continue to share my voice because you read it and my heart fills up each time when I have the opportunity to share a little bit of myself.

with light, from Lita.

ingredients to life poetry

It is 2 am somewhere.

At night I do my best writing
under the influence of sleep deprivation.

it feels like the words slither out of me
with not much need for correction.

it is here, where i’m confronted
with most of my aversions
and now when my search
for self and appeasements
seem to come to a
                         – halt
for my mind drifts afar;
and plunges itself into darkness.

confessions realities Uncategorized

unrequited love is the best season opener

Today, as you walked down those stairs, a partner by your side, whose face I chose not to fixate upon for my own health. I was transported to the first time we met. Under the circumstances we met, you had to memorize my name and me yours. In all my years of roaming this earth, I had never known a thirst to hear my name said once more.

Fear got ahold of me as I casted my gaze towards the ground and stopped to rummage through my things to grab a mask, I stood behind that wall as in pray to gather the might to enter the building and to discard my memories of you afar. Yet you chose to stand on the other side and pause momentarily with your partner.

I felt shame for not holding my head high as I passed by whilst still trying to catch your eye in our reflection. I wanted to say that your hair has grown longer and that I wish you were more warmly dressed since it becoming chilly. Though the words died in my throat and rightfully so, you were never mine. You never looked at me like you felt a desire and sometimes I feel a little dead inside but other times, it’s alright that we only exist in my mind.

bites confessions poetry shorts

Marauding Melancholic Menus

My melancholy
Feeds my soul
Warm thick sticky spoonfuls
Of hazy memories,

Filled with misteps
In conversational dances

My little inadequate antics
Buliding upon each other
Spirals me fast
Towards the wayward place.

– Light from Lita

ingredients to life poetry realities travel

Everything is recorded and this is why being mysterious is bad.

“You’re so mysterious.” 

I had heard this enough times from him that I had begun to predict the moments that it would turn up in our conversations. I had grown to hate it, I wanted to bundle that statement up and show him where to shove it. 

I, however, return a smile and shook my head a little. 

“A real life enigma. That’s what you are.”

There it was again. 

Any rational person in this day and age may take that as a compliment but I couldn’t see it as such. Not when I knew what baggage it had arrived with.

See in this age, of “like that” in that midst of a twitter rant whilst “double tap – hearting” on your insta live. I knew he meant that I wasn’t prone to divulging information about myself. He now had no amo to spin into some psycho babble and package as insight into why I could not connect with others.

Even beyond that and the net we live on. Somewhere deep inside, I knew he was onto something. Not about being a public figure or something along those lines but rather that I was enigma, difficult to understand, incapable of the vulnerability to allow someone to even try.

“I find you so puzzling”

And piece by piece, 

I die off a little on the inside.

daily poetry realities

Can you uncut someone?

I want to sit down and give you a call,
More like draft an email
Perhaps pen you a letter
So that I could spill some words
And apologize
Say something along the lines
Of, “I am sorry
I was so incredibly young
And I didn’t want you to worry”
But that sounds like the lite version
Of the fatty and greasy truth
Which I so badly want to push my hand
                                               – down
Your throat with,
You had built me so high
That it had me terrified
I was dangling by your expectations
Losing consciousness as your noose
No longer felt loose against my mind

So thrash I did and down I went
And I crawled out of that mentality,
Clambered with all my might,
Into radio silence.