1. A messy bedroom I distract myself from cleaning
2. A marathoner with an ankle bruise
3. A compulsive liar
4. Exposed brick.
5. The scent of cinnamon.
6. Maggie Rogers' album, Heard it in a Past Life.
7. A coffee shop which only opens on Easter weekend.
8. A department store with 16 different aisles, open 24/7.
9. The smile I make after blowing out birthday candles.
10. A glass of wine I pretend to like.

11. A fire devouring a wood log.
12. A poem that goes so long, I lose my voice before I can finish it.
13. The last firework on New Year's Eve – one that reaches the sky after the crowd's gone home.
14. A seashell that cuts your finger.
15. A 200-page book of elegies.
16. The long exhale after a long day.
17. Chances I could've taken, but didn't.
18. Hermione's first step into the Forbidden Forest.
19. A montage of my parents' laughters – the ones I got to see, and the ones I didn't.
20. The silence of the city at 1 AM, as listened to from a high-rise apartment.
21. A man who rows a Venice gondola, starting to feel sick of the love songs he sings everyday.
22. The olive green pillow in my therapist's office.
23. A forgotten cabinet in Disneyland's Cinderella castle.
24. Shelter, in a rainstorm.
25. A broken umbrella, in a rainstorm.
26. The distant sound of a saxophone.
27. Navigating in a foreign train station.
28. Drunken voicemails and midnight text messages.
29. Smudged ink on a journal entry.
30. A wound under a Band-Aid that only stops it from getting dry.
31. Wood and glass, in a face-off, challenging each other on who's easier to break.
32. A terracotta bowl, on a storefront's display.
33. A succulent too shy to grow.
34. A toddler whose first fire she saw, was the one on top of the Notre Dame.
35. The ugly lighting of a dusty old laundromat.
36. Christmas lights. After New Year's.
37. A butterfly's reaction when asked the colour of its own wings.
38. In a calm and silent blue sky, the interruptive, blazing red streak that signals sunrise.
39. All the things I don't talk about.
40. A ticking timebomb, which erupts in silence.


I've been writing uncontrollably this month.

I mean, I got a lot to deal with so I'm hiding behind metaphors.

I mean, I see poetry as an act of rebellion, or a cry for help, or often both.

I mean, I think my words fill my bloodstream and I'm still bleeding from a paper cut.

I mean, I tried to sit down with my heart and chat over a cup of coffee

but when it sat in front of me 

it started speaking a different language.


See you around.