w i t c h e s

every neighbourhood houses witches

the last brick house down the lane

wild women with unruly hair

looking out of their windowpane

sharp dagger-like tongues

cutting curses deep in your skin

stay away, you warn little children

and whisper to your next of kin

tornadoes decorate the corners of their house

swirling dark clouds of anger and cries

they'll fight you on rent

the air chilly in their vents

cracks in the elevator shaft

leaking wisps of strength, adding on weights you could never hope to lift

raging thunderclaps sound

when you smoothly ask for the ring to be passed

to the man of the house

in whose blood you think these women are doused

they don't attend your fairs

or your warm bonfires

maybe because they're afraid you'll burn them on the pyre

finally a neighbourhood

where no witches are alive

though i hear their voices

in my own exasperated sighs

i look in the mirror

to find, the witch that was cursed 

now resides inside

the brick melted into smooth blinding silver

like a lake of my 'sins' 

stay away, you warn little children

and whisper to your next of kin

letters

i used to write letters
on carefully picked papers
with specific stationery 

i loved signing them off
yours 
yours faithfully
yours truly
yours sincerely
something about belonging 
to others felt right
being known in connection
because somehow i was never really mine

dont get me wrong
i love (loved) the people i wrote for 

i thought i could stack words 
on top of one another
and call it a person
that the long lists
of 'yours' would make me one

but i cannot

people are too many words 
to fit on a page or eight

i felt this need to 
romanticise relationships
write them in ink
to be able to feel them

dont get me wrong (again)
i love the art of crafting letters

thinking of words 
putting them together
handmaking envelopes 

but i cannot

because paper trails 
don't do justice 
to constellations

i used to write letters 
to 'my future self'
hoping she was better

but i cannot

split myself in three
a past, present, future, me


i will still write letters
on carefully picked papers
with specific stationery

but i will not
sign them off with a


yours sincerely

Teenagery Musings Before I Complete Two Decades: Boxes and Rooms

I am not one

To go back to messages exchanged

Words typed and backspaced

Emotions behind dimly lit screens 

But when I do

It feels like unpacking packed boxes

Ones lost (forgotten? lost? forgotten?)

While shifting 

towns, 

homes,
and rooms

With a friend's comforting words 

In a city lost in blurs

The only extension of home 

In a city that is not mine 
Like a landline 
With the spiralling cord holding my legs
Rooting me back in the ground

Soft voices
In 8 minute tracks
Warm white light
Washing faces at 2 A.M.
Laughter in spells of sleep
Love? Comfort?

An almost room 
With a name on top

Songs sent back and forth
Photographs
Conversations of 'facts'
Stars
Flowers
Poetry
Boxes that should be tagged 'miss'cellaneous

Misspelt words
Written through watering eyes
Desperately reaching out
Badly worded texts
With pruned fingers
Waddling through the drowning water

Traces of terrified fingers

Typing naive responses 

To older boys 
Trying their 'luck'
At what? A Fuck?
Asking about
Threads covering my skin
Questions I only understand now

Boxes I never open
With photos I never seeked
With texts I never read
Disgust echos in every fibre
Long lines of texts
Confessing supposed undying love
From both the unknown and oddly known
Bad rooms that I would rather lock

Arrows shot through
Anger and hurt
Confrontations 
Rolling eyes
Clenched teeth
Smashed screens
Realising the 'ends' in friends

Quick articulations
Meticulously chosen words
Sharp witty terms
Half-hearted burns
Terms 
Politics
Accusations
Name-calling
Blocking 
'Please go google'

Boxes with cobwebs
Memories so old 
That even feelings have now gone cold

Turning twenty is terrifying, moving out of the 'teenage' years fills me with an odd sense of growing up and dread. I have always been a person who has not allowed myself to indulge in 'teenagery' things, especially I've never let my poetry be about teen cliches and crisis or cringe. This week I let myself indulge in the cringiest cliches of being a teenager because it is the last time I get to, so here you have it teenagery musings before I complete two decades.