ajulea

I am a cabinet- light brown shelves hidden from view (read ‘you’) because I house a heart that beats too fast and too loudly for a body as small as mine. (If only anxiety were poetry). Bits of onion pink lint and a hint of mothballs sta…

I am walking down the blurry edges of time, snow, melodramatic and slow drifting down like thoughts too wispy to put together, butter-soft and white like clouds on a blue-sky day. I’m a little lost today, skating on the lake not sure if the…

Give me a holiday dream curling up like coffee steam from a cup, make that two, take me back to the person I knew. Girl in the mirror on the wall, when did you have your great fall? Was the grind the uphill climb, or the downward spiral?…

This is a survival poem that clawed its way up the ziggurat of buried ideas and reached the temple top to pray for an escape. Fresh ink drips off the edges of the walls like guilt on a retrospective day. It camouflages into sunshine smile…

My dreams rise up, inky and wet, blue, black and red – a testament to all the bruises that birthed them. They surround me, like smog at dusk, and call me an imposter. I tell them I’ll write about it, but the bile in my throat chokes me. Two…

Milk splashes on cereal and a drop makes its way to the black granite countertop. I pour my love into a bowl of white bone china, and serve it to you with hesitant hands. “I see a chip in this one, a crack in that ; this bowl has lost it…

Purple plums and dangling grapes leap out of living room art mocking empty fruit baskets, while the monsoons rumble outside – loud and silver with a hint of gold, swallowed by periodic darkness like you and I. I wear half a heart on each sleev…

I looked out at my checkered lawn, where sunshine and shadow played tag and daydreams trod slightly in the slanted sunbeam soaked half light. Inspiration, like sand in an hour glass, drained out until I turned myself upside down – a cold…

I wrote our names on the wooden bench in South Park lane, at the very end, with a fountain pen and erasable ink because relationships are fragile things with weathered wings perched on vines, withering….

I warm my hands around autumn like it were a cup of tea, clinging to the heat until the flavoured water is down the sink or down the throat, and the minute hand does not run any faster than it did when the water came to a boil. I fol…