love’s in the details
Love's in the way you paint when you've drunk too much coffee
It's in the way you scrub the stove when you need a moment
It's the way the kitchen gets filled with the scent and sound of nostalgic Italy when you're happy
It's in the way you check on me even when sleep-taking
It's in the way you giggle at the slightest touch
Love's in the way you love cupid's mark on the human face
Love's in the way details ground my love for you
I did something bad
what the hell? — I like that
can't take my eyes off of you
don't shut me down
you don't own me
caught a ghost
even angels fall
love my way
sweet but psycho
feel good inc.
Dialogue Between Me and Myself (as witnessed by I)
Arachne: I can't take this anymore. The angry bile inside me has turned to poison. It kills me slowly, softly; slow-burning torture for all evil I've spawned. My body is shriveled, bone showing through dull greying skin. I can feel each rib; I count them as I run my fingers down my torso, reveling in the sharpness of my body.
Pandora: Feed me…
Arachne: Who is that who speaks to me from beyond and within? (Do I even want to know?)
Pandora: Whether you wish to know I cannot say, but I certainly wish to be known. I am all you've locked away in a dusty box: the good, the bad, and the ugly. You've certainly labeled much of me as ugly.
Arachne: Well, that's because there is much ugliness inside. My dreams all failed, the ones I hailed are the worst of all and my blood has run stale.
Pandora: Could you at least attempt creativity instead of shielding yourself with the cloak of song lyrics? If not, two can play that game: my eyes shine so bright, we must save that light. Let's not hide the truth.
Arachne: I apologize, inspiration comes from life, and there's little of that left in me. Can you not see my falling hair and brittle nails? The bruises, burns, and blisters that cover my hide?
Pandora: Poignant choice of words. Your hide is where you hide. But not from me; I know you, I see you. I know that you cherish and collect the wounds around you. What if I told you there could be a life, a good life, without them? I can't promise you the absence of scratches, or pain, but I can offer a skin that is no hiding place.
Arachne: If I accept your offer anyone will be able to see me. What if I don't want that?
Pandora: Then you'll stay in your hide; barren, bitter, and barely alive.
Pandora: Here's a mirror, a match, a blade, and a blindfold. What do you see?
Arachne: In the mirror, I see a monster, in the match, release, in the blade, a weapon, and in the blindfold, an escape.
Pandora: Me; I see in the mirror a goddess, in the match, purification, in the blade, an armor, and in the blindfold, nothing at all.
Arachne: I wish I saw things as you do.
Pandora: Then do.
Arachne: It's not that simple.
Pandora: It is. I am the lava bubbling in your core, the seedling waiting for rainfall to set it free from the confinement of earth. I am your mother, sister, and daughter. Above all: I am you. Please, set me free—feed me.
Arachne: I'm scared.
Pandora: So am I.
Arachne: With this match, I burn my blindfold so that there's no escape. With this blade, I set myself free—the sacrifice of the monster in honor of the goddess.
Pandora: I emerge: light and shadow, flesh and bones. Soft flesh, welcoming like a pillow, designed to be hugged, to be loved.
Arachne: You're beautiful, like a Greek statue.
Pandora: Quite the contrary! I am yielding, indefinite; an altogether unholy animal! For that, I thank you, my love, there is nothing, and no one else, I'd rather be.
A.k.a. the sound of a bell ringing
A heart-stopping noise
Full of mystery and promise
Are the butterflies within me
They celebrate prematurely
Something that might never come
Should I engage with the buzz?
Or let it echo?
So that the butterflies
(and them alone)
Can never feel disappointment
The coward rose to the occasion
For what if it were the Candyman
Expecting a dinner invitation?
Better di(n)e alone
Tokens of affection
I have a tendency to hoard tiny objects. I've been that way for as long as I remember. Besides making dusting challenging it is a characteristic of mine I appreciate. Every corner of my house is inhabited by knickknacks in varied shapes and colors. Even minimalism and Marie Kondo hypes did not phase my love for collecting. Ultimately, when I hold any of my precious objects and ask myself: "does this spark joy?"—consistently, the answer is: "yes".
One could call them 'paraphernalia', I call them 'tokens of affection'. The dried flowers on the window seal remind me of an invigorating spring day; the sea shells by the entrance are mementos of a walk by the beach with a dear friend...
The first objects I ever collected were hotel miniature toiletries (true story). It all started when I was about four years old. I loved (and to be honest, still do) tiny things. There is something so endearing about miniatures. My dream was to live in a tiny house, with tiny pets and tiny tea cups. It comes as no surprise then that small-scale toiletry was right up my alley.
Growing up my father was often away for work. The separation was hard on both of us, so we came up with a system of little reminders of love to sustain our relationship. Every time he came back from a trip he presented me with the wonderful toiletries he collected along the way. I kept my treasures safely guarded in a floral pattern box under my bathroom sink.
Many of my most cherished childhood memories with my dad involve the toiletries he brought me. Scrubbing his arm tattoo with little soaps in vain attempts at removing them. Going through my treasure box categorizing the little bottles by scent or place of origin, dreaming of the day when I would be the one traveling and collecting tokens of affection around the world,
As I look around me now I realize my dream has come true.
Dark Clouds Ahead
Autumn airs make me curious. Make me want to follow the dry leaves through the city. I want to tumble around in the chilly air. No straight paths. No end ahead. I am comfortable not being in control, letting life happen as accidentally as possible.
I am no lamb innocently grazing about. More like a wolf prowling the radius of my domain. My heart had no malice when I grinned at the crisp fall wind. I wasn't condemning the dingy gloom of the grey skies. Much the contrary!
I was revelling in it, praying for the gusts to involve me in their shadow. An overcast sky is my haven in a world that is often too loud. It is the amulet I hold on to, my source of strength and luck. Is there anything as satisfying as living under the cover of darkness? Is there anything as freeing?
An ambulance siren disturbs my ruminations. A doctor's hand stretches towards me from the inside: an offer of help. They are more desperate to save me than I am to be saved. My rapid heartbeats could signal distress—or—excitement. What is the measure of safety?
Safety is sneaky; deceptive. It can emerge and escape in the poetry of ordinary life: I ate a hamburger. The cow died. There were no legal repercussions. What a peculiar world to be living in. What a peculiar life. I look forward to dark skies, to being swept away by a brisk blast.