10 lies 1 truth

roaches do not die

the blackest indian hair

was not found in seoul

i saw aunty today. she lives in queens. i don’t particularly like queens. it’s a place you are raised to love not made to. i sit between her stumpy legs for hours. i don’t really know how she’s related to me. but i know that every sunday i come here. she steams my hair, oils it then plaits it. two long ropes lagging down my spine, long enough for the twins to grab them and play horsey. shalea sits next to me, tells me all the borough gossip i missed. her mom is pregnant again, tony is moving to the bronx, grey got locked up and the dollar store turned into a panera bread.

the floor is so warm

leathery curls kiss my feet

bling baby girl bling

bundles lie around our feet. brandi doesn’t really know how to braid but she’s trying. shalea is wincing with every pull and tug, but the way her face contorts makes me want to kiss her. the twins don’t help. shiv sits in my lap and plays with her hands whilst her brother transforms into the newly debuted WWE wrester, ‘THE KING OF COBRAS!’. i think they have their daddys hair. thick black waves that look unnatural on three-year-olds. their ama would curse me for saying it, we don’t speak his name in this house. his hair made hers fall out.

sex freak fantasy

fucked the freckles off my face

tucked in my diamonds

that i bought in brooklyn. same price for a lap dance from your mother. sorry im not 12, i will think of something better to say. my mom was right. it takes one person to ruin your life. water running through a moving train. he’s real man in a tax bracket that lets him walk his dog off the leash. a real man sucking on a spliff. love is not a reflex when your joints are cold and stiff.

wet pavement licker

belly milkshake kinda bruise

i would cry but then,

but then I would have to call my mom, and that is something that i tell myself to do but i don’t. what a shitty daughter? hey mom i know its been a month and jordan said your sick but look my knees are really bloody and theres no one who will care but you. there are limits to love you know. she would think this but not say it. she would show this but not say it. until she says it i wont bother to believe it. until she says it, i will call till all the blood in my body is spilt on a brooklyn sidewalk.

milked rain, the sky cries

far from bedazzled cell towers

1148 lewis

the city beat me black and blue. i left with a belly full of bodega cheese and cat piss. 3 lefts and 2 rights and i’m back in brooklyn. met a boy. held his hands in the cold, took photos of his eyes. cried about him, complained about him, yelled at him, left him. lost weight. felt sexy. posted on instagram. lied, said i don’t get jealous. got jealous then found myself in his arms again. watched 1148 minutes of film. watched spider man. fell asleep and forgot why i hated him. remembered why i hated him. had sex, cried after sex. ran away at 4 am. let him post lost posters like he did for his cat. let him find me. cut my hair, moved to jersey.

burnt butter on bread

upside down cassava cake

nails across my chest

if things were heavy, i knew how to make them light. i would tip them on their heads and shake until there was nothing left. i sit on my aunty’s kitchen counter. she’s cooking and i’m eating. city wide black out i’m sweating though the candle light. i’m grabbing the backs of my thighs and asking everyone if i look fat. i’m doing this for attention because I haven’t got any of it and i’m starving. my aunty says out family is like scrabble pieces. except there’s no scrabble in tamil. so we all suck. we are all letters with no words. we are all living off a triple word square score off a three letter play.

twisting my finger

can i know what it feels like

to die in the sun

it’s the ultimate getaway. i worked all summer. bodega slushy summer in exchange for a southern spanish one. me, ari, tanya and melissa playing truth or dare in churches turned mosques turned churches again. less raw rubbed shoulder and more tears in forgiving friendship. the heat doesn’t let secrets stay secrets. i confessed all the terrible things i had done, all the arbitrary laws i had broke and they still looked at me with love. i bleached my hair blonde a few weeks ago. it matched the sand. i stole eight protein bars. i tucked it in my tan line. three hours from sevilla, the us army base would deploy their troops to get me. the planes flew over our heads and i waved and saluted a stupid american salute. ‘sueño de un dios sin tiempo’

its alphabet soup

how to survive america?

a nauseous devil

when i got home, i decided to turn into my mother. i turned off the tv and ran into the himalayan cave she made in the kitchen. a reformed, transformed, semi retired, buddhist lives here with me. in this version on america we supplement tibetan medicine with twinkies and acv gummies. we meditate with antihistamine infomercials playing in the background. we buy spotify premium. we mediate with digital gongs. we just feel bad about things. we let the bad things sit and simmer and we leave the water boiling. we hold hands and touch teeth and foreheads and we let the fight finish us. ama says good is the same as bad. things last week were so good, my skin held more melanin that it ever has. this week things are bad because i am pale and peeling. things am bad because coconut matcha is $9 and my class pass free trial ran out.

city of dark meat

and skyscrapers that don’t sing

left wing and a joke

52 years since the knicks last ring. everyone called me when mamdani won. auntie made pongal. auntie prayed to the dark brown and mahogany swamis on the bedside table. they sit in front of a jalen brunson poster. jasmine and incense lingered in the hosue. india lost the test match. no one cared. john lennon was shot today, well today like 50 years ago. shalea says this, and then she says pass the aloo. and the chappati. they met on hinge. rama and mamdani i mean. that should give me hope but it gives me despair. the last hinge date i went on i was groped in the moma. don’t worry it wasn’t bad, just stupid. walking through picasso’s les demoiselles d’avignon with one hand down my shirt and the other in his back pocket.

the brutal sky sound

grab my chest im feeling faint

hop, skip and a jump

heart health, i learnt about pleasure through youtube confessionals. 300, 400, 500 bpm. this hurts, but so does saying no. so does standing in the never ending line of the never ending story. im stroking the cure patiently. im waiting for a miracle. im letting my heart bleed out my chest. im letting my hands bleed down my vest. if i survive this i will re-subscribe to the nyt. i will join planet fitness. i will fly to la for a $20 smoothie. i will be all health and wealth. i will take advice from women with heart shaped pelvises, and bones dislodged in reedy skin.

it was really just a panic attack