n. a kind of melacholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life, a mood whose only known cure is the vuvuzela.
i have stories folded
in the spaces between my bones
secrets in crevices
no one would think of to look
i have pasts clouding up
my veins and covering my arteries
i am made up of
my regrets
sentences left unsaid
my entire existence
reminds me that i will always
be wrong
The things we put ourselves through
to be thin
to be perfect
to be shiny and new.
I am not shiny and neither are you.
Hong Kong Apartment Building III by Matt Carman on Flickr.
isn’t that where the gang burnt up mong kok?
