Sometimes I think I've had enough
of polluting the ocean with my poetry...

Half-full,
half-empty...

My voice isn't quite the way I want it to be:
soft, like a Scotch mist, but also pounding...

Another evening of spaghetti,
another day of bread...

On sunny days, you feel like a tourist; you
chew on a canary-coloured straw, and stop...

This poem is fictional -
I did not slice through my heart...

It's not yet winter and we're already hunting for...
if not cotton, and somehow, as sales seasons sneak...

When I was younger, I would despise the ones...
This year has been a year of realisation. Every...

Remember when you woke up to my words
and I slept to yours? We didn't seem that far-off...

On morose mornings, I think of myself,
the tea leaves at the bottom of your cup...

With my nose pressed against glass, I'm kissing
turtle heads, neck exposed to fluorescence, almost...

Would you love me for the hedgehog-bun I make
out of my hair on Sunday mornings...