/you/ /ni/ /vers/ /e/

To eat your name for dinner means I wake up with the Ocean’s rage in the crevice of my guts. The movement inside crashes into my organs. My heart, reverberates an incomprehensible dissonance of beats and rhythm. My lungs, slowed down by Chaos and Confusion, dance like little girls with two left feet. one. two. three — a waltz gone too fast. 

To eat your name for dinner means I hold on to my sheets and cry out in pain as little stars escape my mouth. These stars do not fly out gracefully but fall on my sheets like defeated warriors. I shiver lightly from fatigue and nausea. I do not count theses celestial beauties instead I abandon them without a choice. 

Another wave of movement inside me forces me to curl up into a ball. Pieces of the moon in its sheer silvery sheen make its grand exit out in such haste that my tears were not able escape my eyes in time.  

A splitting pain and emptiness inside me gives birth to a strange light that stays with me and lingers… long enough to blind me.

I eat your name for dinner and awake throwing up the universe.


(c) image



Drops of cool water from a broken shower head are at the mercy of gravity. They fall miserably onto my sweat-laden skin. For a moment I tried to believe that this second bath for the day will somehow kill the wrath of summer. I drowned my skin with more water and remained unconvinced of my own delusions. God. This heat is killing me. But what has not?

I listened to the k-indie playlist I randomly clicked for my ears’ pleasure and realized that it is my soul that needed to be relieved of the heat and the music which is neither foreign nor familiar to my soul, was doing a great help. I listened more intently. The world is filled with beautiful things waiting to be discovered either by chance, fate, destiny, or by plain stupidity.

I chuckled for a moment. God. If anyone from outside this rather small space would hear me laughing, they’d be looking for other signs to prove that I have gone crazy. Have I not?

My clumsy hands dropped the dying pink soap bar on the floor. If my soap had a soul, I bet that fall would have hurt. I picked it up lazily and caught a glimpse of my body being reflected by the glass panes. I lather more soap on my body and wish that I could do the same for my soul.

I stared at myself — which is not essentially all of me. I traced my shoulder with the tips of my fingers and watched myself do the same thing. I wish I could have married a photographer. I would have posed for him naked everyday. I felt embarrassed of this thought and tried to take it back.

It was too late; thoughts that have been born are at the point of no return. I must be a thought that have seeped through reality. I am at an unreturnable point. I allowed myself to laugh at that that analogy. I must really have gone crazy.

I listened to the playlist I have forgotten.
It is still beautiful.


(c) image