An apple.
Just an apple.
Just one try, just one taste.
I breath in.

An apple.
It’s just an apple.
No one will notice.
I breath out.

The world is asleep, breathing.
The only sound I hear is my own air escaping.
The apple, the lone apple.
That’s all I can see.

Just one apple?

I know the truth.
It’s not just an apple.
It’s not just one taste.
It’s not just one bite, it’s a fall from all grace.

It’s more than just one apple.
It’s the first red apple.
And many more will come, if I only just begun.
I cradle it in my hands.

Now all I see is red.

-113 words. May 2018.



The roses had withered, their petals all scattered.
The scent had now faded, and their memory waned.
The winter covered their shallow graves;
left me with naught but a bland cold refrain.

But spring came,
and returned me my joy.
But spring came,
And thus sprung forth new blooms.

But spring came,
and spring came.

-55 words. April 2018.


Wait, waiting, waited
The flame glows
Bright, brighter, dark
You cast a heartful shadow

Blue, blue, blue
The fakest shade
The truest love
The rarest dye
The common sky
A sadness, a calm unknown

You’re still blue,
The ocean on a summer’s day
A cooling warmth that can’t be explained
One could drown in the shadow you cast

You still wait, blue,
For a chance to find yourself.

-69 words. May 2017.


I loved you once a billion years ago
But now what I love is gone and with it me
So goodbye goodbye and I’ll see you again
When the stars align and the moon meets the sun
Alas, no more.

-40 words, February 2017


Butterflies, for me, are like curses. Seeing a butterfly was like seeing death itself – they were a bad omen for me, indicating that a moment of twisted fate was about to occur. It had always been that way. I always call it the “butterfly effect”, simply because it is one. At least, for me. Butterflies are the only things I fear.

When I was younger, I loved butterflies like they were the only thing that mattered to me. I would be so happy if I saw one pollinating the flowers, and I’d excitedly call my mother over to see it too. If I had the camera she let me use, I would attempt to take a picture of the butterfly and the flower. It was rare that I succeeded – but when I did I’d celebrate.

And that all changed when the curse came for me. It was an ordinary day, no different from any other. But every bit different from the days that followed it. The butterfly began its reign over me on that oh-so-fateful day, as I succumbed to the power that it held on me.

It was simple, really – a butterfly flitted by as I struggled to stay alive in the cold darkness of the sea. I was but a mere child at a simple summer party, and as per traditions at summer parties in the household, it was held at the beach. So we went like every other year, and all was the same like every other day. But a single push ended all of that, as I fell into the water and struggled just to get out. Yet the tendrils of water held their grip on me as I struggled simply to get up, and flee doom. And yet no one, but a butterfly, noticed any of my struggles. Only a butterfly noticed my pain and misfortune. It was but a butterfly, who could never help me with my problem.

Sometimes, I wonder if I really was supposed to drown that day. Six years later, look at me now. Nothing has changed for the better, not even a little bit. Life is just the same for me as it was for my younger self. Call me a pessimist for all I care, but my version of the world still is the same as it was before, if not worse.

By this point, I almost want the butterflies to come and take my breath away. But the thing about the butterfly curse? It would do everything. Everything but the thing I wanted it to do. So here I am, for the rest of my life. The butterfly girl who fears them more than she fears herself – because really, it was just her fault that everything occurred. It was always much easier to frame something else.

I was always the butterfly who ignored myself.

– June 2016. 478 words.

Nine Lives

My first was spent with a kind old man,
My second with abusive children.
My third was killed by a passing van,
My fourth by old age.
My fifth saw a baby’s birth,
My sixth caused another’s death.
My seventh was a stray mess,
My eighth the President’s pet.
My final life – what’s it like?

– 55 words. February 2017.


#1 :

Once there lived a mooing cow,
when the farmer asks “how?”
the cow would moo,
and go to the loo,
so he is locked in a barn now.

#2 :

Once there was a mouse at a dock.
All his life, he lived under a rock.
But a cat that could float,
chased him onto a boat,
and right into the boat captain’s sock.

– 28 words // 33 words. April 2014.