The misadventures of the heart and sometimes, the stomach.


I wonder if fear can be learned. I used to love flying. That feeling when the plane takes off into the unknown of the sky; marvelled at the fact that I am in a highly pressurised tin can be powered by nothing more than two flimsy wings and a prayer. But these days, the slightest

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Something’s wrong. My keys don’t work anymore.    The four walls of my heart is not a cheap motel, a budget hourly affair. You cannot stay the night and leave behind a messed up bed and me There’s no housekeeping to clean up the messed up sheets and me There’s no wake-up call to snap me

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Somebody Else’s Superman.

I am in love with somebody else’s Superman.   When she bleeds crimson, you brush it off say that it’s fine. It blends in with the cape. I can take it to the laundromat after this. When she’s cold you set yourself alight to keep her warm, make excuses for her, shield her from life’s

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