The God of PerfectionismHow many times have I started again?I string them together and rip them apart.A million worlds that I hold in my hands. My beautiful children who rise from the sand.I think of them fondly, a part of my heart.How many times have I started again? They all sing together, from human to wren.They see me and know me, so blessings impart.A million worlds that I hold in my hands. They're all unbelievers who don't understand.Their lips are pure poison, their souls are all tart.How many times have I started again? Different ingredients, all comes out bland.An apple pie from scratch, seeds are my art.A million worlds that I hold in my hands. I hoped for a difference, but this was all planned.My fingers clench tight, and apocalypse starts.How many times have I started again?A million worlds that I hold in my hands.cloth (2026)if we're cut from the same clothyours, made of golden silkexpertly spun and carefully woven;yet mine, of scraps and piecesscattered across the boarded floorand now i find myselfin the humbling (and incredible) placeof watching you, constantly thin the spoolto make me gildedgreen and orange (2026)what a terrible sadness he might carry(one he would never admit to)that he can't see himselfwithout a broken pair of eyesunless looking through somebody else's and what a wonderful joy he might be handed(one he could never accept)to be delivered himselfat a banquet tableand from a silver spoonEyes Eyes In the warehouse, seventeen dozen are buried alive. Eyes and ears are everywhere, with walls of glass too. And pillars of steel that burst out of the ground like the once-tall trees, their bodies sacrificed for the structure. Even in the little cabinets, where the components of flesh-and-blood are stored, the parts are watched.Xeroxed colonnades form three units. Each unit has seventeen cabinets. Four people share eight point seven five square metres.The parts, with their thick scales of oxides, many choose to shed this and go bare.In the halls outside, a few might be spotted lying on cold faux-wood flooring layered over the concrete. With the shutters of the cabinets sealing shut and the overloaded cabinets, like a mass grave, many choose to stay outside.When one does well, the eyes bring us into the small containers, fit for a single person. I hear whispers which drift through the thick, humid air of the compound. Air like memories of long-past summers. Not because of the ravishing sun and torturous rain. But because the mere thought of these distant, yet so carefree memories chokes me, strangles me, like the wires that get plugged into my neck. Such whispers are like smoke from a fireplace, albeit I have only ever seen a fireplace in containers.“In the rooms, it is glass, through visions of lush artificial grasslands, speckled with stationary cattle, blue skies, unmoving clouds, and ancient spinning machines they call ‘windmills’. In a grotto, azure waters, near plastic beaches and the never-ending sun.”When one does not-well, the eyes bring us to little facilities to help us. Tranquil music, visions of grandeur and opulence. When we leave, they remove the faulty cores from the machine components, replace them, and renew them.Sometimes, the eyes in the cabinets go blind. When this happens, rusted fluid leaks from those cabinets, and the stench of licentiousness and depravity wafts.In such days,It is day; I toil.It is night; I ponder.It is day; I slave.It is night; I ruminate.As my arms dangle off the spiralling railings, and I look towards the sky, skies of diodes, inky black, I wonder if anything changes.I long to break this cycle.I long to be shipped off.But I know I cannot.They might let me, but I cannot let myself. After all, what am I without all of this? What is there to return to? How much is there left of me anymore?Bahtroom ghostYou passed away in the bathroomYour body went out on the cold floorSoon the same temperature as the marbled tilesI like to think that you haunt this bathroomWhen I’m brushing, when I’m showeringYou are still there, haunting with your lack of presencestrings (2026)i can never tell if you're a metaphor, or if i'm a simile(i don't think i'll ever answer the latter)but i know that whatever you are,i'm hiding behind you, behind a sword and a shield,behind hands that would cut through hellfire and backjust to take mine, and have them ceasecease the shaking, the grasping at nothing,the clenched fists, the clawing,that has left gouges in everything i have ever lovedthe hands that can't loosen their grip on anything(least of all your own)i (we) can only hope, pray, begthat i never have to let goan insecti'd like to be an insectto just wake up one dayand see the vast, wide worldin a completely different way the parking lot pavementwould become a sea of grayi'd shelter under mushroomsas it starts to rain i'd scuttle high on branchesand burrow deep in earthi'd see colours unknownbut give people a wide berth the pebbles on the porchwould be like mountain peaksthe grass on the front lawnwould be like redwood trees i'd like to be an insectperhaps just for a dayi'd like to shed my worriesand put my thoughts awayvulnerabilityis it about taking this love,from my shaking hands?charging through the walls i’ve built,as a final, desperate stand? can I ever be close to you,without falling apart?will you teach me how,to show my frail heart? do you hear me now,my voice barely a murmur?i’m trying so very hard,to let you past my armour to put faith in and trust you,and take you at your wordplease don’t make me regret,laying down my swordcobaltyou say nothing ever shines as bright,like the light inside my eyeseven if the stars across the midnight sky,they finally burned blue you insist my eyes make oceans jealous,though i'm not sure that's the truth despite your claims of splendour,what would happen if you knew?my dearest love, i should say it so,they were always made for youfaithfulfor as rustedand as wornas i ami will foreverbe your swordstarsyou made tiny starsdance at the cornersof my darkened eyesand then i realisedi wanted those starsto grow ever brighterfighteryour way is not of painyour destiny not ordainedstand up, brave warriorbrush the dust from your shouldersand keep fighting