Poetry & Prose


Burning and clammy
I wake up to my ears oozing
Fluid of infection
Yellowing the pillowcase
Like stray dogs marking territories

I learned about hindsight bias in psych
I know I shouldn’t have bought
Those pink studs from Claire’s
Even if they were on sale
I know I should’ve at least
Cleaned them before pushing them through

Now, in the bathroom mirror
I watch liquid trickle from me
Staining the porcelain sink
Like a bad omen
My fingers smell of blood and rust
When they pull out the culprits
Leaving behind in swollen lobes
Two tender voids

There’s an old Chinese saying
That goes a truly rotten person
Must have pus flowing
From their head down to their heels
I half-jokingly find solace in
Having only gotten halfway

My neighbor brews coffee on his balcony
Rats are already fighting in the yard
Today more than ever
I dislike the way they shriek
Prophesying that rottenness of mine
Always somewhere within
Even after blood and pus dry into clots
Even after new flesh grows over