the senior pug

With my fingers caressing the tiny fabric,
I noticed Porkchop’s eyes–
did they really look gloomy
or was it merely the sudden spots I peeked
from gazing at the bright
green and red sweater knit?
Both of my lips were still gripping
the needle, tireless about letting
him wear my twelfth Christmas present. But
the grip and gift loosened when
the heat from the chimney turned useless.
Perhaps, he was just getting cold or old.

As my toes and knees pressed
down the numbing flooring,
I found my arms giving Porkchop’s face
a soft nudge. He offered a look that he
had never shown before—it was muted and
and feeble like some of the snowflakes
that could melt at sunrise. I wanted to
tell anyone that my pug’s body was trembling
like a bell in the peak hour, but all I thought was
lending him the sweater I had been sewing—

hoping that the little cloth with a fine
pine tree sewed on it could enliven
the essence of that day, and
the fire from the chimney,
to reveal Porkchop’s creased coat and
weird smell of breath—assuming at first
that it was because of the pizza and red wine.
But nothing was right, so I just stood there,
sketching a new figure in my mind to
embroider on his next holiday’s sweater.

Then I was puzzled and hated
myself for thinking that there’s another
Christmas for Porkchop and I. Yet I
stood still, then sat and contemplated, clearly
realizing that he was different
that day—strange and peculiar.
For twelve years, that holiday was unusual,
he was indeed getting
cold and old.

who needs lethal hopes

i no longer want to be on someone else’s dream
nor find my name in somebody’s love letter—
butterflies will soon die
flowers will wither
smiles will fade in a dark and dull instance
days will go by
like no one fell inlove or just fell
like no one was shattered and hurt at first
i no longer want to be loved
i no longer want to love
because all i need now, is saving

why

she was looking a little odd
that day

that day

when no one really had
the audacity to ask
why

why

were her breasts covered by
nothing but a tiny piece of
satin cloth—dirty

her body

was stained with
blood and bruises
as well as her face
where dried tears were visible
as well as her grubby hair

everyone saw that

her ragged jeans were
so ragged that it seemed
to have been soaked in a mud—

no, it was not mud

it was blood

in the middle of the two
back pockets of her jeans
in the middle of her legs

she was completely hurt
but why

no one asked

why she was looking so odd

that day.

guarding my soul

tonight
i could totally feel
the breeze of longingness
that has been killing me
for weeks
or months
or years and decades

this body is a dead island

tonight
i could totally immerse
into something forbidden
into something pleasurable
and glorious
and wild

but i would still not—
because
this body’s a holy island

sacred
and i would not let a devil
ruin it