my diary….For You.


my diary has pages,

blank, that I want

to fill with you

in it. Impressions

of Chinese calligraphy,

reminding me of your

blank look that gave

away nothing, adorn

its pages. Some tell

a story, i imagine,

of an affair between

a housefly

and the

bacteria that sticks

on its feet.


my diary has poems,

worthless all of it,

because it lacks the

stink of nostalgia

that nourishes, the

roots that bind

my soul to you.

Now I can't lament

over those shriveled

roots that shied

away light. Poems

that reek of you

and your kisses

that taste like

stale jizz, you

drank from my

severed penis

fill the pages.


my diary longs

for the scribbles

that desecrate my

odes for you,

it loves the

sound of you

tearing the pages

that do not

smell as fresh

as feminism. Perhaps

a kiss, by your

forked tongue can

awaken the desire

that will fill

these pages again.