Monday, December 31, 2012

A Song of Chopin

(in four movements)

back ramrod straight; arms poised in mid-air:

and the notes would drop like snowflakes,

crystalline and clean and ephemeral.


there are ink stains on her

wrists, cheekbones and chin - 

they spread vein-like over her translucent skin.

people try to hide their secrets

but sometimes, secrets are exactly what they are:



the sun god apollo fell in love with daphne

who was a nymph, with lead in her heart

she couldn’t love him (not with a heart of lead)

and begged to be free of him.  

her skin transformed into bark, her outstretched arms the branches reaching into the sky

and her hair was the leaves whispering in the wind –

but even then Apollo loved her and kissed her root-turned-feet

and granted her immortality.


he knows that writing her love letters everyday

would not make her come back.

she loved him once, twice even,

but she never loved him the way he loved her:

as if she was a gaudy, orange-colored life buoy floating

in a sea in which he is perpetually drowning.


alice alice where are you

because she is always looking for alice.

she checks the rabbit-hole underneath the vervain bush

and the looking glass behind the mantel place

(the mirror smashed into smithereens as her finger made contact

with the glass and the rabbit-hole is covered up in dirt).

she didn’t think that

she would see alice ever again.  

Friday, December 14, 2012

this is what love feels like

 There are huge gaping wounds on my body
Where you dipped your fingers into my flesh

If I close my eyes I wouldn't have to see
the hideous scars; like black, yawning, abysmal
mouths, but I can still remember
your shaking hands
sinking into me and gripping me
by the bones.
And at that moment I understood
what being in love meant.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012


I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.

- Marguerite Duras

Thursday, November 29, 2012

it's never about wrong and right

It always comes down to this: sadness. An unending, halcyon ocean of aching sadness; never overwhelming, or unbearable but persistent and perennial. This melancholy is a hanging sentence I had plunged into, without knowing when or how, only to discover that there is no full-stop - only innumerable ampersands.

There are secrets that clot the arteries in my heart and weigh me down in this truculent ocean, while I thrash and kick and splutter, only I lied - I didn’t. I didn’t fight this grief, instead I surrendered myself whole-heartedly to it, because in a twisted, morbid, masochistic sense, I like it. I like it because I deserve it, because I can never be completely sure that I exist, that I’m not a reflection or a dream of a doppelganger in an alternate universe. I like it because it made me feel, and it hurt and you know what they say - pain means you’re still alive.

But these secrets, these thoughts are choking me up from the inside and these knotted words I cannot utter. These malignant sarcomas I would carry in me and they would eat me up slowly, poison my blood and my lymph.

Perhaps someone would understand, perhaps if I whispered to them the contents of these little tumors they wouldn’t flinch, or judge but even then I wouldn’t. They are mine to bear and mine alone and I have come to be possessive of them. So even when I’m squirming with the need to confess all, to scream it out at the top of my lungs, to purge my soul of the grotesquery, I wouldn’t. Not really.

Sometimes I wonder where all these anger and frustration and resentment and sadness sprung from. Well yes, I suppose I do know, but the knowledge of its derivation only served to sadden me further since it suggests that this is not merely a phase but a pervasive disposition that had been molded from all-too-many factors dating back years ago.

And it depresses me that you, of all people, don’t understand.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Dear Cesare,

I was perfect. I was bloody perfect until you showed up in your cardinal robes (fuck you no one's supposed to look sexy in a cardinal robe dammit) and strutted around my carefully planned out schedule. I was an angel gazing peacefully down at the chaos in the human realm and I was sadistically happy until you ripped off my wings and I plunged into the wilderness.

And in that madhouse of disorderliness, I spent an entire day watching movies; well watching you and your fucking tight ass and your beautifully sculpted back and shit you shall not distract me!!!

Damn you Cesare Borgia, you devil.

Monday, November 19, 2012

incoherence is what you do to me

you invade my mind,
fuck this my mind is too incoherent
for comprehensible sentences
it’s all
cesare cesare cesare
between litanies of et in arcadia ego
and tremens factus sum ego
(insert adjectives that... well, insert verb)
no no i don’t know what i’m saying
because he’s not pretty, he’s not
he’s dark and he’s morbid
and god you’re so sad why’re you so sad?
you know i love sad men
and say it, say it once more, twice more, thrice,
a thousand times more
say "i'd die"
because you said it with such calmness,
such matter-of-factness
but you’re no monster, cesare borgia,
are you?
only you must be, to prowl in my head all day
and consume my thoughts all night.
you must be, must be,

Sunday, November 18, 2012

dear cesare,


I am nobody, you said in that sad sad tone
I am nothing, and the way you said it, the stars would
fall from the sky from crying too hard, all the while wiping stellar-snot
from their coruscant faces.

I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t reassure you,
wrap my arms around you and negate you
because you are. You are nothing.
You are conspicuously, unapologetically

And when I turned around to face you there was only
the enveloping darkness - that
and the unbearable, unforgiving coldness
of loneliness.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved

i cannot write poetry about you.
you, whom i’ve known for all but
thirty-five hours.
but these were hours of lust and desire and
covetousness and these feelings
are my dearest, most loyal friends.

so i said, between swoons and sighs,
my heathen, you are dark tonight;
you are black as your heart, black as your pitiless eyes
burning into mine
as you grind me - oh grind me to dust,
to small particles of nothingness
yes, nothingness,
for ever and ever,
amen. (for you love that word, do you not?)

libera me, domine, de morte aeterna,
always these words, my heretic, my darling,
my cesare.
are you that afraid of the eternal slumber?

i cannot write poetry about you,
because the thought of you renders me febrile,
and words and coherence elude me.
and only your apocalyptic latin hymns
will soothe my feverish soul.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Haiku Love Story

I've been sucking on my thumb again
Trying to remember you. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

why i do not hate cersei lannister as much as i should:

This (and more) Will Explain Why I'm MIA

I really shouldn’t be here because

My ass cheeks hurt
From sitting too long in this
Plastic chair that I should
Never have bought.
She told me so
And I imagine the blood
Clotting in my ass, as
My weight presses down on it
And the cells scream for oxygen
The way I scream for you
And for ice-cream
And my eyes scream
and my eyes cream. 
But I can’t
I can’t get up
Because I have two and a half more
Chapters of anthropology to study
For a midterm that is
Too close for comfort.
And still here I am
Writing about things that
Make no sense
And too-intimate details
About my personified ass.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Happy Birthday, Armand

you are an event horizon,
a perfect black body
of gravitational monstrosity.
and i would never
be able to escape you.

you are a stellar black hole,
into which i
and i'm
                     g still.

i am alice spiralling into
a twisted dream
from which i'll never

you are the arcane, impenetrable fissure
in the spacetime continuum.
trapped in you,
i was ripped into shreds but
upon reaching
spacetime singularity
i have transcended

Saturday, October 13, 2012

A Song of Marrows

i break your bones for breakfast
snapping into thirds your
fragile vertebral column.

i name your cervical vertebrae mary,
draw a pocket knife
and carve on it my name 
and words that i've never gotten around saying. 
S-O-R-R-Y over and over again
until the words overlap each other
and my fingers are coated with a fine layer of your
osseous dust. 

i name your thoracic vertebrae susan,
kiss it reverently
and burn it in a sacrificial flame.
the smoke curls smell of winter and faded dreams and
long hours of crying late into the night when
you thought i was asleep. 
i keep the ashes in your vintage
lidove umeni matchbox. 

i name your lumbar vertebrae katie,
braise it in pinot-noir with a dash of paprika,
whisk olive oil and capers and shallots
into the wine reduction. 
drizzle it lovingly over the crevices of your vertebrae
and suck the living hell out of

your kyphotic sacrum sits on the table
beside my bed 
because i am now alone.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Down the Rabbit Hole

This is one of those nights when you wake up groggy and disoriented and everything seems so distant and faraway and you find that you’re in the midst of giants. Your entire head vibrates excruciatingly as their thunderous footsteps make contact with the ground, one after the other, and the nerves in your temples are throbbing so vigorously it’s a wonder they didn’t explode into a mess of blood and capillaries. The giants are all around you, talking and laughing and occasionally one steps over you delicately - but other than that they do not seem to notice you. You’re watching them with disinterest until one of them leans down and grabs your shoulders and shakes. Hard. 
“Alice,” the giantess shouts, “Alice, get up.” 

I blink once. Twice. And my eyes begin to focus on the face inches from mine, her eyes wide with – what, fear? – for that few seconds until it is apparent that I have not overdosed and am still very much alive, thank you very much. 

“Tara,” I croak, “water. Please.” I’m still lying pathetically on the floor – which pretty much explains the roomful of giants.  

“Jesus Christ, Alice, are you trying to kill yourself? How many goddamn pills did you do?” 

Tara licks her red, red lips, livid; and I say, “enough to go to Wonderland”. 

Wonderland, where all sorts of magnificent creatures – gryphons and unicorns and even mock turtles (which according to the Queen is what mock turtle soup is made from) dwell. I want to tell her that it was a place where animals talked, like in Narnia, and they sang rhymes and had the most outrageous croquet games. I want to tell her that there was a Queen of Hearts, who was pudgy and rather stout but oh, how she loved having people’s heads cut off. “Off with his head,” she would say, “off with his head” because she liked the way it sounded, “off with his head” because she can. 

I could stay there forever because they were all mad. Everyone was mad and no one cared that monsters live behind my blue irises and my teeth were stained with blood. The Duchess served me soup with too much pepper and put a baby in my arms who turned into a pig. I didn’t want a pig any more than I wanted a baby so I slaughtered it and made a pork pie. Everyone at the tea party enjoyed it and the Mad Hatter pulled me aside and told me it was the best he had ever tasted and he kissed me but his mouth was full of porcelain chips and they cut into my lips and my tongue. 

Only the unicorn saw me for what I am. “You’re a monster,” he said but he got into a fight with the lion over the White King’s crown and died with his flank torn into ribbons before he could warn the others.   

“I was in Wonderland,” I repeat.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

1001 Arabian Nights

i sometimes wish i was born in the desert sea,
under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the sun, during
the worst of desert storms.

i dreamt of rising like a cobra from the ubiquitous sand,
with the trickle of golden grains sliding down my body.
once i was a king
but that was before caesar.

theirs are a tongue i would give anything to speak.
rich and thick and creamy like the scented cones propped
upon ancient egyptians’ heads they rolled out of their mouths
like a lullaby.
even the words smell like
za’atar and cumin and cardamom.
the evening air tastes like baharat and the waning sun.

they say that only the strongest survive
but what is never born
may never die. 

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Red Riding Hood

The figure cloaked in crimson disappeared into the enveloping gloom of the forest. The trees were densely packed so that even though they were bare in the frost of the winter, the forest grounds remained shady. It was the kind of forest where monsters and ogres lurk in the predictability of fairy tales. Indeed the forest had inspired the town folk to tell many tales to their children – mainly about disobedient children who wandered into the forest despite their parents’ forbiddance and were ravaged by horrible beasts.

The town nearest to the forest was merely half a kilometer away and the town folk, raised on generations of stories that sufficed to paint the forest an ominous and foreboding countenance shunned it as best they can. Still, the presence of the forest loomed over the town and when the moon was at its fullest, the howling of the wolves sounded like an army of banshees descending upon the town. The bravest of the town folks would be planning a wolf hunt that would never be carried out and the craven would be hiding in the warmth of their beds, hoping against all odds to catch some sleep in the ruckus.

In the town where everyone cowered from the sinister, impenetrable forest, there was a girl who would sneak off into the gloom of the tall, distorted trees in the black of night when the town was deep in slumber.

Victoria hurried along, her scarlet cloak trailing behind her billowed in the chilly breeze. She was aware of the pair of eyes that was following her every move, the footsteps dogging her own even though it was hidden in the shadow of the trees and its movements were silent, predatory. She stopped in a small clearing in the middle of the woods and it stepped out from the ubiquitous obscurity, its lithe and graceful body was coated with bristling silver fur. It stood majestically before her, its red red tongue hanging out of its mouth lewdly.

The wolf edged closer, putting one massive paw in front of the other as its eyes scoured Victoria, stripping her naked, layer by layer, through skin and muscle, as though contemplating which part of her to devour first. Its eyes were dark with hunger and its sharp, perfect teeth glinted menacingly in the moonlight.

Victoria slipped her heavy cloak off her shoulders and shivered. Her body was as white as ivory, breasts small and high, nipples taut. The wolf pounced forward, thereby closing the distance between them and with one paw gently pushed her onto the ground. It nudged her legs apart with its muzzle and licked the inside of her thighs.

She didn’t feel cold anymore – the fur of the wolf was warm enough – and it had lowered itself onto her so that she was shielded from the gelid wind. They did it on all fours - like animals. In its throes of pleasure amidst its blood-curdling howl, it raked its claws across her back where half-healed scars marred the translucent skin and her blood-soaked cape was stained a darker red. Victoria moaned in ecstasy, her burning back tingled with overwhelming sensation as her wolf-lover ran its lascivious tongue over her wounds.

“What a big mouth you have,” she remembered saying once upon a time, long long ago.

"The better to eat you with," answered the Big Bad Wolf. 

Friday, August 31, 2012

Some Words Are Just Too Sacred


is never a good word to be used
in love.

do not reassure her with words interlaced with
‘always’. she will be soothed and appear to be assuaged but
it will be a word that would come back to haunt you
like a bloodhound. it will sniff you out years later,
aroused by the dwindling affection you feel for her, the
utter dissatisfaction and insipid detachment in your relationship.
and it will devour you.

i will always love you,
will become the most fearsome boogeyman
under your bed and in your closet.


is for the use of immortals.
there are people who understand love (these are the immortals)
and there are people who vaguely grasp it, but are
too afraid or too ignorant to penetrate it
further. to delve deep into its core, and yet
never lose sight of the starting point,
to never forget what your heart might have forgotten.

and even then,
it must be a word that can only be written; it must never be spoken,
for the spoken word, even when whispered, can be devastating.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


If you would love me, know first, that I'm a free verse. I am not a Shakespearean sonnet,  nor will I ever be the immaculate, rhythmic structure of Dickinson's meters. If you love me, it's because you understand the beauty of chaotic abyss, you appreciate the exactitude and veracity of each chosen word and you manage to find structure and cohesion under the epidermal pandemonium. You know that I will be mercurial and volatile - you will love me till your heart feels like breaking and you will hate me to my marrows. If you love me, you'll know that I love savagely and painfully, because I've never learned to love otherwise. If you love me, I will always be a part of you - at the fine line between sanity and insanity, in the darkest concourse of your mind.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

So If I Can Finish These By This Year I Would Be Satisfied:

1. The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
2. The Sickness unto Death, Soren Kierkegaard
3. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
4. The Plague, Albert Camus
5. Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre

And by the time I finish these I would be one of those people who stay up all night chain smoking and thinking about the complexities of the universe with a scotch in hand and I wouldn't be able to survive without coffee in the morning and actually coffee all day. I would write motherfucking god awesome books about things no one really understands save the people who osculate in this dreary and infinite field. I would zone out in the middle of a conversation for a long pause and proceed to say the most kooky, depressing things ever. People will start shunning me because I'm too creepy and too goddamn wretched for them. I would be the ominous, gloomy overcast that looms over their happy little cotton parade.

That actually sounds pretty fucking awesome.

P.S. I don't know why, but philosophy triggers my foul language button.

Monday, July 30, 2012


He met her in the woods one evening, when he strayed off the path and left his drunk, stumbling friends to the vodka in their hands and the alcohol-laced songs in their throats. He didn't drink that night, not because he held any personal intolerance or disdain for intoxicants but because the night was unusually beautiful and he had wanted a clear mind to enjoy it.

The first time he laid eyes on her he didn't think she was human; at second glance, he knew from the pit of his heart that she wasn't.

It wasn't just the fact that she was hauntingly beautiful, or that her translucent skin glowed under the light of the moon, or the way her hair fell long and straight to the base of her naked spine. It was the ethereal way she moved, as though her movements were unrestricted by the laws of the world; every gesture was a foreign language, a mystery as old as the Stonehenge. Her silver eyes were a flux of sadness beyond comprehension, as though she had seen the world and learned all there is to be learned and was irreparably scarred by the knowledge.

He was in love and they both knew it.

When he brought her back everyone wanted to know where he found her. They wanted to know her name, where she came from and whether she spoke Russian. They were charmed yet intimidated by this exquisite and lovely but unbearably cold (even for the winter-born Russians) woman. His sisters were unsettled by this strange woman who did not or would not speak. He brushed off their inquisitive probings and would only tell them to call her Anastasiya.

Anastasiya, they whispered. Resurrection. They didn't know what to think of her.

He did. He knew exactly what she was and yet he couldn't leave her to save himself. He told her that she could do whatever she wanted with him as long as she belonged to him. She would go back to the village with him as his wife, she would have a name - a beautiful name befitting her nature and she would not hurt any of the villagers - he would keep her satiated.

And so, when the doors to their room were firmly closed and bolted for the night, she slipped him out of his heavy moleskin lined fur cloak and tunic and small clothes until he was naked and shivering in the cold Russian winter. She pressed her lips to his partially open mouth and commenced to suck. At first it was just soft and pleasant, the way a lover's kiss feels like; but then his eyes grew wide as she began to suck harder and soon she was sucking away his blood and his soul and all of his being. She sucked away his consciousness and his dreams and his deepest fears. She sucked away all that was his and all that he was. He was dead and she was gorged to the brim, her body humming and vibrating with the stream of life force she just fed on.

But by morning it was apparent that he was coming alive again. Resurrected. His heartbeat was feeble and he was still pale as a corpse but he was alive. He wasn't too sure how it worked - whether it was her innate healing powers or if he just didn't really die - but it soon became a pattern that fell into place without fail. He died every night and was resurrected every day. He would like to believe that it was because she loved him in her own way, loved him, and wouldn't bear to let him die.

"Do you love me?" he once asked her. She was silent, as usual, but her lips curved into a cold, cold smile.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Philosophy 101


Do we breathe because we're alive or are we alive because we breathe?
Are we emaciated little souls crouching by the sidewalks, ravenous and rapacious
for all eternity;
or are we machines that come to life when certain parts are well-oiled,
when we are fed scraps of metal and when certain buttons are pushed
at certain intervals of time?


Bite down hard on truth:
is it alive and moving? is it dead?
is it really thin air and that we've been imagining it all along?
does it taste of clarity or complexity, luminescence or the eternal abyss?
And if it exists, where do we find it?

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

July 24th

So... It's currently 12.02 a.m. and I've been eighteen for 2 minutes - actually, 3 minutes now. Apparently I'm pretty much legal now, and like, I'm no longer considered a teenager. Funny, I don't feel any different.

I think that one of the world's greatest tragedy is that, often things turn out quite differently from what you had imagined or expected when you were little. I don't think 8 year-old me would have been very impressed with 18 year-old me if she time-traveled 10 years into the future.

I thought that I would be smart and wise by now. I thought that I would have the answers to all the complexities and mysteries of the world. And now look at me. I'm still asking the same questions that used to bother me ten years ago. The existential crisis that used to occur is still occurring. Why was I born? What am I to the world? Nothing would happen if I die, the world will not stop spinning, the human population will not dwindle. What's the universe made of? Why does the universe exist? Do any of us have any inkling why we exist? What purpose do we serve? 

I feel smaller than I had ten years ago in this expansive universe.

But then, I don't think its fair to say that I've learnt nothing at all. In fact, I would say that in a non-philosophical point of view, it was spectacular in its own unspectacular way. I have crazy/weird/annoying/wtf-do-you-think-you're-doing friends and annoying/love-me-in-their-own-incomprehensible-way/i-guess-they're-nice-after-all family and I'll never stop complaining about them but at the same time I love them with all my heart.

It's late and you know I don't do late. My brain's not really functioning right now and this probably sucks a lot and I'll be look-at-all-the-shit-that-I-wrote! in the morning. So I better shut up right now. And gah, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be all emo on you. I don't know why but birthdays make me emo.

Love all of you. Thanks for everything. I'll try not to delete this in the morning.

Happy birthday.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Mad World


She had become a phantom. That was it. Standing in front of the mirror, her hair unkempt and eyes deadpan, she could see it – that she had been fading away for the past… what? Five days? Three weeks? She had no idea how long it had been since she was in this catatonic state. Her mind vaguely registered that this should have been alarming, should have warranted a larger reaction compared to this idle curiosity. And yet she found that she could not have summoned the energy to elicit the appropriate emotions even if she wanted to.

Her eyes skated over the image in the mirror with the same mildly curious look: over the pallid, sallow cheeks and the once-luscious lips; along the gentle slope of her slumped shoulders down to her arms hanging limply by her sides. But it was her eyes that captured her attention. They stared back at her with the same indifference: one eyebrow minutely raised as if in mockery or as a challenge. The look in her eyes was dead. There were no other words for it. It was pure and utter blankness.

They say it happens when you wander too long in your own subconscious mind.


"We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."


Mad - em. ay. dee.

M.A.D, as in:

Morbidity – the batshit crazy cat lover who is so poor she couldn’t even feed herself. She carves out chunks of her thighs for her hungry cats.

Agony – the sweet twin sister of suffering. She is forged in the womb of humanity and born from the marrows of desire. She is the blood pumping through our veins and the breath we hold in our lungs.

Despair – the poison that spreads through your mind like the Black Death. It ravages your soul and eats up your hopes and your dreams. And when you’re cold and dead and gone, it will shit on your corpse and dance on your grave. 

Madness. The satire of humanity. 

Monday, July 2, 2012

Not In Love

Going back to
Reality - isn't an option. But,
Easing my soul into
Yours. Is.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Things That Change

Once upon a time I was
flesh and blood and bones, 
I breathed the infinitesimal stars and the sky
and I breathed the universe.
I had the fire of the sun
between my ribs and 
the swiftness of the wind
in my legs 
(I unfolded them like wings). 
I had hair interwoven with thunder bolts and a 
head full of hurricanes. 

Perhaps I have spun on my axis alone
for too long. 
Perhaps I swallowed the inexhaustible salt of
loneliness too much -
because now, my 
dreams are scattered like constellations
in the perennial night
and my heart
is the color of
dying leaves. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

A Story of Teeth

I remember when I was 6 and my baby teeth were dropping like flies throughout the year. Remember how the falling off of baby teeth would form a border in the transition from being babies to being full-fledged children? Despite the initial horror of toothlessness (which I then overcame by trying not to show my teeth when I smile) I was delighted that I was finally getting rid of whatever categorized me as a baby. It was when I was trying to grow up too fast and had no discernible idea of what growing up meant. 

Anyway, I started a collection of baby teeth after deciding that I couldn't bear to throw away a part of myself. I think I was scared that all the teeth I dumped over the years would come together and form the phantom of a mouth I once had but without my lips or my tongue or my oral cavity. It would be two rows of vengeful, malicious teeth snapping their way into my bedroom when I sleep and haunt me for the rest of my life. Far-fetched, I know, but you know how kids are. 

So the first two teeth were given the royal treatment. I used to brush and clean them individually then rinse them in Listerine every night before placing them back into their little bed of cotton wool in a matchbox from England that my aunt gave me. I lost both of them in an unfortunate incident in which they were washed down the sink when I drained the water. The next three survived for another year before I grew bored of cleaning baby teeth every night and just left them in their bottle until they rotted. I washed them down the sink, this time of my own free will. I traded the succeeding one with my brother for dominance over the TV remote control. (He wanted to watch Ed, Edd and Eddie but I wanted to watch The Book of Pooh) I still don't know what he wanted with my tooth. 

I lost more teeth as the years went by, mostly due to similar incidents and once because I planted two teeth in the garden after the dentist told me about teeth having roots and all. I now have approximately ten more in a bottle filled with mouthwash (because I am too lazy to have to clean them every night or even every month) and they have all turned Listerine blue. They remind me of floating fetuses in jars of formaldehyde and I certainly have developed a kind of... maternal(?) feeling towards them over the years. The first two even had names: William and Harry. Dead serious. 

I don't know why I'm remembering this now but Born to Die is making me strangely nostalgic. It makes me sad to think of William and Harry and the others. It's like having a cemetery of unborn babies.