Prompt #3

Today I drove to my grandmother’s house. An old building in the middle of an equally old neighbourhood. Her house hasn’t changed much in 50 years — the paint was new, some parts of the house got fixed, but everything else remained the same. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a big city that small alleys like those found on my grandmother’s neighbourhood felt precious to me.

My grandmother took me for a walk, to deliver a cake to a good friend of hers who lives two blocks away. Well over 8pm, children were still running around…

So no one ever told me jealousy can be sad too.

That jealousy is not always ablaze,
It’s not always red nor heated;
It can be blue, or such a depressing hue,
Making you doubt the sincerity in their gaze,
Leaving you defenseless and defeated.

Jealousy is not always angry,
It’s not always pretty,
It’s not always manly,
It’s not always romantic,
And more often than not it is frantic.

Jealousy can come in the saddest way possible,
With the dawning realisation that you are not their first.

It makes you wonder whether you’ll be on par
to close that chapter…

Jealousy is a great shapeshifter.

The first-time life introduced me to jealousy,
I was not ready.

People said jealousy is green, but all I saw was red;
My hands in a fist, my lips sealed tight — I was mad.
Jealousy appeared before me, in the candour of anger.

The second time jealousy greeted me,
I felt something that wasn’t there before:
Jealousy was violet.
It was warm as well as cold — it wasn’t all that bad.

Jealousy can be a sign of deep-rooted affection.

The third time, jealousy shapeshifted in front of me,
It caressed me in green
I told…

Prompt #2

I’d like to carve your existence into mine,
Through paper, canvas, rhythm, or rhyme.
I’d like to carve your existence into mine,
Freeze this moment and engrave you to time.

I tried memorising through touch,
Traces of your skin on my fingertips,
Your strawberry-scented promises on my lips,
And every crook, curve, coil on your thighs to your hips.

And afterwards I tried committing touch into words,
To describe your form into poetries, sculpt your edges from memories
Each word carefully selected, thought of, and considered
Every nook and crook slowly carved and configured.

But no word, no…

Prompt #1

source: Adobe Stock

I’ve always hated places that don’t smell the way they’re supposed to smell. Mountains that smell like smoke, garbage, or worse: a city. Classrooms that smell like soap or cheap body spray. Cars that smell like coffee. I don’t hate the smell — I just don’t like where they waver. Mountains are supposed to smell like rain, rocks, earth, and emptiness. Classrooms are supposed to smell like lunchboxes and sweet breads, or noodle pizza. Cars are supposed to smell like fresh rugs or leather. …

AP Islamilenia

Trying to treat writing as a sports or exercise, and hoping to get a lot of training done.

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