Lost wings

She cracked a rib

I winced

Closed my eyes tight

She cracked another

The cold blades

Snipping at the tender flesh beneath


You came to me

I held on

With what strength

Was left

Another crack

Bone splintering

I gasped

You shuddered

And ran screaming

Into the night

She laughed gently


© Devorah K., October 2017

New Worlds

We bleed and sicken and die

In the twisted hope

That they might acknowledge

And possibly respect

Our existence

We bow and scrape and beg

For their kindness

And compassion

The crumbs from their tables




What if

We gave them

Exactly what they think

They want?

What if

We turned our backs

On them

And walked the fuck away…?

What if

We stopped playing

Their game

And set aside

Their rules?


Let us find out

Who we really are

Let curiosity

About our selves

Bloom abundantly

Let our new identities

Be built

Not on the negatives

Of their architectures

But on the strengths

The beauties

The vitalities

Within our selves


They may insist

On being the centre

Of their diminishing world


Let us no longer

Live on the peripheries

Of their delusions


We are not their opposites

We are not non-them

We are


Let us establish

Many centres

In many worlds

There is space enough

In this expanding universe

© Devorah K., September 2017


Her daddy was a surgeon

She didn’t follow in his footsteps

Not officially

Not purposefully

She did learn a thing or two

About identifying

The bits and pieces

That could harm

The rest of her

And learnt

The precise art

Of scalpel wielding

With growing confidence

She exacted

Her pound of flesh

Doing away

With the toxic, the broken, the dying

Sealed and sewed

The raw, bleeding wounds

Letting the scars form

An ever expanding armour

© Devorah K, September 2017

Curiosité malsaine

Do you ever wonder whether you shall be missed when the seconds that make up your existence come to an end? Do you wonder who shall remember you? And for how long?

I do.

Not in a futile attempt to assess the worth of my breaths.

Rather, a self-indulgent morbid curiosity let loose at regular intervals.

I am not concerned with the sanity of such mental meanderings. I would rather have these cogitations out in the open than festering in the shadowy corners of my mind.

Spoken aloud, in the light, I know them for what they are. The ordinary fears of a meaningless being shackled by time and the tenuous bonds it forms with others of its kind.

© Devorah K, September 2017


The first thirty-two years of my life

The last seventeen years

Two and a half years

Months here

A few weeks there


A couple of nights



Seconds that trickled away with pieces of my self

Forever lost

Never to be seen again



And buried

To now rest in peace.

© Devorah K, September 2017

The Dance

ok, let me get philosophical on your ass.

right. rule number one. you don’t chase. it’s not a hunt. it’s not a war. it’s nothing so combative, yeah. it’s like a journey. a dance, if you will.

we all have a bit of music inside of us, right, and it makes us move in certain ways, using certain steps.

you’re still learning your steps. you’re still figuring out what your song is. getting to grips with the melody.

once in a while, you invite someone along to dance with you. but you never, ever beg them to join you. you hold out your hand and wait for them to take hold of it.

some might. and you find that you’re in tune and it’s great and they bring something extra. then it’s fun. your steps go together with someone else’s and something really good and beautiful happens. it won’t necessarily last a lifetime.

and then, there are people with whom you can dance forever. i’m not talking about soulmates. i’m talking about some people with whom you simply click. you might not hear the same melodies. actually, you won’t because we really are unique. but whatever you’re hearing comes together really well. and you’re able to create and explore so many new steps and moves with them.

but sometimes, we insist on dancing with the wrong partners. both of us hear something so completely different that rhythm and coordination are thrown right out of the window. but we force it anyway. or they step on your toes. or you step on their toes. you both hearing the wrong, wrong thing. it simply doesn’t work out.

what can also happen is that we can hear the other’s music, right, and we want it so badly to be ours that we try and copy it but end up ruining it completely. even messing up their rhythm…

that’s when you learn to say thank you, and goodbye.

you need to get your second wind. sit down, get new dancing shoes and learn to hear your song again. and start to dance to it, on your own. forget about the many, many potential partners. just you and the music. get to know how you move again. what makes you tick. it’s hard, i’m sure. nothing worth it is easy. but it’s not impossible…


© Devorah K., September 2016

Witching Hour

In the night’s darkest hour,

I let myself think

of all the obstacles to your existence.

My mind gently caresses

every bleak, heavy, fearful thought

and I mourn.

I mourn you.

I mourn those who follow.

I mourn that part of me that is in you.

The part that is passed on

from one to the other,

over and over again.

As the light spreads over the horizon,

melancholia departs,

replaced by the fullness of your being.


© Devorah K., September 2016

This girl

This girl walked the streets

Searching for a treasure lost


She walked and she walked

Looking into every window

Knocking at every door


She walked and sometimes ran


She looked under every bush

And below the bridges

Over the walls

In the trenches


She walked and walked


Found herself deep in the woods

Strayed from the path

Lost her way


Clouds gathered

Lightening struck

The wind blew


No refuge to be found


So she walked and walked some more


Bloodied, limping

She did not stop

But did slow down


She walked and walked

And saw


The flowers

The rivers

The birds

The beasts

The stars


She walked and walked


And sometimes rested

In the shadow of a tree


Tasted rain

Felt the sun

On her scarred skin


Eyes closed

Flowers in her hair

A grin on her face


She walked into your arms…


© Devorah K., August 2016