top of page

Cobain mentioned one saying to another, “I’m so lucky to have met you”,

Cool airconditioning blasts against my neck


I turn it down because it’s too cold


Leather plush envelops my tense body


As I breath 


In and Out and In again


In I breathe to absorb the calm 


Out to let go of the chaos


In to remember the important things I have to complete


Out to – rap rap rap


I hear the distinct sounds of knuckles against cool glass


The vibration shakes my head 


The culprit behind the ruckus leaves behind an angry black stain


The knuckles turn into an opened palm


It’s cupped


Curved on it’s inside like a question mark


Like something was once there but taken


Like a demand, a prayer, and an offering


Like a plea but also an order


His palm showed surrender 


But his fingers showed determination


He stood tall, proud, and yet


He wore a holed short


Sweat stained his clothes– desperately needed a shower


But he stood tall and I 


I was seated in shame as he stood with pride


Looked away in shame


I looked away because this inch-thick glass caused a


Separation that stretched throughout time


Windows were the only way we could see each other


But looked away hoping never to see this 


We breathed the same air, and walked the same paths but 


Would never know how the other lived


Oh! The unfortunate ways of fortune!


That blew ice-cold air condition 


That I turned it down because it froze me


But he was sweating in the heat.

That’s the price I unintentionally pay, though knowingly I would too,

Leaving me to ponder, what Faustian bargain can this be? 


Your memories reside in my mind like nails through my wrists and through a crucifix,

Golden nails that never rust, unlike the iron in my blood, cold and tart, 

Your silence from March to May leaves me broken in a way I can’t fix,

Is my indignation not a reasonable price for the hurt posed by your callous heart?


You’re too fortunate to have to pay for something worth a fortune,

A human heart — granted, it’s mine, so it doesn’t really matter at all, 

Exsanguinating the vessel carrying it, extracting the iron, filling a golden spoon,

A dime a dozen, perhaps, but to me it was everything -- still, it’s your call. 


A thing on the doorstep, some kind of eldritch existence,

Drifting through a life I am stealing from, for the fortunes I cannot pay for,

My life is my price, not through martyrdom, but through slow disappearance,

What I wanted was your friendship and the honest conviction that it was real, nothing more.


This is solely a moment of rumination to recite in front of an uninterested, unfortunate audience,

Discomfiture and embarrassment a small fortune to pay for the hopes that you will listen,

That a genuine thought replaces your typical response of an aloof disinterest, or silence,

That the closure about irreversible estrangement becomes as palpable as a golden coffin.

Unfortunate ways of fortune

BY Cilia Biakula


bottom of page