ludmila andrea
"Write a poem about running away"

just wait until one night // when the loneliness hits you especially hard // chewing and gnawing away // at your innermost parts.

one night, // when the fears you never knew you had // sit perched at the foot of your bed. // lucid dreams of love had and love lost. //

tug the sheets close because, // come morning, // you can vanish with the morning mist. // leaving behind the nostalgia //  that nibbles at your neck.

but know — // always know // that no matter where you go // it will find you; // whether in a smell, a song, or a smile / it will always find you.


My fingers like tentacles | Trying my hand at delicate embroidery | Each stitch worse than the one before

Death | 2014

life is just so fragile. its kind of like holding onto a little piece of paper in a car driving down the highway with the windows rolled down. you have it in your grasp, or so you think until your mind wanders and your fingers loosen for one second. just one second, and it’s gone. fluttered out the window, forever dancing along the lane-dividers of a dusty highway.


Last night at this hidden gem of a vegetarian cafe/art hub in Guatemala City I met someone who had lived in Vancouver in the same neighbourhoods I also once had lived in. He gestured to a large map of Metro Vancouver that hung on the wall. Once again I was reminded gently of how interconnected we all are on this planet we call home. I fell asleep feeling like a little droplet of water suspended safely on the massive, delicately woven spiderweb that is humanity.

It makes me happy and sad to think of all the people who have come and gone in my life. It’s overwhelming to think that this flux of people will continue until the day I die. Every day, every week, every year people come into my life and people leave from it. Some continue quickly on their path, while others stay for a while. Each of our lives are kind of like a beautiful time lapse photograph with us at the middle; stable, static. While the people we encounter and the experiences we face blur around us. A life-long exposure.

mi piel es blanca, color de la nieve recién caída
pero dentro de mi cuerpo corren venas latinas.
cólera de sangre
de tierras robadas
de cuerpos e historias secuestradas
 ¿cómo pago el rescate? 
mi piel es blanca, color de la nieve recién caída.
¿cómo olvido el privilegio y la opresión dentro de mi?
coexistencia perpetua, infeliz
las relaciones parasitarias suelen pasar desapercibidos


The coffee tastes bitter without you here.

Even with the sugar cubes I greedily dropped in.

The blackness devours me and carves me out from inside.

The world breaks and mends my heart every day.
Like waves that crash upon a shore only to be drawn back again.
Ebbing, flowing. Breaking, mending.

Today on the train 
a man sat down beside me,
his large frame pushed me to the side
my knees banged against the wall
pinned; I felt his body grow larger 
while I simultaneously grew smaller
as if with each of his breaths 
he took a bit of me with him
I thought of a million things I could do or say
but instead I sat quietly, staring at my shoes.
his portly fingers drummed on his left thigh.
three stops, I felt his gaze on me
deep breaths,
       my shoelaces are frayed