And here we end
word chef-ing mixed media whispers with
tears fought in unison after the war

paperback cuts and empty pages to line our
tongues: a vastness, like stale bread
and un-gardened fence lines.

Here we end our story where
it never began: with hollowed sights
and enemy trenches and
bonbonnieres filled with armories
and dartboard calendars

– riding shotgun with fries to go –

carrying anthrax and V-shaped saliva
in white pockets of revenge

bleating our way
between dichotomy and conflict, where,
in this absence of hope we are just
zombies in a dollar bin –
half the value promised
and reduced to clear.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2021


As a rule,
I have learnt to fraternise with dreams for gain,
profiting not from indiscretion,
but in the karma sought within such mindful revenge.

Were it possible
to simply matchbox my raw emotion,
the kindling its casket contained
may encourage wild arson –

but perhaps it is less of a burden
to fuck you while I sleep
than to thank you for stoking my fire
while clothed in its flame.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 7 February, 2020


in my damaged whisper
from within begins to roar
and your secrets
– as I shake –
fly far from where you left them

I watch
vocals shredded
limp and newly sane
as they tumble
– like a silent movie –
into the back pockets
of sweet revenge

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 15 February, 2014



say no again
and you will build this love
with weakened walls
– a prison –
standing only to fall
as kindling
for slow revenge


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 11 August, 2011


belittle me
and like a singularity
I will become dense
and invisible
and drop from your space

i will gravitate
inside my own world
(my owned world)
– my mass, not yours –
and use my volume
to prove your theory
is full of holes

– black holes –

that only carry purpose
like a stain
that cannot be washed
from its own fabric

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 9 August, 2011