proof of life or what’s yet to be snuffed off it

Written by Caela Magale
Art by Caela Magale

there is a hole in the ceiling,
and drops of the sky leak from it,
liquid crashing, dusty tiles-
i only watch.

i stop getting my job done,
it was something understandable to fixate on.
the leakage continues and so follows my stare,
quite questionable to the normal eye.

blame it on the world,
blame it on the news,
blame it on something that took place on December 2006,
blame it on an earlier occurrence earlier.

aside from staring, what could be done but blame,
for the uncertainty of a spike or a flatline,
on a heart monitor long learned to cheat.

lately the horizons are made up of deadlines,
or dead ends, they’re basically the same.

the blankets try to soothe, with the stars offer a visual lullaby,
but they could only do so much,
eyes shut yet these hypothetical targets don’t bat eyes.

deadlines meant for crossing out,

as am i


the obsessionist

Written by Caela Magale
Art by Caela Magale

bask in whatever it is you painstakingly crave to do,
keep running until the very thing your soul aches for
has no choice but to be yours,
before the sun ceases its existence.

some things they’d tell you-
motivational by a grain of salt;
those grains might as well be fistfuls
you never learned to take things one at a time,
something your mother would agree with
the little footprints you’ve left remain,
always finding a way for the jar of sugar cookies on top of the fridge
too high for a 3 footer’s reach

your brain has always been programmed with codes of
consume consume consume,
immediately, urgently, now

dive into cumbersome depths,
take and keep it all in
and grab at what poor or daunting thing gets in your sight
add a mental label and file

and on top of it all,
carve them to your advantage
until the unimpressible thing in the mirror
says you’ve earned their respect
until that doubtful thing behind the glass
is left with no choice but to follow your lead.

at first what they meant when they said to do as much as you can
was stretched out within your grasp,
but just as instantly like some creature it blinked,
morphing as if going about its life cycle.

you said you never saw it again
but this is just what i think-
you’ve always had foresights on it,
that abominable thing tearing up a months-good blanket, the pupa.

see? it doesn’t even take much for you
to backtrack your transmutation
from being once a chaser of the sun
while it’s still affixed in the patchwork of clouds
to host competitions with it, such a deadly race.
no surprises that you have gone so far as setting a countdown ‘til its fall,
a deadline before you can outdo it.