Tyra

COLLECTION OF POEMS AND SHORT STORIES

Chasen

I feel it now—the last flicker of purpose slipping away. My tines tremble as they move through my evergreen companion stirring their dry form into a frothy mess. The bowl feels wider, emptier today. It’s heavier, not just with water, but with something unspoken.

I’ve done this a thousand times—the hands use me to fulfill my purpose, always soft despite the abuse it levied—coercing me in reshaping my companion into a different form.

My bamboo tines dip in, circle, press against the sides—steady, persistent, blending the powder into something more. A ritual. A meditation. Something meaningful, I thought.

But now... I don’t know.

The cracks in my base have deepened. My tines, once sharp and springy, feel brittle. With every turn, I feel the strain in my fibers. I’ve been worn thin, not just by age, or the hands, soft yet firm, using me over and over again, but by an emptiness I cannot name.

Why am I still doing this? I’ve mixed so many bowls, created countless cups, and helped brew morning rituals of comfort. I’ve been useful, haven’t I? An invisible hand behind each sip.

But I’m breaking. One of my tines splinters under the pressure, snapping with a sharp crack. The hands tried and failed to fix me, to salvage my broken form—I bend, crooked, useless. Was that it? Was my entire life just to blend a drink and disappear into the background? Was that enough?

The days have blurred together. Quiet mornings, steady movements. Now, I see it—the futility. Soon, my companion will settle at the bottom of the bowl, waiting to be drunk, and I’ll be forgotten. Another worn tool, discarded, left to rot.

But maybe that’s all I was ever meant to do. To be an extension of the hands that used me. To blend, soften, give flavour—and then be gone. There’s a strange peace in that thought. A quiet surrender.

My last tine breaks. The owner finishes, unaware. The water still laps the bowl, but I can no longer feel it. I was useful, once. Maybe that’s enough.

Parasomnia

Ribbons adorn the bronze canvas of my thighs.

The flesh now textured in distorted patterns caused by nature,

or rather the nature of my madness.

So deeply consumed by the foreboding thought of my unfortunate future,

I pray-No you don’t pray, for your prayers are scarce

like the sanity you never truly possessed.

Oh my god! Dragging my brains across concrete would be better than for me to be possessed

by you. You already take pleasure in assaulting my thighs.

Me? How can I assault anything when my presence is so scarce?

Well, you never show your face, yet you remain on the sidelines controlling the nature

of my sanity and altering my thoughts and my future.

I am now tethering- Stop lying! you have already descended into madness.

As I was saying, I am now tethering on the brink of madness.

Conversing with an omniscient shadow that has possessed

me. I now long for a way out of this impending doom that is my unfortunate future.

I wish I could disappear in between my own thighs

like some people’s fathers. Well, it is inherently in your nature

to enjoy the warmth of your own weak flesh, as it is theirs for being so scarce

in their children’s lives- My father’s presence wasn’t scarce!

Being present with a heavy hand and passing on his madness

like his seed is not any better. Like you said, it’s in their nature

and they are inherently proud and possessed

by their own narcissism, like their need to be between young girls’ thighs.

The same ones who need a father’s stamp of approval to have a bright future.

If that is what you need then your future

will remain unfortunate and bleak. His approval is scarce just like hi-

THEIR FUTURES are dependent on how well the crevice between their thighs

ensnares the minds of fathers long lost to the madness

created by their wives- Their own fathers you mean? Who were possessed

by their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers, who passed on this nature?

It is hereditary at this point. Their nature-

The very nature that makes them blame their wives for taking away their future.

Their wives do rage like they’re possessed.

Because their wives inherited their mothers’ rage because their own husbands were so scarce. They ran, lest they inherit feminine madness, only for them to seek comfort in younger, more feminine thighs.

Is that why you mark ribbons onto your own thighs?

No! It is because of you that I must keep up with this madness!

Me? I am not even here. Like your father’s love my presence is scarce.

Gold Coin

This coin,

reminds me of your silver gold curls

slipping through my fingertips.

I cannot believe we

ended like this. With a

caress and an embrace

I still remember the look on your face.

The sorrow etched on your brow

The words of apology tumbling from your pillowy lips.

Like this coin

The words from your mouth pass

to another and another and another

Until they mean nothing

Until I mean nothing

But I cannot help it. I am yours

Like this coin is mine.

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