The Forest at Midnight

Long after dusk, 
in our twilight forest 
there lurk shadows,
And sometimes, 
when the moon is cast out, 
I succumb to them. 

Some nights I curl up with the willows,
whispering sweet nothings to the crows, 
or weeping morning dew on the lilies. 
On others I am screaming to the stars,
begging the Sun to rise back up from beyond the treetops.

But even when dawn breaks the horizon,
I still miss Midnight.
For the shadows have found their solace within me when the Sun comes out to play. 
And sometimes,
Sometimes I succumb to them. 

BIATA, ‘the forest at midnight can be an awfully dark place’


On days in which I feel the earth is trembling under my own two feet,
When the world is seeping into my pores and my fingers are twitching for a cigarette. 
Sometimes the flames dance in my belly and lick up my esophagus. 
I want to love you and play nicely, 

My element is not a flame,
I’m merely a silent doe crossing
paths with you across an open clearing, 
Occasionally leading,
occasionally following. 

I do not want my wildfire to 
spread as our passages emerge,
So I will watch you,
cautiously at first,
so cautiously.

I will fill myself with all of those watery vibrations,
those soothing energies that you offer. 
I’ll recreate my inner domain,
I’ll put out the fire.  

On days in which I feel the earth is trembling under my own two feet,
I still myself,
I breathe in those airy gusts,
I remind myself it is only my own shaking that has thrown off my balance. 
And that I do not speak in tongues of fire. 

BIATA – ‘for those with tongues of fire and hearts of air

The Dreamer’s Plight

The Dreamer says, ‘If only I could fly away‘. 
They’ll tell you you’re not ready. 
Obligations, Skepticism and Realism will form like a dark trio. 
They’ll weigh you down and subsequently tear at your feathers. 

But what they won’t tell you is that their fall is eventually inevitable. 
And it’s the how that really matters
The trio will either leech off of your crushed hopes until the blood runs bitter,
Or you will brush them off before they get the chance to really sink their teeth in. 

The moment you grab hold of Reality and brace Fear to look it in the eye,
Steady your hand and silence your worry,
That is when your feathers will grow back. 
Because you do not have time to carry a burden,
For Dreamers were made to fly. 

BIATA, If only I could fly away

Speaking in Silence

She speaks to me in whispers drifting through the willows,
Satiating my empathy in sips of gold,
Reminding me that ones’ blood only runs cold when the heart stops beating. 

She speaks to me in raindrops pelting against the rooftop,
When my sadness is too heavy to bear and my gratitude too great to burden. 
Reminding me that it’s okay to weep, even if the ducts ran dry a while ago. 

She speaks to me in sunlight dancing off my lashes,
When my eyes cast down towards the ground and the stranger’s soul drifts in opposite direction. 
Reminding me that I still have a voice even if I can’t remember how it sounds. 

BIATA, ‘silence

The Abyss

My dreams, carefully twisted to horrors,
were strung through the bannisters
like trophies.
My foes hung like bats from the ceiling.
I’d played the mistress to the dark
for so long that I’d long since
forgotten what light was.

I wasn’t sure if Apathy really had a
gun or if it was just a bluff.
But I was certain I saw the gleam of a
blade at Optimism’s throat.

If you dip your fingers into the abyss,
don’t act surprised when it reaches 
back out to pull you in.

There are no gray areas until you
draw up the lines,
and I am still scrubbing off the
despair that stuck to my soul like a

Although recovery is bright,
and love is pure,
Sometimes the dark still stops by to 
throw a pillowcase of feathers in my

BIATA, ‘the abyss is a childhood friend of mine

SYLL: Therapy Session

My therapist says that’s how you ruin a good memory. By overthinking it again and again until the facts begin to morph into something ugly. I, myself, can’t imagine the memory growing much uglier than it already is. But maybe that’s because I think about it a lot.

I don’t tell her that. Instead I just nod and stare drowsily out the window. Dreaming of a time when I can remember what the grass felt like. Or the smell of a summer breeze. I can’t help but notice it, even if they tell me not to. The sun is nearly blinding and I almost wish it didn’t remind me of the lighting in this place.

I have told her this before, I know I have. We’ve had this conversation. But if I ask her I know the answer will be the same. It always is.

‘No we haven’t.’

Continue reading


The smell of a forest after a heavy
Velveteen rose petals drifting between
your fingertips.
A fresh nosebleed dripping down your
Or the clink of a wine glass against
your teeth.

The bite of a wind chill when you’ve
forgotten your jacket,
The smell of an old book who’s waited
a while to be read,
The moment a star bursts into a
The look in the eye of a wild doe in
your headlights.

BIATA, ‘character aesthetic