top of page
  • Writer's pictureKyx


without you my wrist feels empty:

my partner-in-crime when i’m lazing,

soaked when i run in the rain,

hold my hair up when it’s blazing.

colour as arresting as a stop sign,

you don’t halt many in their tracks;

but from afar, people know me

from you. yeah, i think that tracks.

but at some point i have to wonder:

has the dye of your colour bled

into the pigment of my skin?

if you’re absent from my head,

will people still know who i am?

who am i without you?

am i remembered for my traits?

or will “who is she?” be my truth?

bought for only five bucks

are you a complement to me?

are you an addition to my look?

or a parasite that stole my identity?


bottom of page