Black memories 

It did not feel taxing, 

the fourth time,

or shameful,

the way 

your hands 

went down

to parts 

of me


I wasn’t 

acquainted with 

It did not 

scare me 


It did not 

make me 

want to 


this body.

I had left



these hands 

and feet 

and these eyes 

are just

vacuum and skin.

I did not 

feel disgust 

the tenth time, 

in that corner 

in the dark.
I did not 


to run away 

I was home.

I did not 

want to escape.



I did not 

feel the pain

the seventeenth time,


my mouth 

slit open 

and bled 


too much 


I did not 


the need 

to wipe the blood 

off my 

I did not 

feel the pain

or the sting 

of your nails 

cutting through

the insides 

of me.

As a matter of fact 

I did not 



at all.

-WANDERER // B l a c k M e m o r i e s 



I look at these strangers around me, 

faint giggles and jokes.

I’ve known them long enough for me to realise I don’t. 

Suddenly, they fade with the wind, and I’m alone in the room, 

alone with a glass before me.
The curtains let the sun kiss the alcohol in it,

and the bottle shies away.

With my head resting on the table 

and my hand stretched out, 

the perfect drunk, 

I watch the friend I tend to rely on, 

when I have no way with my mind.
I down the drink I was but, supposed to enjoy, because it’s too much to take. My mind is wandering off wildly, and it’s not an adventure. It’s a suicide trip. 

I feel my thoughts suffocate me, 

I feel the silence, the emptiness turn into a rope around my neck,  and I open the bottle, 

consume my cure entirely, 

trying to find transitory liberation.
The last drop of alcohol mixes with my blood 

my eyes turn heavy with the weight of the unsaid and unexpressed, maybe the high too, 

they close after a long time of being ajar,

and I’m finally relieved. It has come to a stop, for now.
Until next time, fears.

Until next time. -WANDERER // E s c a p e s 


“I like how 

you have a way 



Like the way 

you make

everything around 

feel like 

a trance, 

I’m on 

some kind 

of high, 

probably high 

on you,


that feels 

so good 

and fast.

It simply 

doesn’t make sense 


it is everything 


that I 

have known.

I like how 

you give the aura 

around me 

a rush 

of light, 


speed the world 

in my vicinity, 


paralyse me 

in time, 

to have 

this moment 

with you, 


as long as 

I want to.” -WANDERER


“But every festive season, I was dancing in fraudulent colours, cherishing a frail sense of happiness, with a soul so grey

until you coloured me with your hue”

-WANDERER || Marlyn Pereira 

The story of a rock

I have been recently told that every rock has a mellow story inside. I couldn’t help but associate this idea to our lives.

We try to build a fortress around ourselves, to try to keep away from heed our insecurities, our fears and our soft spots as we can call them.

We don’t want to be vulnerable. It scares us to feel and feel intensely. Consumed by our fears we harden ourselves, covering our hearts with layers and layers of stone, subduing every word we yearn to voice out, and we are so used to being this stoic unto our own feelings that we often don’t even remember what it is like to feel a whiff of the wind tingle our soul. But as much as we conceal, behind these stone walls, I have learnt from experience, more than once, that there lies a mellow version of ourselves, one that we think of as a flaw. One that we rebuke and don’t like to accept because we are so afraid to admit that sometimes we can be broken, we can need help, we can be weak.
I believe we all are hiding behind façades of our own kind of rocks and stones, but beyond we are nesh and tender and Love and only Love penetrates through our castles built on the foundations of disdain and reluctance.

-WANDERER || Marlyn Pereira