my words say today

sometimes i write stuff so ya.

i still classify as a li(e/ar)

i am burning up
in the air that i breathe
i am drinking gasoline
and thinking about you.
i am burning up
and my fears have come back.
they speak in bangs
from the back of my head.
nonexistent dreams arise
and float in the midst
of all the glaring eyes.
Non-existence is such a terrifying thing
that i wish to deserve,
but there is so much more left
to learn:
from the way you let me hold you
and the way i say i love you
and the time i didnt want it to end
and the way you deny our flare.
it is the fear of existing that strikes at times
like these, darling. it is the fear
of a sunny day of a plant that is never
watered. it is the fear of the lines
that bound what is supposed to
and what has been gone.
you can always be the book
that no one forgets, the inspiration
of aspiration of a generation.
You can always be the giggle you recall
from sixth grade at the mall.
you can be the incision made on a cancer patient,
and you are the wind that carries the leaves
i pray for life.
Delusions have never existed.
are we true?
these hands still beg-
forever for you.

but maybe i’m wrong.

love is like being born with fully functioning lungs and only learning
to hold your breath your whole life
up until the moment when your feet are
blue and your fingers tingle then
realising that your lungs were meant
to stretch and expand.
love is like learning about a star
when you were six
and packing your hopes and dreams
in your school bag
with plans to chase it-
only to find out that it has disappeared.
Then at sixteen figuring out
that it was an aeroplane.
Love is the smell of a new car
that your mother has been anticipating
in addition to the excitement of being driven everywhere
to end up in the hospital with broken bones and 14 stitches.
(Not denying that the treats were yummy)
But love is also the tree that you imagined
your dream treehouse to someday be built on
being chopped down for expansion.

You find other trees. And planes. And stars. And your bones harden and you breathe again.

For breakfast today:

Breakfast is served.
On the table we have:
One serving of the crave in your eyes,
Two steps to prevent heat loss,
three glances of pleasure
and your lips with a side of
the tingling of cold coffee
that you forgot about.

For breakfast today
i had your lips, ever so luscious
and a seasoning of stale coffee
to satisfy my addiction.
For breakfast today
you had my skin, slowly bringing out
my true colours beneath
to show me that i am alive.
For breakfast today
there were moans and squirms
and pleading whispers.
For breakfast today
there was skin against skin
no longer aroused,
just innocently enveloped
to weld down the walls of two
and make an alloy of one.
For breakfast today
i swear i fell in love
with you
and you
and you
and you.

maybe this one’s to unbore you when youre bored on the internet.

There is this blankness, this certain emptiness that everyone has grown accustomed to, or so i presume because it happens to me, when the lights have been turned off. You sit in a room with the lights off, let it be packed with people or serenading your loneliness, and everything becomes clear. As if the lights that are on block your vision of what truly is happening in your head. This darkness allows you to dissect your own mind-
sometimes it gets extremely messy, everything starts to slip and your worst thoughts become seeds that fall into the soil you’ve fertilised so diligently for the good ones, ending up as trees that branch out and produce fruit too. Somehow that isn’t the worst-case scenario. Maybe the worst times are when you are in the sunlight with your skin shining and your eyes squinted; are you allowed to sigh at the beach? When you carry out your dissection with organisation, does it put you at ease or frustrate you? You are not a machine that is supposed to shelve all of it’s emotions, problems, ridiculous ideas and useless blabber into groups of five, are you? Good God there are so many people in this world do you ever think you may be an identical copy of someone else? Let the darkness be. Let it expose you, you need it every once in a while. Learn how to let the darkness inside you leak out in the sun. You can sigh on a roller-coaster. You can also scream. Realise you can feel and god damn it you will be able to walk alone without grudges. Your friends are right all the time (even when they’re wrong) and they think so too. Tell them you love them. Tell everyone you love them. Tell people when they’re nice and how that makes you feel. Tell them that they’ve made the little bubbles of vibrant colours inside you explode with positivity. Tell yourself too sometimes. Don’t see. Your soul gets lonely, and the only time the creation can talk to you is when the lights are off. Would you let your life come in, now that you hear knocking on your window?

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i was a beekeeper and a patient and a gardener and an architect and starving, and seashells and the night and the truth and my own good.

because i miss you in the way
the bees sting and you ache and ache
and forget everything around you
and focus on the pain.
There is a routine i was prescribed
by the greatest doctor of all time
he told me to stop thinking about it,
and it would vanish like the smoke you exhaled.
Remind yourself to forget, he said.
He never thought how much fault he had caused.

i miss you in the way you tear
leaves off of trees,
sometimes flowers too. Not for their beauty,
that never fascinated you.
You rip it all down for the good sake of
passing the time,
and that is how i miss you so.

i miss you in the way buildings fall apart
with their architect watching, and the workers
at home. i miss you in the way you step on grass
and how i never did. i miss you in the way
the child threw out what they had left of their
lunch, like that food is some worthless
material of unimportant whatever.

but i miss him in the way waves crash on the sand.
They tango with the moon
and caress the bed of land. The flow of the sea,
has always been my favourite,
impure as it is, not ever not sincere.

and i miss him in the way that
my eyes light up, and my heart flutters
and my toes tap along to the strums of his

i miss him knowing that he is still there,
how come my eyes crave how you feel?

you said i was your ink

there is beauty in tattoos,
their permanence:
their promise to become
a part of you once injected.

When you make art,
you use your pens on skin.
Carefully gliding each ballpoint
against dead skin cells
pressing down on the softer, older batch beneath
who, never mind you, are mourning their lost ones.

When you make art,
sometimes you look up at skies,
and use your lips
against skin, still.
Luring skin
with “life to the skin you touch”
when all the life that was gifted
was to you.

When you make your Art,
you write names and stories
on your own skin
with your favourite pen at that time.

then you go back home and scrub it off, throw the pen away, and start all over again.

you are a sun too

i am the flower,
one of the most attractive,
grown with love and sweat
producing breathtaking colours and sweetness:

you were the human
deeply in love.
Your eyes searched
frantically for something, anything,
my petals were your victim.

She loves me,
she loves me not,
after the mind games.

I still grow towards the sun
even with my petals undone.

i never knew

now there are things flying
out the cavities in my skull
and i swear they are all making me

Drag your feet along the forgotten path,
you are the monument that is being replaced.
Do you know how hard it is
to be so high up in the sky
of everybody else, except yours?
Maybe it’s just the reflection but
your eyes are shimmering
more beautifully than the stars ever did
and the clouds you’ve always tried to hide your soul with
only amplify how magnificent what you are filled with is.

You are the blood of the suicidal
the dirty water in the swamp.
You are the antiques that my grandmother would have bought
from the times she would sneak out to see my grandfather.
You are selflessness,
the only voice that could soothe the haunted and allow rest to the dead.
You are the nonsensical blabber of the teenage human with an aching heart.

You are.
and you are quite.

You, in the most cliché form of them all.

i’ve tried not to remember, i think you call that forgetting, right? i really really did. All i tried to do was forget but god, you are the only person that i can think about. i’m listening to The Scientist now i think i’m going to cry. it’s quite late, it’s 5:18 am. You were told by yours truly everything that was a lie, i lied about lying, i swear. Sometimes i think about how you would talk about the things that bothered you and i would see everything drip from your pupils and all i wanted to do was run around picking up everything and try to somehow someway stop it from hurting you; you are in so much pain. There are layers and layers and layers of your own misery that i never wanted you to uncover but you are the brightest sun and you are a field and you had flowers blooming out of your most rotten soil with scents and colours and these beautiful creatures that you made a home out of yourself for and none of you would be left alone. Fear me maybe you would latch on for a ride. Two days ago i was crying again: i hated everything i cursed myself i got up turned the lights on. no. everything inside me was headbutting my organs and i could only dream of comfort with your voice being whispered in my ear through the stupid telephone. i begged. and begged. and begged. You weren’t notified. i don’t know what i am doing. i’m sorry, Friend. i love you. i love you. i love you. please come back. please i’m pleading please i know i’ve shattered all chances of you actually trusting me and i know that you need more because our balance weighs more on your side… it’s so late and i’m ready to melt into you. i’m ready to have you hold me one more time. i’m ready to tell you that you will get what you want, and you will be happy, and that you are the only person that matters one more time. can we talk? why did i end things are you happier? i hope you are. i’m sorry. i hope you are truly happy please don’t tell me.


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