A Vampire In Disguise

She was always too intesne with her compassion and cold flesh.
Get too close,
ad she will drink your blood,
she will send into a state of delirium,
and she will leave you to rot.
Her smile makes the angels seem devious,
but her fangs hide behind her blood-stained lips.
Get too close,
and she will hang you by your aorta.
Is the taste of her scent on your scarf worth the death of your ethereal heart?

The Broken

I’m looking at your blood-stained shirt
and you’re shouting:
“Don’t come close!”
How do you expect me to leave a human heart to die on the side of the road?
The wolves will devour you.
Tell me, dear,
who injured your heart?
Who cut your skin open?
Who broke your spirit?
Let me see your lumps of sadness,
your bleeding cracks.
Let me see your soul, naked.
Come to me as you are.
Show me where it hurts.
Does it burn?
My lips are cold,
I can kiss it all away.
Is your heart freezing?
My lips are warm,
I can kiss it all away.
Let me bandage the wounds, dear.
Let me see them,
let me see you.
The broken ache for the broken.
There’s nothing to be ashamed of,
you know cruelty always intrigued me.

My Love

My love,
I have been digging in my own flesh for almost a year now,
hoping my curvy hips fit in the curve of your silhouette,
praying my tears won’t flood the depths of your collarbones.
But I found lust between your scattered insides,
instead of discovering it between warm bed sheets.
I never ached for your kisses,
I never longed to feel your ribcage against mine,
because I believe I never saw you in your body;
your eyes always reminded me of galactic poetry,
and your smile always took over my demons.
I believe you always saw me as a soul, as well;
the curve of my hips and the grace I lack never bothered you.
And last night,
when I saw you hovering in empty streets after midnight,
you looked at me with anticipation,
your black eyes withered,
and I felt your aura crashing into my shadows,
begging me to admire the angels.
Well, my love, I admire you.
I almost believe you when you say you won’t leave.
Let’s live on hope:
maybe we can build a home out of our wreckage.


Scientists fascinate me with their curiosity and perseverance.
It fills my heart with warmth,
knowing that a human once wondered how our lungs work,
and what makes the moon shine.
How our minds refuse facts to bring us solace,
and how the earth is round.
It thrills me,
knowing that some humans are questioning our existence,
and how our atoms dismantle.
It touches me to the core,
knowing that brains are all that we are,
and we still can’t make sense out of the universal explosion.
Humans have a mad desire to build a stable rendition that demonstrates the Gods they find within,
despite the fact that most of us believe in a divine power that humbles our molecules.
Minds who wonder are as arousing as a heart splayed out on stained papers.
It is sheer sexiness to invent something out of nothingness.

For the sake of poetry.

Dear darling,
it took you two days to sneak inside my ribcage,
to inject your soul in my veins,
four days to take my breaths away,
to send shivers down my spine,
one week to smash my bones,
to poison my blood,
to smother me,
to make my skin crawl.
I feel blinded by you.
My lungs cannot contain all of you all at once;
lack of oxygen is making me hallucinate,
I can’t distinguish reality from delusion.
I keep reading between the lines,
instead of feeling the words.
I keep searching for rain,
instead of bathing in sunlight.
I’m not scared of you, dear.
I’m scared of your hands touching bits of my being,
no one ever dared to even look at.
I’m scared of you discovering galaxies in my heart
I didn’t even know existed.
I’m scared of you dissecting my soul.
I’m scared of me ruining you –
You are too beautiful to hover around black figures.
But stay, my dear, for the sake of poetry.

Even when I leave.

Reach for me in your sleep,
the night is dark and you are my luminance.
Reach for me, my dear.
I am tormented by the hollow skies.
Being without the stars,
without you is tormenting.

Because with you,
my soul trifles escape my veins,
and run to your world.
With you,
my flaws aren’t that obscene,
they are just an obscure embodiment of faith.
With you,
The starless night isn’t so dark.
So stay, my dear.
Stay, even when I leave.
Your glow can wade desolated cosmos.

You write me whole.

I take the first sip of coffee as I write this,
there is something about your existence
that knocks me off my feet,
the way coffee does.
Everything you say overcomes me,
I feel bits of your soul behind your words.
You, my dear, are poetry sent by God
to ignite me, enlight me.
Your mind leaves me wandering,
longing for your home;
an unmapped place.
You’re everywhere;
I find pieces of you when I open my journal,
when I read my book,
when I look at myself,
when the universe expands.
You, my dear, are celestial;
a whole new dimension,
infinite, everlasting.
You elicit fires in my chest.
Your simplest words turn into poignant poems,
and my heart squeezes out –
all the hurt I’ve collected,
all the wars I created,
all the exuberance I worshiped.
You, my dear, write me whole.

A poem that came out different, #2

Last night,
you asked me if not getting what I want drains me.
I said it detaches my soul from my body,
and leaves it wandering in an esoteric world,
hoping to find a shelter;
once you lose the stars,
you will settle for stepped-on flowers and dried shores.
Little do you that I’m sleeping with his soul,
while dancing with the shadow of yours.
He doesn’t make my heart swell, love.
He doesn’t set fire to my skin.
He doesn’t bite my flesh and admire the chaos.
He doesn’t look at my damp eyes and smile.
He doesn’t ache for my misery like you did,
he only endures it.
Love, he’s a tea person;
you never were a coffee person,
but you always took me to little cafes on rainy days.
You saw the intimacy and temptation I find in
sharing a cup of coffee with someone.
You were always so fond of my odd unhealthy habits,
they eventually became your own.
Did you drink coffee the day you woke up without me?
Did you smoke a cigarette because your brains were weighing you down?
Did you stay up late because the sky was too dark?
Absence of stars always tormented us.
But will she hold you when the nightfall’s luminosity eats your insides?
Will she make love to your demons,
just so you can have peace of mind?
Will she kiss your tears?
Will you, my love, ask her to drink coffee with you?
I’ve been trying to quit since you left me.

Leave me

Leave me for a day,
for a week.
Leave me when the moon is floating in pitch blackness;
it is through the night I miss you the most.
Leave me so I can ache for your laughs and untold stories,
so I can wait for the first word you’ll say when I see you –
your hello always sounded like “come here”,
and your goodnight always felt like goodbye.
Leave me, my love, so I can write.
Smother me.
Burn me.
Shatter me.
It is enchanting to be broken because of your troubled soul.

Anatomy of a poet.

Poetry is not for the lovers sleeping in each other’s arms.
It is not for the lovers smoking together in coffee shops,
nor for the lovers standing underneath the same umbrella.
Poetry is for the desperate,
the melancholic,
the dead.
In order to write,
you have to be stepped on,
by a beau or a friend or even your father.
Your heart has to be rotten,
your words rusty,
and your soul fragile.
Let them destroy you;
they don’t know that the wounds their daggers leave in your skull are the womb you’re growing up in.
“Dig deeper,” tell them.
“Use my veins as strings to your instruments,
and blast your vitriolic songs.”