Glued redemption

I do not want to clone her heart
and use it as my own.
Yes, you love her.
But she is the epitome of selfishness.
Her eyes recite black magic spells.
Sin is all she whispers.
She executed your being
and you were left;
a dead corpse
buried in the sands of your own desert.
I do not want to possess the remains
of your decayed soul.
I want to exorcise the bane she birthed in you.
I want to redeem you -
I will break myself and search for little shards
of ardour that fit in your vacancies.
I will empty myself to fill you with divinity.
I will plant my seeds in the cracks of your soil.
And love, it will rain and you will repent.

Three am anguish

I let the pain of missing you
deplete my faithful being,
paralyse my limbs
and cripple my veins
because that is the closest I can
get to feeling you.
Your absence gathers the trails your
uninspired soul left behind while walking
away from me after it collided with my scabs
and forms the silhouette of a vicious hungry
wolf that ruptures my flesh then licks my
bleeding wounds.

It took me two years to rid my spirit of
masochistic demons,
but I’m now letting them possess me again
because searching for you in-between their
exuberant determination and murderous passion
evokes little red-blooded drops of hope.

Burning Desires #5

I do not want to clone her heart
and use it as my own.
Yes, you love her.
But she is the epitome of selfishness.
Her eyes recite black magic spells.
Sin is all she whispers.
She executed your being
and you were left;
a dead corpse
buried in the sands of your own desert.
I do not want to possess the remains
of your decayed soul.
I want to exorcise the bane she birthed in you.
I want to redeem you -
I will break myself and search for little shards
of ardour that fit in your vacancies.
I will empty myself to fill you with divinity.
I will plant my seeds in the cracks of your soil.
And love, it will rain and you will repent.

Burning Desires #4

I wish I made you up inside my head.
I wish I do not miss you
when my words are missing your touch and
your palms are holding the hologram of her heart,
your fingers clinging to it
hoping it would stop beating;
hoping she would die for you.
I wish I can feel you when
I hold you like you’re hope,
but even when you’re in my arms,
our breaths synchronised,
you look at me like
I’m the bullet she once shot.
I wish you could see how
my yearning transcends logic and
my soul stands in front of you,
miles away from me,
collapses at your beauty,
and betrays me shamelessly just to watch you be,
just be.

Why we should move in together.

Here’s why we should move in together;
you’re bad with words but you always try to
turn the alchemy that brought us together into
poems because once the boy I loved texted me a
haiku and it made me cry.
Because once I was sad and you guessed how I
take my coffee.
Because when I asked you if you were going to
leave someday, you answered with “Do you want
to hear the ugly truth or the carebear version?”
Because you think I’m beautiful when I get
carried away while talking about the universe.
Because you make me blow my nose when I’m sick
and you remind me of my cat when you sneeze.
Because some days I can’t stand feeling your
breaths on my skin and that’s fine with you.
Because when I punch you, you kiss me. When I
curse at you, you tell me you love me.
Because your morning face is the warmest thing
my hands have ever touched, and I still haven’t
kissed the scar on your forehead.
Because I miss the shape your head leaves on my
pillow when I make my bed.
Because my cracked voice knows only your words
and I want to practice yoga with you.
Because I want to trace the dimples on your face
and find my way to the ones on your back.
Because you taught me how to feel wholesome on rainy
days and I can teach you how to anticipate thunder.
Because last night I woke up to your ghost resisting
love and sneaking its silky fingers between my limbs.
Because the silence that engulfs your absence is
deafening and I would rather be wrapped in your skin
than sitting in front of this chimney.
Because my house is foreign without your Hugo Boss
perfume filling its atmosphere.

The stars, and Beirut

Beirut, I’ve said this so many times:
you feel like home.
My whole life I’ve been homesick for
something esoteric;
But last night while I was roaming your streets,
I looked up the sky and I felt as if the stars’
luminance was asking me to let myself drown
in your ambiguous beauty.
I felt as if the stars wanted me to burn my
bridges down and let you shelter my astral spirit
because even though I am made of celestial atoms,
outer space is still an enigma that humbles me
with fear of the unknown.
I belong to the night sky but
my soul is still learning how to shine.
For now, Beirut, you are my ethereal home.

We’re binary stars and she’s a quasar consuming us.

Long before our stars were bound in orbit
around each other by their mutual gravity,
a girl with mystic eyes took you into her
spiral quasar.
Little did you know that her heart was a
vicious black hole,
until you reached for her hand and you
found her fingers clinging to a gun instead
of the rose you gave her.
But you were far too captivated by her bright
penetrative rays to resist her embrace, and
the outcome was a bullet in your spine.
You spent your nights mourning your damage
and aching for her heart to be once again
born within you.
Then my pulsars crashed into your remnants
and my fingers fuelled your passions all over
again,
but you still won’t let me embrace you -
you’re scared my chaotic radiations will cause
you an internal bleeding and you’ll be left
feeling like a shooting star marked its
presence onto your core all over again.

The kind of text I don’t let myself send you.

It’s midnight and I’ve had three cups of
black coffee in the past hour.
My hands are shaking and everyone in this
coffeehouse is oblivious to the wars exiling
my soul.
I went grocery shopping today and I bought
your favourite icecream flavour even though
I’m on a diet. I guess I just like collecting
little parts of you everywhere I go.
A week ago, you asked me not to fall in love
with you then you made me coffee without me
asking.
A broken record has been playing the same
hypnotising melodies and binaural tunes
ever since you showed me your scratches, and
I, mine. It’s carving the poetry you recite
every morning onto my brainwaves.
No, I’m not in love with you.
I just like sharing peanut butter cakes with
you and wearing your oversized sweatshirt.