Dirt and solitude

I scatter dirt all over my bed,
Abandon my heart to rot in it,
And close the door behind me.
As I step outside my home,
Ice interlaces it,
And I become heartless.
Frigidity numbs my emotions,
For they are not a recreation for the world to see,
They are not to be revealed,
They are not to be discovered.
I will not lay bare on the streets of this dull town just to be evaluated.
For the curves of my being are not to be observed by a clump of hypocrites,
My chunks of bitterness are not to be falsely endured,
The lumps of sadness I regard are not to be pitied,
The swelling of my mind is not a muse to be admired.
My sorrow is not a fetish.
Accepting me is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty

As I sit between my ‘loved ones’,
Their criticism knocks on my crystal heart,
Begging to be felt.
But I breathe deeply,
Try to let go,
And smile.
They throw another ‘joke’ in my beamish face,
And it pierces my icy wall.
But I conceal my resentment,
breathe deeply,
And leave with surefooted steps.

I enter my house with tears thrilled to visit my red cheeks,
Run to my bedroom,
Drown my head in my pillow.
Sobbing silently,
I smile;
Solitude is an everlasting bliss.
People drain me while it waits for me with an overwhelming need;
The need to embrace me.
And I’d rather be a recluse,
Than fake a smile with a bunch of dickheads.
I do not need you to erode my bed.
Solitude has been my only shelter when you lit up a fire in my head.
It has been my loving mother when you were my drunk father.
It has tucked me into bed when you were outrageously screaming .
Solitude does not ask for gratitude,
But I appreciate it down to my tired bones.

I write this with absolute sincerity,
Fuck you.

The stars and I.

I asked you to stay,
But you said you were too tired.
I somehow found a poetic meaning in that,
A meaning that clung to my brain like blood clung to my razors.

You came across my path months ago,
Since then I’ve been trying to get a hold of your being.
I want your stars to be a part of my universe,
Your voice to breed shivers down my spine,
Your eyes to assure me that everything is okay.
But stars die,
Shivers can be a result of panicking,
And your eyes did not catch the longing on my face when you mentioned my dead grandmother.

I wanted you to stay,
But you left.
And somehow the anticipation of entwining my soul to yours faded away,
Somehow being with you was no longer an enigma,
Because if you ever felt like my crimson heart fits in your bare hands,
You will hold it so tight,
You will squeeze it with your fingers,
And blood will slip right through them.
My heart will shrink down,
And you will let go.
I’ll ask you to stay,
And you’ll leave.

But you said I’m beautiful,
And I’m still smiling.
What if our tragic ending is worth linking your stars to my universe?
Yes,
The nightfall is everlasting in my world,
But stars need darkness in order to shine.
I can promise you that your meteors will blaze across my cosmos,
That I will keep you from disappearing into black holes,
Because the twine conneting us is the black hole itself:
Endless, infinite, timeless.

Maybe someday I’ll ask you to stay,
And you’ll leave.
Your stars will die,
My spine will shiver because of the shock,
Your eyes won’t catch the sorrow on my face when you drop my heart from your hands.
And that is something I can live with,
Because you’re not here now,
I’m breathing,
And the night sky is black just like your eyes.

Love and verdict.

I got a lot of love to offer;

The clouds above my head are my rainbows’ womb,
The darkness my heart holds is the essence of my stars,
The nightfall that engulfs my being bears my sunrise.

My elation can irradiate your sinister days,
And that is a privilege to me.
For I am a beautiful soul,

But you choose not to see it;
You’re too busy observing my cracks,
Or admiring your own blossoms.

Why do I even bother spreading flowers over your path,
While you’re the one raining on mine?

December 25, 2013

It’s night and I miss you.
I tend to miss you a lot when it’s dark outside.
Is it because your soul hovers around me during the day,
and leaves when my demons are playing with my head?
I always end up asking questions when I’m writing about you.
I think it’s because there’s so much I want to know.

I want to know how you’re doing.
Ha, what a sarcastic question to ask a dead person.
But I guess you’re doing fine;
You’re with your husband and two sons.
Remember how hard losing grandpa was?
Remember how you broke down when your two sons passed away unexpectedly?
Well, I do.
I can’t say that I’m suffering just like you did because your sorrow took you away from me.

Sometimes I wonder if I slit my wrists and cross the great divide,
will I get to see you?
That’s just absurd,
I can’t challenge God and end my own life.
But I can’t help wanting to watch myself bleed out my crimson red blood that seems to bring me sadness and comfort at the same time.

I haven’t etched my helplessness onto my skin in almost a year;
I miss the razor’s sting,
the numbness,
the pleasure.
I miss the burn of it.
I wish I can sorcerize the pain your absence engenders into physical hurting all over again.
If I do that, I’d queer the ones who believe in me.

Why is this suddenly about me?
Actually it’s still about you;
You live in me,
and you have all of me.
And it’s the memory of your mental anguish that elicits hopes into my deepest wounds,
for you were inviolable;
You walked through the aphotic days with a surefooted thought that you were going to leave mother-earth and discover the unmapped world.
Your patience and determination will always be my main silver lining.
I’m blessed to believe in the Devine power of the universe,
and how it will always manifest itself through the impact you left in my redundant being.

Forever, love.

They think it’s that easy when I tell them how much I miss you,
and they answer with “She’s in a better place.”
When I tell them how your absence slits my throat like razor blades,
how I find the pieces left of you scattered on my puzzling path.
And the fact that you’ll never fade away kills me yet gives me a reason to smile;
Knowing that your tranquil soul still exists -in some esoteric dimension- makes me feel like holding on to the memory of your smiling face the day I said goodbye for the last time, is a supernatural virtue.
But what’s a feeling if I can’t even feel your presence?
It still lingers here,
but I can’t quite see what’s left of your serene existence.
Your smell abandoned your clothes,
your desolated house no longer embraces your joyful voice,
the sound of you hardly breathing disappeared with your painful cries.
But are you still agonized?

How come people say “She’s in a better place.” when no one knows what happens when your soul is in God’s hands?
Did He take away all your pain?
Do you feel anything?
Is death eternal sleep?
I’m praying for you day and night,
for that is all I can do to let you know how much I miss you.
Can you feel me trying so hard to find what’s left of you?
Do you try to console me when I cry out for you?
Do you stare at me and smile back when you cross my mind and I smile unconsciously?
Do you reach out your hand for me when sorrow is depleting my mind?
Do you tap on my shoulder when I look for you just to let me know that you’re still here?
How to get over such a lachrymose loss without letting you go?
No.
I promise you with everything I have,
that I won’t ever allow you to fade away.

I cause myself so much needless suffering;
when I’m lost in my own illusions my mind turns into a graveyard,
and a graveyard is the closest I can get to you.

You’ll never fade away.

Hearts.

Last night,
You said you’re leaving for ten days.
It struck me like lightning that you won’t be here when it’s past midnight and I’m sobbing in bed, wishing I wasn’t this frail.
Now,
I’m just sitting in my classroom,
Hollow.
My bones, saddled with more strain, are aching for your embrace.
Your perfume, stuck in the back of my mind, is making my spine shiver.
Your eyes, observing my soul, are increasing my yearning.

I don’t want you to leave, not even for a day.
The nightfall is dark, and the moon does not understand my nostalgia.
You’re the sunshine that engulfs my sorrow when the black sky eclipses, when I’m terrified of the stars crashing over my heart.

This heart’s been cracked open and bruised by sharp swords and massive stones.
It’s been stitched by too many black market doctors; my veins are infected.
I wish I can rip it of, and bury it in your ribcage.
Did you know that two hearts sewn together form the stereotypical shape of the ‘heart’ that symbolize love?
Those collided organs of ours can tell the fairytale we never needed to long for.

Thoughts of an insecure person.

I need to know that you will be in my tomorrow.
I need to know that you can’t break the long-ass promise you made,
that you’re not too much for me,
that the piece of shit I own–my brains–isn’t going to make you leave.
I need to know that you didn’t actually give up on me that day,
that you knew that we were going to be fine all along,
that a day without me doesn’t exist in your calendar,
that I’m not half as bad as I see myself.
I need you to tell me that my unbearable habits aren’t an enigma anymore,
that the idea of losing me torn you apart,
that I am brokenly capable of love,
that I bring serenity to your life.
I need you to swear that you’re going to be my side despite all of our rough patches.
I need you to stay, even when I leave.
I need you to be pride-less because I’m pride-full.
I need you to make me believe that I’m not lame, dull, self-centered, arrogant, disloyal, unfair, grotesque, different, odd, careless, mean…
I need you to need me as much as I need you, because being this needy is breaking through my shield.

A relationship.

Isn’t it funny?
The way you fall in love with a person before you get to know his soul?
You fall in love with his hair,
His eyes,
His smile,
His voice,
His beard–his beard, his beard.
You crave getting a hold of his being,
Owning his life,
Becoming a part of his daily routine.

His touch leaves your spine shivering with the harmony of his caress.
His crooked smile builds a shield around your mind; for nothing matters to you except his love.

Why are the first months of a relationship called ‘The honeymoon’ period?
Because then,
Your communication is based on his hug after you first date,
His way of holding your hand when you tell him about your dead mother,
His luscious wink when he’s leaving your front porch,
His way of saying your name in bed,
His forehead kisses–his forehead kisses, his forehead kisses.
Weeks pass, and you’re both drunk the idea of this so-called happiness.

Then, he sees you crying in the shower.
Your sobs interrupt him saying:”Hey, honey. Guess wha–”
Your aspects traumatise him so bad, he just stands there, puzzled.
He notices his indulgence;
He walks in the shower, wearing his suit.
You cry on his chest, savouring the way he aches for your misery.
He takes you out of the shower, gets you dressed, and you tell him everything whilst he combs your hair.
You tell him all about your dead mother;
How she left without a word,
How her self-seeking broke you to pieces.
You let him in,
You expect him to wipe away your tears.
At first, he does.
When you tell him about your father’s illness, he kisses your tears so softly, it sends you to sleep.
But later, when you tell him about pessimism crippling your brains,
He just sits there with your head in his lap, his hands stroking your hair.
No words leave his mouth.

After three months of being together,
You’re still supposed to crave every atom of his being.
Instead, you crave the way he fought your demons that day in the shower,
The way he linked your universe to his fate,
The way he looked you in the eyes and whispered:”I will embrace your sorrow as much as you sing ‘Desert Rose’”, and you laughed

Routine is a bore.
His touch still leaves your spine shivering, but you’re no longer in harmony.
His crooked smile snaps your heart strings; nothing feels expedient except the pain in your chest.

Why are the months you start to see each other naked are called ‘The Rough Patch’?
Your communication is now based on nothing;
His hug before leaving to work becomes a questions of wondering why didn’t he kiss you,
His way of holding your hand when you show him a picture of yourself during your eating disorder period makes you feel his pitty pursing your ribcage.
He no longer winks at you.
He no longer says your name in bed because you’re too tired every night.
He no longer kisses your forehead, he only brushes past your head while turning to say goodnight.
You’re both drained by the idea of a breakup.

Then, you see him packing his bags when you come back home from girls’ night out.
The empty letters you say interrupt him saying:”I–I just have to–I’m sorry, I lov–”
You just stand there, startled by this scene.
You abandon the room before he says that he loves you.

You visit your mother’s grave,
You whimper until your head is heavy with blood.
You’re involuntary breathing.
You find a hotel room, you sleep.
This is your transition point.

Naked.

That night,
I slit my chest open, and poured my heart out to you.
I cried while asking you questions I never dared to ask anyone.
I showed you who I am, and you embraced me.
It hurt me to be accepted by someone who meant the world to me.
I’ve never been in such good hands.
And now, I am completely naked in front of you.
You see the curves of my being, the lumps of sadness I hate, the chunks of bitterness, the swelling of my mind.
That night,
I thought you will hold my shattered pieces with your bare hands, and glue them with the blood you bled when they cut your fingers open.
I thought you will refuse to acknowledge my choleric fiends, and scatter some of your angelic stardust on my illusive soul.
I thought you will read every line of the open book I am with you, shred the ending I’ve written in the back of my head, and write the one I’ve always dreamed of.
Now, I can hear the hopes of being saved trundling down the vulnerable mountain I am, leaving traces behind like a blade sketching dependence on my skin.
I am drowning in my sorrow, and you are ignoring my silent sobs because dying is something I want.
I am fragile as a light bulb, and your “Okay.” after my “I don’t want to talk about it.”, your silence after my “I just want to listen to music”, your oblivion to my longing for your embrace is killing me.
Why did I think that I can be saved? Knowing no one be the buoy that keeps me from drowning?
I am the anchor pulling me deep into the abyss.
Teach me how to break the law of nature; I need to float.

How can something be so strong yet so vulnerable?

I was in bed.
The sky was furious, and sorrowful.
It rained in hopes of washing away our gullibility.
It was in pain, full of bitterness.
Lighting struck, showing power and possession.
Then, it groaned angrily.
And I wondered;
How can something be so strong yet so vulnerable?
I smoked while the universe went crazy, conspiring against me.
With old indie music playing, I felt superior to everything.
I felt stone-hard.
I owned every atom of our mother earth.
I had a grip of life.
But here I am now;
Heart beating with anxiety,
Knees shaking, so weak.
Chest ache knocking on my ribcage.
How can I be so strong yet so vulnerable?
As complexe as my suffering is, the reason is simple;
She is next to me.
Her presence always endured my delusional mind.
Now, misery caved in when she held me.
Serenity slipped through my fingers when she looked at me and showed her luscious smile.
I left.
The awareness of her is still troubling my soul and body.
My stomach, still tied up in knots, pulled the triger inside of me.
A bullet is stuck in my throat.