Cancer is cruel
like an hourglass that refuses to slow down
it cares not for dreams or ambitions
of finances

Cancer doesn't care about prayers
of well-wishes;
of tears behind closed doors
or the hurried reassurances
like a plea to an all-powerful force
we struggle to believe is even real

or the people you'll leave behind

Cancer takes and takes and takes
until there's nothing left

If I had to describe life,
it'd be a hallway.
A narrow hallway.
Void of doors
Void of windows.
Nowhere to turn,
No end at sight.
Just pointlessly moving forward.

"It's just a straight path,"
they say

yet why do i feel so lost

Tired.
That's all I can think of
to describe the hourglass I've trapped myself in
the same old routine
every flip
ends up the same
and I'm in the bottom of the pit

The sand piles up
and I try to desperately
try not to be buried under it

Isn't it so much easier
to just let it envelop me
to embrace my lungs
and to stop me from staying alive

I may be empty
I may be lost
and I may be scared

of what's to come,
of what's happened
and of what is happening

sometimes I wish I could eat happily
sometimes I wish I had a map
sometimes I wish I'd stop trembling
whenever I had to face things
I didn't want to face

I wonder how many smiles I've given
that were as fake
as Made in China products

I wonder how many times I held out
instead of succumbing
to the weaker,
much fragile side of me

I wonder how many times
I gave me a reason
to love me

Maybe sometimes
I deserved that pat in the back too?

(tw: self harm)

excruciating pain,
drowning sadness,
overpowering happiness,
elated disposition

i am but indifferent to these
much rather
i cannot feel

every nerve in me
refuses to let me feel
my own skin refuses to
be drunk with warmth,
my muscles stiff,
and a smile
which refuses to brush my features

so i use force
i cut and i cut
i linger the blade inside the wound
that way more blood comes out

did you know a wound gets harder to close
when you twist the blade?

oh, dear dear
i need to find knives,
none sharp, none too large,
paint my skin
with my blood
allow the blood to drip
allow my trembling figure
to be accustomed
to the pain
the pain that wont end
the pain that takes away the numbness

i can feel at last
i can feel the blade against my skin
and i can see the blood dripping down the bathroom floor

what a mess, what a mess.

it is but
fickle reasoning,
a minor blow

separation between capable
and mediocre

months and months
of impatient grumbling
of sour expectations

the sudden slap of the sober reality
strikes repetitively against my skin,
creating a wound,
a daily reminder of my failure

i am the pile of dishes that keep piling up,
a stack people are discouraged to clean by the mere glance of;

i am the smile that fades soon after
a passing acquaintance greets cheerily;

i am the tears that refuse to be shed,
the salty droplets indicating weakness;

i am the small wound,
too thin to cause scars but still enough to bleed;

i am the song to listen to,
when feeling sad and alone:
not a remedy, only an aid