Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Liliana C Mar 16
i want to go to a place
somewhere, anywhere
far away from here
Liliana C Mar 15
it hurts
retching up ugly words
heart cavernous and raw
Liliana C Dec 2021
This useless meat sack. I am the thing watching behind the eyes of this empty meat sack. I am the one piloting this sausage of a body, directing it to walk, talk, smile.
Sometimes I wish that I could reach into my chest and tear it open. I want to rip and tear and slice past the epidermis, watch the white fatty cells and veins and arteries moving. I want to see white, bone-white, a cage for my useless heart. Watch my heart pump like those sheep hearts we used to dissect in science. I remember how they looked, white fat clinging like ivy, and greying in the cool room of the labs. Nothing but a cold, clammy lump of flesh. Maybe death smells like the butchers. Like bleach that can’t cover the festering smell of rot and ammonia.
I’m heavy on my ankles. I remember the last time I fasted, and I felt as if I could fly, balanced on my tip-toes, poised to fall. And maybe falling felt just as good.
It’s so unbearably soft. My chest, my arms. I can feel my cheek meat. Fat on bones. Scrape it out with a spoon like pork cheeks, soft, tender, delicious.
A chrysalis. A cut-out, a hollow man wearing hollow shoes doing hollow things. How did that pupa feel, I wonder, trapped in darkness? No way out but forward. The growing pains, tendons and bones and muscles warping. Twisting and crawling but transforming, little by little. Into what, you can’t possibly imagine. The uncertainty, it’s almost as bad as the darkness. No change even when you open your eyes, like colours have frozen into little dizzying pixels. You can’t stop, but do you want to? On the precipice between weakness and a terrifying something else, what can you be but monstrous? Not one or the other but neither.
What are you turning into? A butterfly? A monster? Neither?
You can’t stop.
just something ive been feeling like lately
Liliana C Dec 2021
Scrabbling in the ground, I search for flowers
Alas, it is winter, and the trees are barren.
Do you remember the bird you loved as a child?
You clipped its wings so it would stay
Forever gilded in its cage in golds and silvers,
Yet it would not sing.
When I close my eyes, the shadows meld behind me
A thousand nameless faces, a thousand faceless names
October drifts slowly. The night is longer still
Trapped under the red light of the everlasting moon.
Kagome Kagome.
Trying out a different style, inspired by a Japanese children’s rhyme, Kagome Kagome. My take was on a theory that the lyrics refer to the experiences of “a woman forced into prostitution, who has seen so many men, she cannot remember all of them and wonders when she will be able to escape” (Wiki). I reenvisaged some of her struggles/emotions in the setting of the “Floating world” of the Edo era. Commonly referred to as the “flowers” of the red-light district, the prostitutes/courtesans were not allowed outside the walls except for once a year for Hanami (viewing cherry blossoms). The title “Sleepless Town” refers to Kabukicho, Tokyo’s modern red-light district, perhaps nebulously drawing a parallel to the similar experiences in the present day. Also inspired by an old Japanese folk song Obokuri Eeumi, a haunting and beautiful song about a person and their family living in poverty. Link: Hope I was being respectful with cultural references (please let me know if I need to change anything).
Liliana C Nov 2021
How does it feel when all your dreams are crumbling before you? I breathe ashes and dust; my lungs are clear.
My heart – my traitorous heart – beats a steady rhythm.
How can I feel? These words aren’t enough. Looking out of these eyes, writing with these fingers, breathing with these lungs.
Lay your heart bare on the table, and bleed.
And after, with my inky life-blood leaking onto the table, it’s not enough. I slice my soul apart, and it is never enough. How can any sequence of words be more genuine, more real, more vulnerable?
We are replications; forged in deceivers’ minds, we remake ourselves.
To stamp on my pride, my honour, my soul again. To deem myself a number, lesser than.
I’m so tired.
I’m silent, wordless, floating – no, drifting – in this oblivion, this space between worlds. The wooden floor is steady beneath my feet, the ceiling light bright and cold. What else can I do but describe? Words are so meaningless.
A construction, a reconstruction. Memories like smoke, flimsy like those summer days I have imagined and reimagined a thousand times. A summer flock clinging to wet skin, the scent of grass, the sun. Which one of these is real?
Fragmentation does not make for a good story. Sequences and plot and purpose. What senseless wandering is this?
Insubstantial. Inconsequential.
These empty eyes like fish peer unblinkingly at the ceiling.
The stench of death follows you. And what do you know of death?
I can build a thousand broken images. Incomplete and insubstantial, they float away.
Every sketch, every iteration. All false, all true.
All not good enough.
just feeling a little low
Liliana C Oct 2021
I can’t speak. I am mute. The words, half-formed, stop between my heart and my lips. What was I going to say?
Mundanities. Sit and listen. Shut up. I’m listening.
What did you say?
It’s grey, but I can see in colours, so many colours. My heart beats, the warmth of my hands, my steady breaths. I am.
I’m lost in this pinwheel, this spinning circle, the inevitabilities. Round and round we go. I exist in moments. Each second the hands pass. I am silenced. I have nothing to say. Onwards we continue. March onwards. Brave soldiers, courageous warriors, forward I tell you, forward!
I’m so dizzy. Oh please, can we rest for a while.
Now I don’t know. I know nothing. I am nothing.
Falling like raindrops, broken dolls you lie on the floor. Still, your unmoving eyes remain, reflecting hollowed moons.
Watch me. Watch, watch closely.
I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say. No matter. There’s always tomorrow.
Empty as always. Take out my soul, scrape me raw. I am a husk. Crumbling, but untouched perfection. Automaton, I feel nothing.
Oh, invisible man, where are you?
We walk in circles. Monday, Monday and a thousand Mondays again.
Below lies the fiery depths of hell. Above, the unforgiving brilliance of heaven. And in between, an endless purgatory.
We are hamsters on a wheel. Waiting.
Are you listening, or not?
"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak."
Inspired by T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland.
Liliana C Jun 2021
muted greys and dull blues
darkening skies like smudged smoke and pen ink
bruises beneath your eyes

spilt coffee and hasty scrawls
in the margins of the black leather bound journal
you carry
the hum of a thousand conversations blurring together
in the silence of your mind
(i can never escape the ecstasy of your soul)
this was sitting in my drafts for a while
Next page