every night i get a visit from a loud knock on my bedroom door,
and a screeching voice that echoes through the walls,
with shadows and tracks of wreckage.
i have gotten used to fighting my own demons
but i grew tired after a long while,
my bones were fractured, my spirit, exhausted.
there used to be lullabies playing in the halls
of this place i called home, until i started feeling a knot in my stomach
each time i utter the word. home.
i have erased the memories written on the bricks,
and the sounds the floorboards make,
but they still reek of the ghosts i’ve been trying to escape.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t say how much I like your jokes,
I would rather say how your face lights up a little when you see me laugh.
I wouldn’t say how quiet you are when the sun rises because you’re aware of my presence,
I’d rather say how you respect my need and appreciation for peaceful mornings.
I wouldn’t say how warm your hand feels when you touch mine,
I’d rather say how I see you try to hold back a goofy smile when you gently reach for my hand.
I wouldn’t say how much I treasure all the songs we dance to,
I’d rather say how you always dance with me when I need it and it doesn’t matter that you think you always mess up a few steps because we’d laugh about it and I’d feel a little better.
I wouldn’t say how I like it when you listen to all my stories and say all the right things at the right times,
I’d rather say how much you remember all of them and how much you know that there will always be more.
I wouldn’t say how much I appreciate your genuinely kind words or your straightforward opinions when you tell me what I need to hear,
I’d rather say how much you accept and take note of my words as well.
If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about how you make me feel,
I’d simply write about the way you just are.
If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about the things I like about you
for if I were to write about you,
I would write about...you.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
Striped carnation (refusal):
I have long since discovered that the fires
in me were never going away.
The heaviness, from refusal
to spit the ashes.
Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):
I thought you put out the fire last night
but you weren’t there.
Willow herb (pretension):
How long have you been gone?
I told myself as many lies as I could handle
but none of them ever worked.
Scabiosa (unfortunate love):
We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–
tell me again what we’ve become:
trembling hands,
trying not to spill blood on what was left.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
You, my dear, are not the sun.
I will not label you as something
that I need in order to survive;
You are not here to make me grow;
I can build castles inside me on my own--
I do not need you in order to rise.
The moon has always been up there,
trying to watch over our lonely souls
and I hear its response through the night's soothing sighs.
And you are not the moon, no,
you do not deserve such a title.
You are not a star,
You are not as wonderful as the galaxies above
and you most definitely are not the universe,
composed of all things strange and lovely.
You, I repeat, are not the sun.
I will not grant you the permission
to help me live.
And I wish I had known that earlier.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
Dear, I haven't told you
the many times I've wished
to capture the stars above
to have something in my hands
that twinkle more than your eyes do
For I was blinded,
and I wanted to forget.
To forget how you lit up every
piece inside of me
and left with an agonizing
heat that started a fire in my lungs
I tried to breathe you out
but your entirety has consumed
whatever monsters I had.
Now, you’ve replaced all of them – the monsters.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
There are silent screams running through my veins
with heavy sighs trying to break my bones;
We let out cold whispers and icy breaths
as we tried to look for reasons
to keep our words,
to save us from slicing our own throats
but memories of shrieking and shattering glass
still linger inside me; and I realized things can’t be unseen
I don’t know which is worse—
I tried to abolish the thoughts
but your bloodstained hands still haunt me.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
One moment, you’ll start to realize
how much their touch could melt your skin,
and how their words bled
with empty promises
but could fill your soul,
starving for security, trying to fix the cracks.
And there will be agony,
but you’ll mistake it all for love.
One moment you’ll see yourself in their eyes—
lifeless—buried in tragedies, unable to escape
and there, you’ll stay.
Not in their life, but in their eyes,
burning with catastrophe;
there will be flames, devouring your insides
and you will mistake gasoline for your patience
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
We are obsessed
with the idea of building homes
out of flesh and blood and veins,
which are those not solid enough
to get through hurricanes,
and tsunami tides that come crashing,
washing us away to the ocean.
I’ve once stumbled upon
a beautiful spot to build mine,
in which I felt secure in its arms
but storms were stronger than the walls
we’ve built, and not once did I stand
a chance to stop the flood.
My home crashed, and got tired of fighting
calamities, no matter how much I tried
to fix it, to rebuild everything.
My home crashed,
my home left.
Now, never build one inside something
that walks, and talks, and utters you promises
and grows a garden inside your soul
Never build yours inside something
too weak to battle against rain.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC