The odist of a perfect bloom, without a doubt, with an upsurge of emancipated lust and all that was utterly free; that was you or maybe I should say, that was him.

And he was mine

He was mine…
But I did not possess him. I merely peeked in to his garden, my hands a mess of failed tries, which was bounded by the thorns I wasn’t quite strong enough to climb. I could not own an entity that made so many lust after his seamless embrace and at the same time, that which was petrifying.

Yet he felt lost in my gaze as if what he perceive in them made him fear what he saw in the reflections of his own mirror less. He watched me as though he could not believe one with so much to lose could fall in love with what he was in the most unconditional of ways.

Such a paradox.

He was perfect…
He was my perfection; the only genuine thing I could not find faults upon; a mangled piece of reality that made sense to my disheveled head. He was beautiful in a way that transcended what was ugly, what was fearful and unwanted. He was beauty that did not ask for permission or perspective but a force that was based on a whirlwind, pulling you in to his center.

He was my obsession…
For the longest of times, I did not believe there could be one as such with an absolute hold over another. It did not, nay, could not make sense for I was raised to believe free will was always at play.

Until then…
Until I discovered him…
Until I found he could be my reality and my reality could be in complete sync with his. It did not take time for my mind to wrap around this notion, because, conceivably, that is what obsession truly is, the complete loss of oneself in to the universe of another. Out of nowhere, free will was an illusion, a lie I would willingly let go; it was conundrum I found silly and not in need have. Why would I? There are non that plead fidelity and show restraint.

He made me believe he could be mine while he remained as many others and still I found no fault with his words. My needs transformed in to devotion, in to blind belief that there could not be one as graceful as he or nothing that could keep me wanting. My world was engulfed by a touch that was always so near and yet so far, just enough to have me keep the leash on my neck.

He could be my perfect obsession.

He was it.

I read a story about escaping today
On the phone that never leaves my side
On the phone that makes me feel self-conscious with out its presence
I read a story about skipping moments
And their baggage of lifetimes
Just jumping to a present anticipated
Not existed through
Not experienced or felt
Imagine this
Imagine a whirlwind and its center
Imagine it gilded
Imagine their being a portal in the middle
And a thin gravel road to its gate
Why is it guilded?
Because anticipations are glittery
They make us reach out with our subconscious
They make us want what we'd never need when we're sane
When reality binds us in its grip
But these are the times when veracity isn't a problem
For we are imagining
With fantasies perfected through countless school hours
Where we killed tiny bits if ourselves everyday
The "where did we go wrong"'s speeches by the parents
The gentle but sadly condescending gazes of therapists
All that paved the way to a meticulous solitude
we learned how to be without being
And to exist in the oblivion
Where us and "our world" are at a frightening precision
So I read a story about omitting Everything in between
On the phone that never leaves my side
And so I found the source of the story and removed it
I live for the anticipated moments
For unexpected flashes of happiness
For the unforeseen events that changes bits and pieces of our lives
For the unanticipated love strangers make me feel
For the pain that reminds me i'm only human
Everything I couldn't skip for the sake of living

My words are scared of sound. It makes them fear the outside world. It makes them fear what questions and assumptions will turn them in to. So instead, they drown the world out in to a sheet and escape in to its blank pages.

My words only find their spines when they’re directed towards a reflection as if they know their rule only reigns in a straight line and power comes from the echo that deafens the room.

I write because my spoken words don’t situate the fire burning its way out of me.

I write because you won’t understand my phrases unless they come in a paragraph. I write to avoid confusion of the person I am and the stranger you make me out to be. The confusion comes from the thought that what I scribble in to everything I can get my hands on is nothing but fiction, a creation from my most vivid imagination. The confusion comes from the assumption that my pen dips in to ink and not blood.

My blood.
My soul.

I write because I’m desperate to be seen past the shell I put front. Being discovered has lost its appeal yet I wish you could find me; find me beyond my guards and all the walls I’ve put up, find me in the shade of my false confidence, find me where you’re sure I won’t be for that is exactly where I’ll chose as my hideaway, sheltered underneath all my paragraphs and the litter of paper that has taken so long to compose one perfect goodbye.

I’ll be where you left me. The same place you’ve found me countless times before, for I have a stagnant heart that beats ink and leaks masterpieces on a shroud paper that will be forgotten on a far corner. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~could this make a perfect goodbye?

She wore a topaz bracelet on her wrist
One they tied around her little hands
Because they told her it was gold when she was much younger
When everything sparkly meant good things
And the shine gave her worth
They later told her gold didn’t glitter so much
That its beauty was in its subtlety
In the way it glowed without glowing
And felt heavier without its weight
She wore the topaz bracelet on her ankles
For it made her feel ashamed
As it hit the light too early
Shimmering with false venerate
Even though the room was miles ahead
And her dress to long for her ankles to show
Yet they still pointed at her covered feet
And laughed at the topaz they couldn’t quite see
She removed the bracelets from her body and hid it in her purse
Knowing it would be sheltered from unwanted gawks and the gossip that followed
She never realized though that her purse was a see through
Like most of the things in her life
An open book
A clear sky
They made her book seem *****
As if it was written with her hand stamps, meshed with all the undiscovered colors
They tore her pages and poured liquor on her cover
So she would have the taint of all the discomforting nights she endured
Following her
Already imprinted
Now she wears the topaz as a necklace
Her identification
Chocking as it’s pulled to fit
She wears it as a brand
Because it’s easier than to have a hot iron road slide against her skin
She wears it willingly because that’s all they have ever made her feel
Trapped in that small circle

I hide from the world sometimes
Afraid that its touch could bruise or open up prior scars
Scared that the gasoline I socked my cloth in could ignite from the slightest of flames.
I put up walls as defenses
And stack pillows behind me terrified of the fall if or when life decides to sweep the rug from under my feet
There is comfort in where I stand, way up the turret
Where the only fear comes from the thought of plummeting down the cliff and on to the rocky shore
But other times the world seduces me in to its embrace
And I let it
I let it obscure me with its infinite experiences along with all its unexpected incidents
Ravaging amongst its peculiar treasures
Touch seizes to just be a simple caress of my skin atop another but rather the explosion of my sense
Shattering yet exhilarating
Fracturing, digging its way from the inside out
And it makes me consider, perhaps these are the times where the void is as thin as paper
And my finger translucent against its barricade
Because the ocean that suffocated me before
Lets me thrive in its core

I'm so high I could eat a star
I could taste the moon
And feels its silver salt on my tongue
I could eat a star and feel it move through me
Through us
In to me
In to us
In the most introvert way possible
And when I open my mouth
You'll look deep in to the shining pit of my soul
Made up of clusters of stars
And you'll wish you came with
On all my adventures to space
To the world made up through my telescope
To the place I formed from silent whispers
In to your ears and on your lips
One you licked away because they tasted like candy
But never felt because you were never meant for the salt of the moon
And the bright shine of the stars
Or of my telescope world

Maybe I should learn the art of letting go
Life would seem much easier then
If I wasn't hanging on to the treads of my past
And letting them coil around my neck

Maybe I should learn the art of letting go
So i'd feel less blocked
less mystified
Of repeating all my mistakes or have them slither back

Maybe I should learn the art of being free
From the birds I stalk before dawn
Maybe I should start listening to their chirps
Hoping to stumble upon their secrets

Maybe I should stop thinking too much about all the things I do or don't think about
Then maybe i'll teach myslef to put words on my lips instead of paper