What absolute lethergy
A facade made of sharp smiles
What an inadequacy
Trap between fierce walls
Of a want that had grown tentacles
And transformed itself in to such
Unbiased, raw need
A need neither he nor I
Neither the space we made between us
Nor the breath we shared
Could ever manage to fill
And thus began the story of our crippeld hearts
Though I promise you
Yours had healed much better than mine
For you had new fingers
Plastering bandages over the hole
I made when removing me was necessary
Of such great importance, it was
New delicate fingers fumbled
With your fragile heart
And your heart, bleeding as it was
Let them cuddle it
I do not blame it
Though mine sores from bruises left untended
From blows and punctures
I never let others mend
For with out the sting
What will I have left
To remind me of those bitter sweet
Perhpas more bitter than sweet
Times I had spent stitching you
In to my very being

For a moment he was suspended in time, stagnant amongst the wave of unending moments, sitting over the balcony of the place he hated the most. Oh how he distasted this place, the very air of it stunk of bad childhood memories and a life fractured by unending rules that had more to do with peoples perspectives than the care that is given to a loved one. He hated the gray walls and the unusually white living room. He hated how blue the hallways were painted and the burgundy mat that covered most of the house. He hated the room that resided across the hall from his and the door that never opened. He hated the kitchen and all the food that was shoved down his throat on awkward family dinners that took place night after night. He hated every second he spent imprisoned there, chained with a ******* that had claws in his mind. 

All that he ever craved, all that he ever prayed for from a God he didn’t even believe existed was escape; to rob himself of a house but instead be gifted with something he could call a home. This was why the balcony was the only place he let time seem invariable. The only spot he would ever want life to stride on a steadier pace because there he had control. He had the world in his palm, a figment, of course, but still palpable, thus never cared to share it with anyone else, certainly not these automatons that made his existence bleak.

He sighed, watching the air burn its way out of him, so alive in a way he never expected it to be. Amongst all things, this amazed him. He frequented the habit; sitting in the cold, almost freezing, then he’d gasp air in a consecutive manner just to let it out in steady streams, foggy from the clash of hot and cold. Like an idiot, he gawked, the steam giving him unadulterated glee. And much like the steam, he wanted to exist as a better byproduct of the two extremes. He wanted the fire in him to burn away the cold that suffocated his every waking moment. In fact, he so desperately wished, the storm in him would be strong enough to clear a pathway between his past, his fractured present and the future he couldn’t even picture. 

Yet he wanted to hope even though his mind told him everything was wrong with hoping; for hoping made you picture, perhaps not a lot, but something and of everything his mind could conjure up, he hated it when it was a prospect where he could one day be happy and free and alive past a point of existing and surviving. He hated it because it gave him a sense of peace, one that would undoubtedly be snatched away from him.

He hated a lot of things, his mind realized, for most of his monologues went much like this. However, he also loved a considerable amount but never once spoke of them. He loved in secrete, from a place detached and secluded, where not one soul could make assumptions of his adoration. He cherished and lost in private. He adored and hurt in clandestine for he never wanted to burden others with a love that was too heavy as it immerged from a depth of despair.

"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned."
She whispered
What she meant though
Was 'curb the arrogance in me
So I may lay down my questions
And bury my assumptions'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She murmured
Even though the storm in her
Screamed 'stab the place in my head
Where my doubt imerges
And the spark in my heart
That hates to love the world'
'Restrain my hands
And break my fingers
For they will never seize
From creating blasphemy'
"Bless me,  Father, for I have sinned"
She thought it this time
While her lips said
'Forgive my mind
That lies to itself
And tricks its existance
With half truths
It won't believe
You'll see'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She tapped the side of the wood
Mimicking the last song she drunk
Before hiding in the confessional
A last secret sin
She let herself indulge
"Bless me"
"Bless me"
She hiccuped
"Father"
Hiccups
"For"
Hiccups
"I have"
Hiccups
"Sinned"
She smiled
And walked out of the confessional
With her music filling her ears
Her lips singing away
To her hearts desires.

He was a sucker for hugs
Long walks with fingers entwined
He found reasons
Inconsequential at best
To sense skin on deprived skin
A beat on a lonely heart
Longing for a love he never recived
which made her wonder
How would he know when he found it,
When Love picked him out
From inbetween the clutches
Of a crowded room?

He wouldn't,  is what it was.

Perhaps his ignorance
Was the reason
He dragged her by the ribbon
She used to tether herself
To the heart that overlooked her existence
Perhaps he truly never meant
To write through his journal
What it finally meant
To take someone for granted.

We keep an abundance of boxes in the back
For the day we decide to leave the life we’ve made
Stumbling towards beginnings
That slitter away from my fingers
Before familiarity is gained
And our hearts ache from the loss
I once asked my mother
Why it was that we chased our on tails
Why it was that we run from customary things
And right in to unfamiliar once
Why we couldn’t stay and belong
While knowing it was the right place for our hearts to settle.
I once asked my mother
Why she never liked my friends
And had me cut ties as soon as possible
I asked her why she never favored any of them
Why she let me be alone with my thoughts
Until the only friends I could make
Where the squared once in my library
I once asked my mother
If what she told me about love was real
‘That it was a figment of an aching mind
Trying to make something more of its existence’
I asked her if I could love the way she loved him
Before he decided we weren’t worth his love anymore
Before his eyes fell on another
Perhaps more beautiful
Conceivably younger and better
Before we started this ludicrous run from our own emotions
Chased by a past that left its mark with ink that stung
I asked her questions that made my chest feel smaller
And its contents bloated
By hope and better things
Inflated to a point of pain and at the same time pleasure
I asked her to give me reasons
For our choices
Why we never chose to be happy
Even after we found happiness
Why we let the elephant grow in our own living room
Until it was chocking the very life out of us
And all she could say was
“Mother knows best.”

I’m good at picturing art. It takes a whole other form in my head.

I understand situations like I understand art, with a meaning that’s born inside my heart rather than the mashed words that leave your lips. It is as if the originality was lost on my ears as it makes its devastatingly slow journey to my neurons and is just as sluggishly fabricated anew. 

I observe like art, shapes squeezed in two dimensions, flapping around in the non-existent wind. Watching people gives me the same sense as knowing them in a way that I can only see the flat, unrealistically,  linear side of them; one I could not begin to fathom the depths off. My mind also has its own sick way of making itself the only three dimensional being in this packed yet lonely world; perhaps to retain its state of constant solitude or perhaps its survival instincts kicking in.

I sense objects like I sense art, with intensity that sends shivers down my spine; one that is undeniably imposing, for an object also consists of humans. And it always amazes me how someone with so much depth could be so detached from simple but still intricate,  mundane sensations like how it would feel to bury once face in another’s shoulder and smell the very scent of them while being free of any discomfiture.   

Living with the perception of art is the most beautiful gift of all but sometimes I wish I was blind.

It was never that I was alone, that I lacked people around me, and that I was in need of comfort but rather that I required more than I could ever give. I am selfish. I crave too much from many all at the same time and I demand without words that they fulfill it. Perhaps I could trace the root of my need to a past where I did nothing but give until there was nothing left but an empty white shell. However, if I trace it back to its origin then I’ll encounter all of the barricades of my past I had to leap over knowing it was best to smash them to pieces.

I am a coward, you see. I am a coward that hides under the illusion of bravery and I suppose that is the worst kind of lie since you’re deceiving no one but yourself. I fear intimacy; I fear it in a way that is frightening. Embraces burn my skin from their heat and kind words scar my ears and mind. They create doubts that I procrastinate over to a point of insanity. I know it’s for the reason that I lack the love a human must feel for themselves; it’s a mystery I let people fiddle with. My mind would never let me believe another could feel anything but contempt or at the very least, a certain degree of distaste for I am deficient in so much of what I should have.

Sometimes I wonder if this emptiness has a bound or if it’ll ever grow one. Its feels so intricate like the most complicated mathematics problem. I hate it. I hate it’s this complicated. I hate how alone it makes me feel and how no matter the number of people I surround myself with and no matter how many times I hear that I’m loved, it never feels quite real. I try my hardest to avoid lying to people. One cannot live a life of lies and then keep projecting it on to the world. It would be the equivalent of gradually decaying from the inside out. Perhaps that is why I chose to die small death everyday always burdened by an unsavory truth.