I simply wish to fade in to oblivion
Like a sand castle washed away by the ocean
My essence scattered,
As if I was nothing but a speck of dust in the wind
Forgotten
Forever

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

When I say I want to touch you,  I don't mean the physical entity you're disguised as.
I want to touch the heart that beats the love out of you and in to me.
I want to touch the soul that is as broken and heavy as a cloudy sky.
I want to touch your sadness,  where the real you started forming.
I want to touch your mind so I can finally find the secretes to your thoughts.
I want to touch the rare moments when you finally laughed a heart filled laugh.
I want to touch your sight to understand how you explained all the books you tell me about.
I want to touch your blood so I can feel where all that poetry comes from.
I want to touch the essence of who you are so I can make us in to one person.

I just really want to touch you.

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

He asked me to speak the TRUTH
And I yelled my refusal
With words I never learned to utter
Because my teeth had already discovered
How to staple my tongue
with LIES and half truths
So he thought me how
To lay down my confessions
With carefully constructed syllables
That screamed "revised edition"
And everytime I spoke them
I imagined novels oozing life
With characters that seemed more genuine
Than the company I chose to surround myself,

So the next time he asked me
to speak the truth
I opened my lips
And told him to put the words in my mouth
Because he was much better than i
At crafting FiCTION

The problem with people like me, people with the desperate need to disappear in to things purely for survival reasons, people who must give every last fiber of their being to things that perhaps are not worth the self that they’re giving, is that it cannot be sustained; it’s just not pragmatic at all. But the weight you bear from looking at yourself, I’m not even speaking of the image in the mirror, but looking at yourself mentally is so overwhelming that you cannot stand to be in your own presence to a point where you have accepted that your “self” has been dished out so carelessly you barely carry fragments of it anymore

I read once in a book, not a favorite book but one I related to in the most un-relatable way (if that makes sense), about this mathematician Kurt Godel who was obsessed with the fear of being poisoned so he refused to eat anything his wife hadn’t cooked. When his wife was hospitalized, his fear was so debilitating that he chose to starve himself to death instead of tackling it. The protagonist of the book continues to explain that Kurt lived with those Demons for 71 years until they finally got him. Understanding your crazy or your spiral or that itch under your skirt that just won’t stop burning no matter how much you scratch it, doesn’t make it less of a problem or an easy fix. Its there, as real as a chronic illness that’s slowly decaying your body from the inside out, worse even because you cannot explain it away. You can’t make people understand why you don’t have your **** together anymore or why its harder to balance things anymore or why you can’t clean you room everyday, or get out of bed, or just be there with your friends talking and laughing without wanting to disappear back in to the comfort of your shell that isn’t even comfortable anymore.

Your whole existence becomes one giant cursive that you’ve been trying to master but always ends up having too many unnecessary curves and scratches, and becomes ugly instead of graceful like your mind and your thoughts and this whole ******* paragraph.  

The problem with people like me is that we don’t know that we’re too much at times and too little when it counts and its exhausting being this- always.

We had a color you and I.
You were a tantalizing white, vibrant yet subtle. You had the power to magnify everything because of that silent manifestation you comprise when a drop of any other shade was splattered on you, making it incredibly vivid. You were what poets used as muse for there was nothing purer than the flawless white of that glorious spirit yet you were neither dumbfounded nor disappointed by it.


I was a disaster-prone black, ill-fated yet beautiful. I made the light seem brighter, more picturesque; a comparison for better accomplishment. I came out at night to walk the terrors of the hours of darkness, untouched because of this gloomy soul. I was what the holly book prohibits to touch, to indulge all sensations because to drink from me was to imbibe a gallon of sin.


Sadly, beauty and unpleasant have a curious way of finding each other. I don’t remember which of us found the other first; if it was I who saw you shine from miles away or if it was you who found me huddled in a corner.


We were gods you and I. we created a love that transversed worlds. We shamed Orpheus and Eurydice. We disgraced Torin and Keelycael. There was nothing more powerful than the passion we twisted and at the same time nothing was more potent. We came from different places, you from the havens and I from the shallow depths of hell; and everything we made became a freak of nature.   


 We created the color gray.


We created the color gray from our undefeated essences. We made an unremarkable and unloved color from our insurmountable selves for the reason that we were too prideful to give up each other and at the same time ourselves. We made an abhorred thing because we were never meant for each other.


I realized when I saw you walk away, that last dreadful night, the white in you was somewhat fazed and I looked in the mirror that same night to see the darkness in me leaking. There was a little bit of gray in both of us. That was when I realized we stole pieces of each other.


Yes, my love, we made a color gray.

What if we created God?

No,  this is not another conspiracy theory or a girl’s confused saunter in a journey to find meaning to life. This is not to be an interesting argument starter or a struggle to find validation. It isn’t a base for someone to be a knight in shining armor and save a befuddled mind from chaos. What it is though is a labyrinth, a maze of furious eyes and hypercritical thoughts and a road to a much known prejudice.  

But what if? Have you ever wondered?

What if someone, before calligraphy and inscriptions, before devotion and this iron-clad faith, when the world wasn’t as small as it is now and the need to feel presence of another being was at its apex, what if someone in the unknown vortex of time stared up at the vast entity of the sky that seemed to be filled with life back then and called out to what may or may not have felt real.

And just like this make-believe man, what if each of us (in our own way) look up at the sky and in our hearts, and call out to an entity that may or may not be real, may or may not be listening, may or may not be watching over each and every one of us; and I ask myself if it would truly matter if we created God. Would this glorified being, living in the shades beyond the clouds of the promise land lose his or her beauty? Would creation seem less beautiful; as if the depth of the oceans would fail being mysterious or mountains escape their sense of opposition? Would flight become something that was not envied even though our eyes stared at the freedom the wings of a bird possessed? Would the caress of the wind on our skin stop our hairs from standing on end? Would music misplace its rhythm or melodies deafen our ears?      

Would our eyes stop seeing the gorgeous in the world if what we thought created the gorgeous was but only a figment of our own prelude?

Memories exceed the bounds I have made,
They torment the leisure of my head;
It's the fright that occupies,
The dread that ignites,
And all for a peace that can't be held,
Or a love that can't be gained;
Hope depletes in a given time,
When the dread is full to the brim,
No matter how well we seem,
There is always a limit to the dream;
Of these fragment or the chasm.
And of moments I fantasize,
Where the white and bright meadow,
Fill the holes in my shadow,
Of the torment i've created,
From all thoughts palpated,
Yet I wish in the end,
I rest on golden sand,
And it swallows me up,
While furns decorate it's peak,
Because then shall it be,
The instant I am free.

I can only break down thoughts bound as 'uncharted territory'.  They're frail between my fingers. They're gullible; much like my opinions and like them, they require constant tending, caressing, bending and even fending off the nightmares with out the night.

But with out the night, I am speechless. My lips betray my heart with its secretes and signs the reign over to my mind. And still my mind struggles with indecision, vexed over the right punctuation and where it was that it thought to put them.  It's much like the blind led by a wire coiled around its waist, while the ears had been sharpened to the sound of whiplash.

Perhaps I have grown too used to the whip and my fingers accustomed to the rein, mastering the art of drawing lines on my back with words you might not be ready to read. I am an artist in my own way even though my work has never been displayed infront of admiring eyes, even though curious fingers have never glided their senses over my canvas of dried paint and marble. So all i can plead from you, darling, is to forgive my enigma and with it the years of experiences it took to construct it.

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.

I swore I wouldn't take you back when you returned.
I promised myself i'd be strong enough to win this constant battle with you.
But you know how to make me weak.
You blame your leaving on how damaged you are and you show me all your wounds.
You tell me your better, better for me,  better for us.
You say you never meant to start a fire,  you never meant to make me bleed.  
You say you'll be good for all the times you couldn't.
And I believe you knowing as soon as I do you'll leave again and i'll still be fractured...

It doesn't take you long to come back with the same words sweetened with so much half lies.
You'll be good,  you say.
You'll stay, you say.
How bitter your past has been and everything good scares you to death. That's what you said when you found me. I was the good in your horrible and you doubted the very core of me.  You said i'd leave you but it turned out you were the one that left.  Yet here I was splintered....
You'll be good,  you'll be good for me,  for us,  you said
And baby,  i'll believe you each time you do,
Because your the one meant for me and i'm the one meant for you