It doesn't matter that I wake after sunrise,
Because knowing that you're nearby when I open my eyes;

You, with your sun-kissed skin,
with warmth radiating from the top of your head to your chin;

You, who greets me "good morning" without fail,
while looking at me like we're in a fairy tale;

You, who wakes me with a gentle peck,
as gentle as the sun on my skin, filtered through blinds, a fleck;

It doesn't matter that I wake after sunrise,
Because you remind me of it and of pink skies.

I feel like a husk, a nobody
Devoid of thoughts, of custody
over myself, over my body.

My days are fine, but it's the nights
When it's dark, when it's quiet,
when there are no lights.

I'm wasting away (the opportunities),
silent, as I lay (down my arms),
ready to surrender (to insecurities);
A repeat offender, charged with self harm.

The sky is brushed with wisps of grey,
A dull breeze a touch out of tune,
And like a distant boat the moon
Is drifting on the horizon.

Etched clear over the dimming light
Lies a small bike; a laughing boy
Riding forward in careless joy
Into the darkness without fright.

And overhead the blackbirds cry
Where through the hazzy wintergrass
A brush of lights of fireflies pass
Like sparks of hope against the sky.

I sat in a field, picking at scabs,
letting red pool around my old orange shoes,
tainting yellow dandelions and the green between them an ugly shade of maroon.
The sky above was a clear blue,
clearer than my head
as I stared at the hues of indigo and violet marring my skin like a display, a show.

It’s unfair,
the way the world is so colourful,
unmindful of the individuals.
The rainbow is its aphrodisiac,
keeping it turned on- I mean, turning!-
when my world is but in shades of grey and black.

I walked home with viole(n)t thoughts in my mind
as indigo settled in next to blue for the night.
I ignored the gorgeous green around me and, instead,
saw yellow ambulances and orange cones in the moonlight
where I imagined my body will lie after I jump,
after my skull cracks against pavement, my sight, red before it turns black.

It’s unfair,
the way everyone can enjoy the colors
when they blind me, burn me, hurt me with their intensity
until I want nothing but to strip them away,
throw them away so that I won’t have to lie when people ask me:
“Look around, isn’t the world beautiful?”
Because no. No it’s not.
It’s so ugly I’d rather die than to pretend I see the colors everyone else seem to breathe.
My world is monochrome and I want nothing to do with it.

I walked up the stairs, hands red with dried blood
and I toed my orange shoes off, noticing the mud,
when a flash of yellow broke through my woe.
A dandelion with its stem still green kept me company in my time of keen pain.
And although I still felt blue,
in my chest warmth bloomed for the first time since self-inflicted indigo bruises and
violet-outlined contusions wormed their way into my life.

Without noticing it all this while,
I wasn’t alone, working my way through the day.
Without knowing it all this time,
a dandelion followed me, making sure I was okay.

So the next time I feel the dark, the dust, the grime
threaten to engulf my colors whole,
I’ll know to look for dandelions,
‘cause no one is ever really alone in their hellhole.

I do believe I like him quite much
(love, dare I say, but not to his ear)
I’d say it aloud, as I feel his touch
but I don’t, silent out of fear.

I’m a terrible person, the kind I spoke ill of;
The one sin I vowed I would never commit,
so tempting it is to try to cheat love
but I’ll never do it, unable to live with it.

(Is it a sin to want to be loved?
to want to be desired, the object of one’s affection?
Is it so wrong that I don’t want to be shoved
aside by one when I’ve got another’s attention?)

Stubborness is the reason for all woes;
the unwillingness to speak and to listen
makes all problems continue and grow,
harder to fix, pain deeper, unforgotten.

Lack of communicaion is a constant of my culture;
A wall between generations written in my future
before I was born, before they met each other,
before ideas of my existence

One generation, my present, cannot forget this “negligence”,
be it conscious or not, because my beliefs, my feelings, my being are built over this foundation of lies that I grew up knowing to be truth, to be reasons for which I acted as I did

Hideous.
unworthy of this Earth.


Just yesterday I was made aware about others’ pain.
Although leading to different understandings and results, same
As what they made me live.

Paranoia, worthlessness, littleness
All of which I’ve felt before, I could finally see
that she too, was broken, something amiss.

I felt a deep connection; understanding, a new feeling
Understanding of why she acted as she did,
hard, unyielding.
But yet, never could I forget my own past,
nightmares and fears that still last;

And I question my place here,
I question my future, near
I question everything she asks of me,
every “question” she does not expect an answer for
every question that ruins me that much more.