I
am finding myself
in the shadowless
beings
that
fit in my heart
the way my hands
fit the sky.
But I am not sure
if I can be comprehended
by a pair of eyes
that do not know
that the depth of
ocean
conceals itself
right behind my mind.
it seems so limitless,
endlessly running
across the world,
the mountains / the wounds are the
only reminder that
contentment has
a certain end
where you wouldn't know
the way you and I will
hit the ground, soundlessly,
slowly, and the rubble will still breathe
under our weight, when did our bones
learn to weigh? When did
we become so hollow
that we cannot see past our
desires? Behind the dreams that are ours
there is an art that someone
else
has built. What do we
see in the frailty of these wrists?
This paper thin skin and hands we break
apart as though we never promised
to try to become forever.
But farther beyond the clouds
there is a place. That will feel
like it can instill your emotion. And
you will never know if you're actually a person,
or a phenomenal zephyr that entangles
within the numbness, a quiet place where
serenity is almost tangible, where you
cannot tell yourself apart from the sky.
Where your ears have only learned to
hear the smiles and the rainbows.
And then your imagination snaps,
a wire tugged on, you are so still
against the earth, that it creeps into
the tears your eyes let go of so easily.
And the scraps of yourself are still not
afraid of the things that are not going to
end. Like the ceaseless memories,
the seconds that tick silently, dropping
into the ocean of time.
It is an overwhelming tide of
the past, that doesn't hit you, doesn't strike
as hard as you thought it could.
but it does sway your stance, it sways you
ever so gently, that you are startled by the way
you thought you would never stagger.
A blink of an eye / I am not made
to be my own. I don't even fit in the shadows
anymore. But these are discordant voices
whispering with just enough of the emotion
to trick you into believing you can touch the
hands reaching out for you; hold them like you
always hoped you could.
You do not understand the
difference between me and my shadow.
it doesn't seem to waver but I,
I am always stumbling.
I am always in pieces,
always flying with wings
that never learned to take flight.
And my shadow, it is not real,
not a part of myself.
Because it dreams
of becoming what I used to be.
Throw me out of the sky, I am only going to
fly away.
I am going to fly
so long as I know
I can breathe. But
what if I fly
too close to the sun?

we are
lost
in a world we meant to build
bigger than ourselves.
we are
breathing
ink
but they wouldn't know,
that the ink we bleed
is so much darker than
our sins.
but in this world —
that is not quite round anymore —
we have seen peace in the eyes of
the dead, but i —
i am falling apart
too rigorously
to be defined in words.
we are
still
in the most literal sense.
almost synonymous with
stilted oceans. my heart is a
planet. and my heartbeat
is a jagged meteor
almost singeing
in its warmth.  
i am only transiently whole enough so long as i
will myself to hold together
within the chains.
my hands are a
constellation
of your heart;
it is not quite as big as a planet,
but fairly so.
fifteen years
and you crash,
desperate and drenching in January rain
and as old as 1627.
but my world is not encapsulated
in 146 square feet of space.
i am tired
in my bones,
in my skin,
in my soul,
in this body
that seems too limiting.
i am so tired
that you would not
be able to recognize me
anymore,
i have become so different
but so have you.
there is a hard way of learning
how to stitch flesh without pain,
but i — i exist on the underside
of the ocean's surface.
it feels like my home.
and then the sky falls
into my home,
collapses like it had been standing
for far too long.



sway ever-so-slightly to the left
only then could you feel the sunlight,
pleasant in its glow of starbursts
littering the sky with scattering silhouettes
of shadows pressed flat,
and shoved mercilessly into the closets
of sleeping children; their hair made of
flakes,
their hands reaching out innocently
to touch my face.
a giggle on your left,
of the child who has managed to break
through your frigidly cold soul.



stay behind the fault line,
do not step toward me
if you don't want to drown.
i am a writer, you see,
endlessly delirious
in my never-ending dolor.
a state of pretenses,
where everything exists behind lies.
fall into the dead end instead,
i —
— i —
i am not meant to be whole, i swear i
— i never existed as a whole, never
once in my seventeen years.
and there is so much more than
falling in love,
in this world full of wonders
where you wouldn't know
about how i'm
far more real
than you can ever be.
simply because i know who i am
and you, friend,
you are trying to find your reflection
in someone else.
but haven't you learned
that you are different?
(that i am too?)
and that we belong
in the void?
that we are
meant
to be the void?