I find myself offering to the death of cold.
Your love is inhospitable.
Prolonged exposure to your love
has caused numbness in my body.
I’ve learned to handle the bitterness,
But each layer that kept me warm has been stripped.

Inside of me,
the same stinging chill is found
that your heart was frosted in.
And now I understand when the sorrow became frozen.
The icy heart hardens into a glacier
when the agony remains in a fixed spot,
forced to recrystallize.

I’ll burrow myself in the comfort of snow,
stabbing myself with ice spikes I've sharpened,
knowing the only amenity
is my death tonight.
That everything I could’ve endured,
was the frost mounting against my flesh.

I watch my mother beg for love by God ,
The same way I begged for her love once

We are quite similar ,
Longing for something that is not there

Expect she looks up to a God ,
And I look up to my mother

Despite our muddy backgrounds,  
we congregated all the pureness and
reached out for the sun.
Promised that we’d stay untouched
from impurity.

Then nightfall alongside torment came.
You closed down,
submerged back into the mud we bloomed out.
And I heard you lament, submerged,
“I will live through this until it takes my life.”

Alone, I remained in the gloom.
The darkness of isolation crept up,
with muck jerking at my roots.
Within above, I told the moon,
“I’ll open for you another night.”

Inside myself, I suffocated
remembering who I was.
From the dirt we came,
grime that nurtured us,
the smite that we blossomed from.

Yet you shoved yourself back in,
took the filth as your selfhood.
Kept shut to the moon, believing
you are a facade
since no one knew your roots.

If anyone was ****, it was me.
The roots of yours could be ripped out.
Reflected in the sunshine,
still you’d be observed as clean.
I’d die a martyr for that belief.

The sun rises as you remerge,
the stains you’ve collected fall off.
You are left pure, intact,
despite it all.
You are my lotus.

I’ll play the bad guy if it’s what you want,
shine the light at me in a way that portrays me with horns,
let the shadow deceive the others.
But still, like the spotlight, I’ll shine.

Just like a false spring,
you’ll portray me as colder than ever,
Just like summer,
I’ll come to rise.

Tell them I’m like a rose,
whose only intention is to draw in to hurt.
Tell them my thorns,
my thorns ***** worser than the rest.  
Tell them who sharpened the thorns.

With the bud coming out,
I’ll sprout
up from the forgotten soil,
I’ll vegetate.

I will grow,
Because I’m meant to grow.
I will wilt,
because I’m meant to wilt.

My father holds the reaper’s hand at my bedside.
It has a light grip, just as how he used to hold mine
when I was a little girl.

Your warm skin, the one that used to embrace me,
is now cold and
sends a shiver down my spine knowing what is to come.

You showed me the beauty of the world,
but now I watch the end of it,
and it fades with you.

Father, everything you’ve told me
is written in my soul.
I will go out and spread it, one by one.

I wish that I could stop the sky from wanting.

Everything I’ve been is a conflict,
a constant afflict with fate.
For someone who’s been redistricted
into multiple lives,
the depiction of me is an undecided verdict.

Past houses have been abducted,
childhood friends are abstracted
and every cassette has been unloaded.
Everything that’s built this aggregation,
collapsed.  

But I am definite
on the idea of being anew.
Interview me and I’ll tell you,

My favorite color is blue.
This is like my 7th abode.
I play the guitar.
I’m gonna be a neuroscientist
so I can rip my brain out and see if I am who I say I am.

Sorry.
That last line was askew,
I’ll withdraw,
review it till it’s sewn.
Until my existence isn’t new
to me.

I must’ve misdrawned
the memories of myself.
Abbreviated, it’s all abandoned.
I’ve destroyed
every souvenir that I adopted.
conflicted,
I am starting anew.

One who doesn’t have a prayer,
roams unaccompanied in lonely streets.

One who fights the void day after day,
is unsure of how hell looks now.

One who wonders if it’s lost forever,
the love of humanity.

One who rots in isolation,
is questioning if they were ever made a soulmate.

One who seeks,
and finds no one.

Guilt is devouring me whole
it’s holding me accountable
it’s screaming at me.