Is it the music
or your voice that hurts the sky?
[I beg you, don't cry.]

It is her left eye,
opens wider in cloudy
nights. [It will not rain.]

It is never you,
you aren't an idea
nor 2 a.m. thought.

Do you even know
that I still write about you?
Blue moon, cats, o you!

Bugs bitten skin deep soul
[I slept on lot of empty plastic bottles]
Salted eyeballs, a chopstick
Two, they always asked for two
[Stamped]
White chalks, bitter coughs
Childhood! Roses and a caterpillar
I had taught myself not to cry
Grown like gecko, became huge as *** of fears
Empty cocoon
Music box, grandmother, her smile and mole
[Nice pass, basketball]
Please turn off the lights and lock the window
[Too fat, though]
I wondered what more I could ask for
How perfect, monochrome
I was born, the world
[Moths are beautiful too]
Hey hey oily feathers
Butterflies cannot fly too high after all
It was never battle scars the ocean loved
[Eyeballs, remember eyeballs]
Forked
Babies and the steps
Climb your stairs, lungless
[Eyes were the most burned]
Chest, o Christmas tree and wedding cake
Claps, stories of mockery
Photographs, memories, what stays and fades
[The bridge saw you and fell in love--
I was crossing it
I was crossing it]

Bedroom breeze, moonlit
water and late night shower.
I pray to the trees.

I almost thought that I was screaming but at least it should have been a safer place. I let my face seem like pig but my chest kept thinking that I was just having a sun diameter long run. It is true that my shirt smells like sweat but it was just delivered by my sweet but not tasty laundry aunt. I am sitting here, in front of me is the library. I try to respect my hunger by just admiring the stairs and thigh thick books from afar.

On the right side there are my schoolmates pretending to be a friend with this one gay guy, invisibly bullying but who cannot see it? I can feel insecurity bawling out of his nostrils and it fills the air with an intense reeking of headache and street lights sold cheap perfume. I think I should go back to my place and wash my hair until it smells like grass or something nice, like seawater or grandma's handkerchief.

I must pretend to be insane or else I am going to spend my life seeking for the top I do not want to step on.

There is no safe place at all. This is the safest I could find, but there are voices of people chatting and laughing and the smokes of their cigarettes and the sound of airplane and footsteps and life, and life, I even can hear the leaves beside me photosynthesizing. Send me home already.

On Wednesday my roommate does not have class and that means if I go back now I would find her sleeping on the desk with her eyeglasses on, or worse, I think I would find her studying her latin names of the animal bones and when I open the door she would greet me with her usual green smile and I would have to reply with at least half of her smile and now I already feel the balloon in my chest hugged too tightly by the ribs.

I should have taken another major instead. Maybe something like agriculture so I at least could be a use for the soil or to feed the worms. The people passing by seem to be looking through my skin. It's not my fault that they have to run to the toilet as fast as they can. At first I thought the sport festival was here. It was perfectly normal for them to be so much competitive.

The flushes sound exactly like this one neuron I got, or these split ends that have split ends that have split ends.

I am the only one inanimate here. My shoes speak German and I think they just want to go to an elegantly candlelit restaurant but all I can think of is a cave with blue and green mosses and cavemen with their torches. Only this square, blue thing with blinding pink font in my gray backpack tries to keep me safe. But I let it stay in the dark, and it was a right decision because I would not know what I would be if I had felt safe when a friend greeted me and asked what I was doing here.

"I once tried to fit my head and whole body in a Pringles can, just so
someday when I die, it would be easier for them to bury me."

It was something Sonja would say.

Though I begin to forget who she is, how she likes to think, what she
likes to say and do. I am erasing her, though all we ever were is a
dancer's footprints on the beach.

We have never had a proper dance lesson. I wonder what kind of lie it
was when I thought of buying a pair of nice, soft pink ballet shoes. But
honesty runs in my blood and that's why each month I bleed for seven
days.

I am gluing the butterflies to the wall. They would glow in the dark and
do with us what the Blue Fairy do with Pinocchio.

None of us has ever lied until we found the ruby. I feel that her nose is
becoming longer, longer than ever.

It feels ethereal, like we are one but separated. Light as an angel's step. I
cannot stop thinking about the dance.

Going to the beach, while the road is still moonlit.

Tonight the sky is clear. I can hear the crickets chirp. I am forgetting
how her voice sounds, how her hair falls, how her eyes open and close. I
think it's because I might have defenestrated her.

That is how the curtain insists to stay in red.

"I want to marry my earphone."*

I wonder if it is also something Sonja would say. I only remember her
as a yellow thing, small as sprout and dead as bark. She tried a lot to
kiss some metal and cold liquids, but her lips were too unreal and her
nails would not ever grow long.

I think she fell and broke a whole skull.

It is always our dream to be the sand.

Your skin smells like sharpie and the third
page of my sketch book. How it glows in
the dark reminds me of this one mermaid
whose hair keeps falling. I don't know how
she isn't bald yet. She does not cry, her
milky eyes seem to be so calm yet so
immoral, pearl-like greasy beam like some
oil spills on the ocean.

You have eyes like marine birds and that is
what truly makes me afraid.

Your nose is a branch of that fig tree I
killed during the last time I was trying to
find Narcissus. I remember that that day
Echo and I cried like mermaids and from
our eyes fell pearls and we did not wonder
at all why it did not hurt. It was a good
sign, kind of good like caution wet floor.
You know how I wish I could hang it in
front of my bedroom door.

You keep biting your lips only to keep the
blood flowing. I cannot say that I have
never seen waterfall as iron as that. I only
can give you tons of salt and you can use
that on your lips at midnight or when you
wake up from a nightmare at 4 a.m.

You grow hibiscus on your throat and
every time you speak all I can hear is the
pink and yellow and red and ants.

You have breath like motion sickness and
the dusty bench in front of the library. I will
go inside and become a ****** book 'til the
rest of my life. I will stay as pure as ever
when I am burned along with the library.

Your ears sound like lullaby and world war
three. You see, history is falling asleep so
peacefully, just like Mother Teresa or
Gandhi.