In the quiet murmur of hushed tones
And blasphemous whispers
I burn a torch over a simple question

For many suns and moons, I have wailed to the stars
My bloodied will, brandishing my broken body
The rhythm of my feet kissing the burning sand

For inside my chest, a song beats
Bereft of love, and the banality of wrath - no,
But of obedience, and blind faith,
The crucifixion made living

Carved into my back, a gruesome tapestry.

The slave driver orders me forward.
“Elohim?” I shout to the heavens, on my knees.

I have stared into the abyss
And it has stared back at me

Know that God was not there.

Instead, I hath walked the land of the suicides,
Asphyxiated in the blood which flowed from my open chest,
Languished in the agony of my consciousness,

And cried mercy to the divine, only to find the void -
Howling in a gnawing silence back at me

It was not “nothingness” which I hath found in the pit
For the abyss I found
Was an abundance of mirrors

1:45 - Go to the party tomorrow

                                                                                                            1:45 - No

1:46 - Go to the party tomorrow!!

                                                      1:46 - I can’t. We have a no contact rule.

1:50 -̶I̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶r̶d̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶b̶a̶b̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶a̶d̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶s̶m̶i̶l̶e̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶u̶g̶g̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶s̶k̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶b̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶i̶r̶l̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶i̶d̶o̶l̶i̶z̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶a̶r̶m̶s̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶s̶l̶e̶p̶t̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶-̶ ̶b̶e̶s̶i̶d̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶-̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶e̶n̶t̶i̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶e̶a̶r̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶w̶e̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶n̶a̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶t̶h̶u̶r̶s̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶n̶o̶o̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶l̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶r̶o̶o̶m̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶e̶n̶t̶s̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶h̶o̶m̶e̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶d̶r̶i̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶d̶r̶i̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶-̶ ̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶.̶ ̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶t̶’̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶o̶m̶o̶r̶r̶o̶w̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶t̶’̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶l̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶o̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶s̶a̶y̶ ̶*******̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶r̶y̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶B̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶y̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶c̶u̶t̶e̶ ̶g̶i̶r̶l̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶o̶p̶p̶o̶r̶t̶u̶n̶i̶t̶i̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶.̶ ̶F̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶r̶y̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶I̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶v̶i̶s̶i̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶r̶y̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶a̶p̶i̶s̶t̶.̶ ̶P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶p̶,̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶a̶w̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶a̶u̶t̶i̶f̶u̶l̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶a̶w̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶w̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶t̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶s̶t̶a̶n̶d̶i̶n̶g̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶i̶s̶t̶e̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶e̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶m̶a̶d̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶h̶i̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶m̶i̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶.̶ ̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶h̶u̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶e̶,̶ ̶w̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶k̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶m̶o̶n̶t̶h̶s̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶g̶o̶d̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶I̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶u̶s̶ ̶b̶o̶t̶h̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶.̶ ̶S̶o̶ ̶p̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶,̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶o̶m̶o̶r̶r̶o̶w̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶m̶o̶r̶r̶o̶w̶ ̶-̶ ̶b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶a̶g̶n̶o̶s̶i̶s̶.̶ ̶B̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶p̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶

1:50 - Okay.

...But at night

My head is a radio tower

The thoughts and information bouncing off the walls of my mind

Front to back

Voices from different frequencies

Endlessly bombarding me.

Never stopping

Never ending.

.
.
.
.


And for the first time in my life

.
.
.


I find myself begging for a place

.
.
.

Where I don't get cell service.

"You deserve it."


                                                          "Sometimes I just don't feel like I do."


"Sometimes we all feel like we don't."


                                                                                                             "Yeah..."


"That's why we call them blessings."

I’m not going to lose anymore.
I’m not going to take it in the gut without throwing a punch back.
I’m not going to go down without attempting to get up.
I refuse to lose you without burning myself trying to win you back.
I refuse to look for refuge or safety like I used to because I found something I want to fight for.
I refuse to let you go without staring down the chamber of a .44, looking you in the eye before you pull the trigger.

So if you pull the trigger, at least let me know why.
If you’re going to **** me, **** me on my feet.
I don’t want you to be my enemy.
I don’t want you to be the anchor that pulls me down to the bottom again.
I don’t want you to be a missed chance, or a “could have been”
I don’t want you to become someone I resent, or a waste of time.

I know you’re looking at this.
I know you’re watching and reading these words.
You know what I want.
It’s been a few weeks, but the time we spent is valuable to me.
And dare I say it was valuable to you too.

I don’t waste my words.
I don’t say things if I don’t mean it.
I don’t lead people on.
I don’t tell you I care for you if I’m just going to spit behind your back.
I don’t say “I love you” if I didn’t put so much thought into what I was saying.

You’re right. We are different.
But I was never looking for the same. I have enough of the same.

I want you because you teach me.
You unlocked something I never thought I knew about myself.
You taught me how to be vulnerable.
You’re someone I didn’t know I could grow to love.
And you have so much more to teach me that you don’t even know.

I know your time is precious,
But want you to be mine.
I never promised you forever -
But I promised you one day at a time.

And If you want it, you still have it.


Yeah?

Nothing makes me feel as powerless


As hearing you cry at the other end of the phone.

The truth is that I miss you
              And It’s hard to fight the distance
                                      The truth is I ain’t ready-
                                                 to do this but I can’t miss it

                                                   But the truth is nobody is ready
                                  And the pain is that we need to grow
                And I hate how I lived so cynical
Because vulnerable is hard over the phone

                                      And I hate using the word
                                                        demon
I think It’s a bitter cliche
                         But what other word can sum up

The                                             i m a g e r y                   inside of the pain.



                                       So maybe I am protective
                                      But I swear that I can try
                                      To open up a little more
                                      If you could just give me some




                                                                                                                   time.

"I'm afraid to lose you"

                                     But isn't that what love is?

Isn't love standing on the edge of a canyon, overlooking the beauty that is below?

Running the length of a battlefield, amidst the bullets whirling, and the cannon fire, knowing you could at any moment lose everything?

Isn't love ultimately driving the edge of loss to the edge?
Playing with fire? Juggling knives? Self operated open heart surgery?


                            Isn't that what makes love so special?

e                       I don't quite know what's worse.                     p

             Being 100%, completely broken
                      i
                                        ­                                               c
Or being 99% completed, and never seeming to find the last...


                                         e

Left my heart and my soul in your arms
Now the only thing we share are stars
Constellations - that’s how I’ll speak to you
Constellations -  from the home I once knew.

Every time you look up to the sky
Think of me when the stars pass you by
Constellations - from the heart I left behind
Constellations -  I'll be back just give it time.

3:38am

Being trapped in a corner
Where everything stops
And simultaneously
Comes crashing down in a torrent of voices.
Echoing the same self loathing
That you beat every day, and lose to every day.

Looking desperately for a way out
Ready to sell your soul to the wrong buyer
For a quick gratification
Or just a way out.

Boxed in

Cave in, but can’t save him.

Jerking in his sleep but it’s not working

It won’t stop. His head is unlocked
Because he left his keys out of the lockbox

Struggling to breathe.
It’s only been 3 minutes

4.

5.

And then everything stopped.

And he became numb again.

Still twitching. Still feeling it.
 But buried.
Ice over the water’s surface

Im sorry. I can't lie to you anymore

He said, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Im only 18.
Sometimes I think about how many years I have ahead

About the lovers that will come and break my heart
And the lovers who's hearts I will break

For the kids I hope to raise
And the kids of my kids that I hope to raise

For the jobs I will have
And the opportunities I will lose

For the people I will meet, and stay
And for the people who will abandon me

For the times I will sit on the peak of the world, like a king
And the times when the lights dim and I will be totally engulfed by the dark

And I realize
The vastness, and depth of the ocean in front of me

And just how lucky I am -
How delicate and fading youth is.

He carries needles and capsules home
Like his friends carry their pencils and erasers to school.

I wish you knew
The things I say about you
When you aren't looking.

No.
I can't promise you forever
But how about we take it slowly
One foot at a time
And just keep walking
Together?

Because that, I can promise you.

For every time I've talked about saving this world with song
For every time I've left my soul on a stage
For every time I've gotten up after being cut and bruised
For every time I've quarrelled with my demons and won
For every time I've taken the hard road and made it to the end
For every time I've been praised by my peers for having a good heart
For every time I've been told "I look up to you" by someone close
For every time I've looked at myself in the mirror and told myself "You look amazing. You're going to have a great day",

I think of you.

So though we may differ in opinions
Or don't see eye to eye at times,

Some things are just better together,
and I'm only better because of you.

To know that someone
Listens to my open heart
Breathes life in my day

Thank you!

Sometimes all i want to do is hold her tightly and make her feel as if nothing in the world can hurt her - She's safe
Other times I want him to hold me that same way as I sink into his arms, drowning in the smell of his cologne - I'm safe

When it comes to you,
The words "personal space" are
Just a blank side note

"If my art somehow
Manages to save one life."
That's why I do it.

There are only two options when you're down.
Stay down
Or get up
Neither of them are easy,
But i promise down the line,
You'll be glad if you chose to get up.

Falling down
Is not an excuse
To stay down

They may remember my breakup because it kept coming up. Kept coming back. Some may think that my breakup was the thing that hurt the most last year. It wasn’t.

It hurt more to get my heart broken by somebody else.
It hurt more that I had to see her around every time I was around my friends.
It hurt that her name came up everywhere I went, as obscure as it was.
It hurt more that my fondest memories of last year weren’t with my former love, but with her.
It hurt more that I considered my masterpiece of a song to be one about her, and not about my former love.
It hurt more that gazing into her eyes I saw a myriad of puzzles to be solved and a seemingly endless, impossible maze that I wanted to travel in, but never got to.
It hurt more that I bottled these feelings in because I was in a relationship.
It hurt more, the nights I kept up, thinking about what if I gave it just a little more time.
It hurt more to think that maybe I made the wrong decision about who I loved.
It hurt more to rush into love like I did, and miss out on the one thing that may have been better.
It hurt more never to see her again.
It hurt more to forget her smile than my former love.
It hurt more that her laugh was one of the most beautiful sounds that I’ve forgotten.
It hurt more that I stayed up all night thinking more about her than my former love.
It hurt more to know maybe I fell in love with her more than I did my former love.
It hurt more to think about how much it must have hurt my former love to find out.
It hurt more to think how much I took from my former love, and how I threw her away in the end.
It hurt more to use the word threw away instead of broke up in that last sentence.
It hurt more that maybe a part of me still wishes things went differently
It hurt more to feel that wave of anguish to know she didn’t love me back
It hurt more to feel that feeling of defeat to think I tried so hard
It hurt more to feel nothing for my former love, and how guilty I should have felt but didn’t.
It hurt more to realize though, that through all of it, I wasn’t blameless. I had fault.
It hurt more than a thousand papercuts, cutting away, slowly at me. Taking bit by bit of myself.
It hurts most that my break up didn’t hurt me at all. It was her breaking my heart that hurt the most.

It stings now to know
That there’s a part of me that may still love her, wondering if she loved me back.
But now I’ll never know.

I miss home.
Maybe it’s the feeling of quiet in the night, how the air seemingly stands still, the silent cricketing of… crickets singing their symphony of the night
Maybe it’s the gentle breeze that graces you through the hot endless summer of the tropics
Maybe it’s nothing more than the endless stream of tricycles drag racing down city streets.
Regardless I miss home.
This place is beautiful.
This place, with the massive stream of culture flowing from every part of the world
This place, with it’s beautiful, clean air, and tap water so clean you could drink directly from it
This place, with the promise of something better - a life full of opportunity
Honestly, this place is amazing. This place to one may seem like paradise.
I’m not one to disregard my blessings, and living here, it is one, but this place lacks one thing.
It lacks family.
This place, in all it’s beauty and it’s cultural mish mash, lacks all the people I wish I could explore it with.
This place, with all it’s opportunity and promises, lacks the people I wish could have a part of it.
This place, though bewildering, endless, and… different, lacks the people i wish to share it with.

Often my heart goes home.
Often my heart flutters off of my chest as I lay face up at night, and takes me to another life.
A life full of what ifs.
What if I didn’t leave.
What if things turned out differently
What if they came with us
What if. What if. What if.

My mind drifts into this hulking chasm, one which the end of it stretches farther than the echo in which I use, curiously trying to finding the end.
The friends I would have made. The bonds I would have connected, severed, connected, and perhaps severed again.
The lessons I would have learned. The mistakes, shortcomings, failures, and perhaps even the way I dealt with them. How different it would have been.
My hair style. My taste in music. Hell, even my skin color.

And as I lie in that bed I start to miss something. Something that was never mine in the first place. I start to miss that life that I never led, the path that has long closed itself to me.

I desperately want it, but desperately don’t. Caught in a cycle of would have been, should have been, never was, and never ever will be.

Nevertheless, though the memories were never made, the bonds that were meant to be are still there, and I’ll cherish them until the day both paths converge again.
I miss home.

I hate airports.
I hate the vibrant colours, the staff who work happily, even through the mass of sadness that countless others are experiencing around them.
I hate the food, which is good, but sometimes, the bitterness of leaving sinks to the taste.
But most of all, i hate the the idea of parting, the idea of saying goodbye.
No matter how near or how far I may go, just knowing that I’ll be away from your grasp is painful enough.
I hate waking up on that day. The surrealness of it. To know that in a mere 24 hours, this won’t be home anymore. My last day on that bed. My last day with those people. My last day on that ground. My last day breathing this air, until well… god knows when.
I hate seeing you. I love you so much, but seeing your dead eyes, and seeing how your inner pain is so great that it’s affecting you physically, affects me too. I hate seeing you struggle to be strong, even though the pain is evident.
I hate hearing the plans for our trip.
The bags and boxes that served as my storage unit and dumping grounds, all neatly packed up, just like the day we landed. The only tie I have to the place that serves as my “home”. Really, “home” to me is a home away from my real home.
I hate the feeling of guilt, knowing YOU are the one who’s leaving a hole behind. That though it’s hard, it’s always being left behind that hurts more.
The voices and extra noise that I made. The late night guitar playing or the early morning screaming. In 24 hours, gone.
All of it parts on a metal tube in the sky. Planes….
I hate that "back to normal" feeling, that lack of presence that we leave behind. I hurt them, even though I don’t want to.
Then there’s the ride going to the airport
Please, come with me. I need you here. Just a few more minutes. Just another second. Anything.
Every little inch closer to the airport, I have to look out the window, act like I can’t see your eyes through the reflection. Act like I don’t know what you want to say. Act like I’m just giving this place “one final look”. Holding back the tears.
Mess up my ticket. Burn the plane. Pop the tires. I don’t want to go.
I wish I didn’t know these streets, but I do. I know the ride. I know the locations. I can tell we’re getting closer.
I know you don’t want to be here. But please stay with me.
I want to know how much time we have together until I have to leave.
i can already imagine, during that ride back...
The black stain of absence that I left. The emptiness of everything, and the pain you’re facing.
I wonder why you seem like you can barely move. Like you’re wearing shoes made of -
Oh.
It’s the weight.
I’m sorry.
I look back at the spot on the bed that I used to take up.
I hate taking these photographs.
The smiles I give are always fake, and I know yours is too. We pretend, because at the end of the day, there is no happy family. Not today. Not while we have to separate.
Please don't capture this moment.
Please give me a hug.
Don’t let go. A part of me prays something inside you goes berserk, like in those supernatural movies
That maybe you’re keeping some sort of secret power or trump card that you’re waiting to use.
That maybe you might grow wings and take me away from here so we miss the flight.
That maybe you just whisper “run” and for some strange reason, we just run away, buying even just a few moments. A few fleeting moments.
It'll be awhile before i get another one of your hugs, so please, hold me like it’s your last because god forbid if I die on that plane I’ll never get to hug you again so please.
Even though you’ll feel empty after, please. It’s so selfish but god, do it for me.
Thing is, I know deep in my heart I’m not the only one feeling this sadness
Right and left there are goodbyes
There are couples who are a few goodbyes away from a long distance relationship
There is a kid who is clinging to her dad's leg telling me to stay or take her along because he's working abroad
There are people sharing words to family members who live far away
There's so many people feeling the same, but... it doesn’t take away from the pain.
“Have a safe trip!”
I want to die.
“Call us when you’re home!”
I am home.
“Don’t cry”
You’re lucky you can’t see into my soul, because I’m not crying. I'm bleeding.
“Come back soon!”
I don’t need to leave.
“Bye”
I don’t want to go
"Bye"
Don’t push me away
"Bye"
Why did you make me leave this place.
"Bye"
I don’t want to go…

bye.

I hate airports

Love isn’t perfect or flawless, it’s messy and real.
And honestly, that’s the beauty of it.
Love can be like coffee; bitter and denying you of rest.
Love can bring down your mood without the intention to,
And affect your emotions with every action of theirs.
It stays with you and drags you down but it also lifts you up.

Love is cruel. Love is a disease that is ridded through countless operations, with you as the doctor, and even then, love leaves a scar. A scar. A permanent reminder of your experience.
But... love is reckless. It's exciting. Love is an opportunity. Love is an adventure - and not the same adventure that you find walking in a new city... no... love is the sort of adventure you find when you open a book for the first time. Love is the feeling of hearing the song that for a small time, or a long time, you will call your favorite.

Love is as punishing as fire, and as deep as the ocean. Love well bruise, bend, and kick you while you're down. Love hurts, and love makes you stronger. But you know what's the most ironic thing about love? Through all the agony and pain it may put us through...

We need it.

Exist

I am a whisper in the current of time.
I am a lonely voice in a choir of billions.
I am a single note in the symphony of the universe.

The Aztecs believed that one died 3 times.
Once, when their body stopped functioning, another, when one’s body is laid in the ground, and finally, when the last person on Earth passes, or forgets one’s story.

One day, my story will fade like a breath on a cold day.
One day, my story will be buried under the infinite amount of stories to come.
One day, my story, like the final note of a song, will cease to ring.

But even though my story will eventually come to pass, it existed.

We existed.

Our joys, our struggles, our smiles, our tears - our experiences; existed.
Though there are many stories happening at the present moment, and you have a story of your own, in my story, you play a lead role.

So maybe in the grand scheme of the universe, we are small and insignificant,
But never, for a single second, doubt that you matter in someone’s life.

In my own, you will, and will always be, a part of it.

I hate you.
I hate so many things about you i cannot recall a single word in my vocabulary that can even begin to grasp the amount of hatred i have for you.
I hate the way you walk. The way you talk. The way you dress I hate all of it. Why? Let me explain.

I hate the way you walk. The way your body sulks forward as if the entire world was on your shoulders and not a soul on this planet would lift even a finger to help carry your burdens.

I hate the way you talk. Not about others but about yourself. The way the pain in your words seems to seep out even as you try to mask it with the I'm alright or I'll be fine.

I hate the way you dress. How beautiful your clothes look on you. How every shade of green blue and red seem to be just enough to hide all the little bits of insecurity you harbour underneath. I hate how much time you put into shopping for clothes, thinking about how gorgeous the material is. The softness of the fabric. Thinking that while you wear such amazing, stunning clothing, the body beneath is will never be enough for anyone. Never be enough for you. I hate the way you dress because every piece of clothing you buy, you don’t buy to accent you. You buy it as armour to shield away your beautiful heart that you think is ugly.

I hate your eyes. The way every time I stare at them I see someone who's lost all hope. I hate the way you look into the world as if it was made of black and white. I hate that I have the unfortunate privilege to stare into the eyes of one so broken and so blind to the beauty that is you.

I hate your lips. I hate the way they seem to curve down at the edges, as if any semblance of happiness has been ****** out of your once beautiful shining lips. I hate how every time I look at them I'm reminded that your blind eyes don't realize that those lips are the missing puzzle piece to someone else's.

I hate your ears. Yes. Even your ears. I hate how every time someone speaks to you all you hear are your mistakes. I hate how your ears mangle and twist words of praise and love into indistinguishable words that amount to nothing more than babble or a language unbeknownst to you.

I hate your smile. I hate the way your teeth shine perfectly in the light but your eyes betray that smile as fake. I hate how your smile never conveys a true happiness. I hate how your smile though so beautiful at face value, has never comes from the bottom of your heart.

I hate your laugh I hate how even when you laugh, the forcefulness of your laugh is subtle, but to me its existence is as obvious as a red smudge on a white shirt. I hear it. Every time. You think nobody hears it, but i hear the pain in your laugh.

I hate your body. I hate the way your body curves. How every hair and every odd mark on your skin is suddenly a sin that needs to be atoned for. I hate how your body is so beautiful and perfect the way that it is, and I hate how even if you want to change it, you never find the courage to even though you're highly capable of it.

I hate your hands. I hate how when you look into your hands even if they may be small or big, you truly believe that nobody on this Earth would dare hold them. That somehow, someway you've contracted some sort of disease that has made your hands untouchable to anyone else. That just like your lips you truly believe nobody would dare lock their hands in yours.

I hate you. I hate how beautiful you are. I hate how you can't see it. I hate your loneliness. I hate how every day I need to watch as little bits of you float away and dissolve into nothing. I hate that I ultimately can't do anything for you to make you see any of this. I hate how all I can do is write this stupid poem at 3 17 in the morning and hope and pray that by some ******* miracle maybe I can ignite some sort of light in your heart. That maybe for a second, just one second, you can look away from this poem and realize one color in your black and white world. Maybe you realize the blue of your wall. Maybe you realize the color of your skin. Maybe you realize the green of the grass outside.
Maybe you realize the small pond of blue in an endless horizon of grey clouds.

Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you hate yourself so much.
Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you don't believe

How much I love you.