-

I'm afraid of you
And afraid of your ideals
And afraid of your thoughts,
your words,
your shields.
And I'm afraid of what
you think of me
I'm afraid of how much
I think of you
And I'm afraid for when
you tell me the
truth

i'm so sorry,
for doing all these things,
and making all these
mistakes,
and i'm so sorry
for not being there
and for not being right
and just and fair
and i'm so sorry
for being two sided
for being a hypocrite
and for being blinded
and i'm so sorry
for being me, with my
clumsy mouth and mind
and my displaced heart
and i'm so sorry

but you do not have to
forgive me.

I turn on my heel
in the blinding darkness,
feet tingling over the warm night sand,
only for the dark to be pierced
by the shining light from the illuminating moon
onto the land.

And below it, the murky waters
mimicking the sky above
In all its dark, sapphire glory.

The sea’s bipolarity inflicts,
as it sways and swishes,
gently hitting against the eroded rocks betwixt,
before stilling momentarily and resuming its dance.

I step forward from the ticklish golden grains,
interrupting the perfection of the sea in front,
slicing through its peaceful layer,
its mood changes: it roars, it shakes.

But I continue, carefully diminishing the ocean surface,
killing it with every step I move forward,
going deeper into its place of sanctuary and refuge.

And then its fury comes into action,
trapping me in its freezing grasp;
I’m stuck, unable to move.
Its revenge is coming, it is inescapable.

Then it happens, by a split second,
the icy depths, now conjugated with the once-still surface,
to make a prison, inescapable, unnegotiable.

Leaping, jumping, pushing me underneath its shallow exterior,
I scream a noiseless scream, lungs burning with misery.
The melancholy is true, inevitable.
There is nothing I can do, but calm underneath the covering.

I am going to die.

But I wake up,
in my bed, though in a cold sweat.
“It was a doomed dream,”
but no, it was not.

For though I may have not drowned
physically and ******,
I am already dead,
emotionally and mentally.

And as I walk through the shattered glass of Consequence,
I see that it may have just been better off as a reality,
for my world is already drowning me,
but this time, the sea, the tormentor
doesn’t have this much magnificence and beauty.

And I battle it every day,
listen to its insulting notions,
back and forth, back and forth.

It doesn’t understand
what I have to go through.
the constant demand of society
is enough to want me to bid adieu.

“What the hell is wrong with you?
You’re a piece of dirt,
no matter how hard I rub off the stain,
it just never comes off, it always grew.
That stupid stain is you.”

Yet I still must go through it,
non-stop, every second of my conflicting life,
not a single moment of peace,
not even in my sleep.

As I walk through the burning abyss of Memory,
I am bombarded by the bleeding wounds,
not yet healed, fresh and open,
and it hurts, the pain is unbearable.

The fighting doesn’t stop,
I’m told that I’m hated,
worthless, unneeded,
“Go, leave, go die,” it stated.

I must battle with my mind.
I must carnage with myself.
And it’s not going to ever end.

I’m better off going to the cemetery.

Because this is the world I must endure.

You are a bruise,
    ever-changing in hue
You are too hard to predict,
      your mind a limitless labyrinth

You are medallion yellow,
       painted illness by the goddess' rays
You are aegan blue,
        boiled a facade of too much of new
You are parakeet green,
           hidden underneath an opal like scene
You are mauve purple,
             controlled by the end and its inevitable stage

You are my colour,
              highlighting my pain.
You are my end,
               unravelling the game.

slick, sturdy, undeniably burgundy
whippy, supple, but no need for more than
a couple

a needle, sharper than the sharpness of the ice cream snow, shrouding my metallic skin like but an extension of my ice fingers, so perfect, so wonderfully clear and clean

*the bow is my mind and the strings my queen

There is no such thing as silence,
For there is always the clock, ticking in your ear.

Yellow
when the trumpets sound
Blue
for the apocalypse is coming
Green
everything is dying
Red
i'm falling to the ground
Orange
for the dying sky
Brown
for the day we will all die
Pink
nothing left to say
Purple
your tongue has been torn off anyway
because you do not deserve to talk
your mouth holds those unwanted words
******* away to be heard
do you not see the colours?
do you not feel the wind?
the earth is dying, burning, freezing
this ice inferno to begin
but all you think about are
words

what a curious world
but what a regulated curiousity
i'm not allowed to know what that spot is
because it'll hurt me
but i'm told that being gay is bad
and that won't?

The crinkles at your eyes,
Not allowing tears to escape

Darling,
                          plait my hair with the silk of your fingers, weave
                          my locks to a mellifluous status.
                                                      
                                                            Darling,*
     caress my face as though it is
worthy of your notice,  touch me like no
     one else can.

i
am the coward
that i
so pity
for not fearing
words
soon enough

is not the black hole,
the remnants of something that
once used to shine from
a million light years
above
a sign
that death does not
limit, but empower?

i did not expect love and care from you,  but i didn't expect such a bitter fate. i didn't decide i was done with it, but i didn't decide i'd continue.  i didn't want to be involved but i didn't say it was a choice. i didn't want to feel reliance but i had to submit.

we sit. weary pupils dilate as we watch
the dying day mourn lilac tears onto
rosy cloud-cheeks,
eyes widen like it's an action movie
and the night has begun to wake
its warriors - or worse,
it's a documentary, and
someone's burning van gogh's stars
back into oblivion. lord, we're watching
universes fall and bleed
-but the film stops there.
our sentiments are unscripted,
it's just that chill that creeps up our
collars and strokes our
amygdalae enviously-
               and i daresay, to our sightcaptor
        who begins to reach her way in
                    and withdraw, simultaneously,
      i dare speak:

          do
          not
        touch
          me

but it's hard to stay cool
when you love the face of the sun
and must sing her to sleep.

An electric current; the slightest surge
quaking, pulsing through your veins.
Your pores rising, stubble standing;
goosebumps have caught you again.

It creeps up my spine, entangling
around the cord
Until it pounces, electrifying
my soul.

feverish, fervent
frantically observant
forever more

Eyes narrow, beady
Heart green, seedy
Unextinguishable fire

they ask me the colour of my soul and i say
mustard
and then they ask why and i have to think

is it because its bright but coated in a layer
of dust
not grey but not entirely yellow bright?

there is a lump not so modestly residing in the back of my throat
forcing me to stay silent because if i speak i'll probably squeak and the tears will start dripping
please, can someone tell me what it is that i'm feeling?

Sighs
fill the room
Twists
break the bed
Warm breath
on my neck
moonless days
and moonless nights
But there's still a light
Just one glint
much too bright
for me to see
And the river flows
the sounds too far
for me to hear
in the black darkness

it must be fun.
watching nonchalantly, not a care in the world, dancing to your electro-pop ballads of **** and drug misuse, numb to the pain that you left me to endure.
it must be hilarious.