I cry for help.
I roll my sleeves up,
I keep the under eyes sore and red,
The books I read they are not what you would expect,
I isolate then scream out,
The constant times of me shutting myself in,
The doors are closed so tightly,
I run into the sunset every day, wondering if I could disappear right after colliding with the sunlight.
The ever-tiring struggle to turn around and not pick up the sharpest object I could find,
In every way that makes me smile, while pushing the bitterness deep down in myself, I still cry for help.

I haven’t written anything in a long time,
It has become something I am so used to saying.
I haven’t been writing,
A line I have memorized so well.
To tell.
To remind.
That I haven’t written a set of words,
For the times I didn’t write.

The sea is really just, water. Salt water.
But the beach is special because of the sky splayed wide enough to hug the horizons of the sea.

When the sun gives out the warmth to hearts that go there, hearts that are broken and left unhinged.
When the winter makes the water freeze the feet that try to step and go any further, to repel them of the hungry waves.

Imagine the sea bed a colossal bowl, cradling the entire ocean like a mother would.
The sea is then the dear child of the sky, and the sands.

Some people are picturing it differently, maybe the ocean as the teardrops of clouds,

Clouds that are always departing, constantly bidding farewell to lovers, forever being sorry that they can’t ever be still.

That no matter the tide, they can’t stay and watch the sunset because they have to be up there in the sky, moving with the prevailing wind.

When you first step into love, it’s like walking into your room with feet freshly washed, and you haven’t even dried it yet. But you climb onto your bed anyway, your feet--- left hanging on the rail across the bed, waiting to dry. You love the sheets, and you fear the water dripping from your feet would mess the beauty of the seams.

          The same thing happens with walking into a relationship, you’re scared of giving it your all, of opening up to a soul you have not synced with. And you just keep holding back from feeling comfortable, from being vulnerable. But when you finally want to delve into the mess of it all, you let it all out and you snuggle your soft feet in the blanket and the sheet.

If you love this air,
I will breathe out everything that is in this cage, so it can be converted into fresher ones, until all of them leave this body. And I would not be at ease, until all the morsels, atoms, come into one with the particles of your being.

If you love the city,
I will build one from scratch, bare hands, stones thrown everywhere for a place of love. With these knuckles bleeding, my blood will then turn into a clear river that runs through the cracks of the town.

If you love the colour green,
I will cut through sticks and stones, to make up a whole grassland, splayed wide enough for a town to come alive, and half a space for a meadow. For the picnic we will have at every noon of every sunny day, just like the ones at the prairies.

If you love the rain,
I will learn to sit still on the pavement, to not quiver and run when it rains. I’ll play in it, regardless of the fear I deeply have for the thunders and lightnings. When it finally comes, I’ll stay closer with you, to feel like I am home— even when standing amidst the chaos that the sky brings.

And if you love me,
I will be me, even when being myself is something I despise at times, when hating myself seems most comfortable. I will start and bring good to myself, to love every piece of my actuality that is scattered like the remnants of a hurricane that stops by every 5 minutes. To be delicately in love with all I have to offer. Because you love me.

I’ll wake up 60 years later and write,
I’ll wake up feeling death at its verge,
Tasting joy being bitter and loneliness being sweet.

I still can’t figure out why I left a note, my notion is that things should not be left unexplained.

But a note doesn’t calm things down, not a bland wind not a hurricane. And I would have known, had I paid attention,

To how your heart breaks,
From all the silence and noise altogether.