she was a diamond,
glistened in stone.
she wiped my tears away
when i was alone.

and when she'd smile, i would too after.
say a joke, end up in laughter.
she'd cheer me up when i was down.
when she told me not to worry
she said "it will not hurt me."
i wish she still was with me now.

she was my shooting star,
a wish come true.
she kept me in her heart
even though i barely knew.

she sings
in the summer rain.
hear the lyrics
within her amethyst heartbeat
as she reaches
for your lavender locks.
the rhythms
within your rhapsodic bones
stand a little straighter
with every stroke, every strum.
the chords of crystal chrysanthemums
cascade through your veins
as her delicate songs
draw dimples into your amygdala.
her melodic nostalgia
mesmerizes the matutinal lights,
her battles inspire instrumentals
into your branches.
you'll find twisted tempos
at the foot of her talents
and come to admire
the a cappella hegemonies
that hum into her aortas.

my head is often riddled with tastes that never quite reach the tongue,
tastes of tapping fingers along the crystallized blue. no one ever thinks
to check the mind of the depressed after the first smile.
i like to think that i am the next sylvia plath.
i may be no poetic genius but i’ve crawled under the house and seen
too much too many times to count.
sometimes i pray that i never live to hear the next morning song, or that
i am haunted by something other than daddy’s heirloom as i do at every
waking moment. i compare my veins with plath’s as every wrong
breath is taken, and my amygdala can’t help but formulate my anxiety
into tastes that never quite reach the tongue.

i know i am not sylvia plath.
i am not brave enough to face the queen of the underworld
and so take on the persona of lady lazarus. cowardly,
i cannot bring myself to set fire to my lungs
so all i can do is lay back and let the birds catch the worms,
leaving messes that keeping me from staying clean.

my hips ache for her arms around them.
my hands tremble for her hands to hold them.
my cheeks burn for her lips to kiss them.
my knees stumble for her feet to guide them.

my head falters for her shoulders to ease it.
my heart hungers for her love to feed it.

the birds outside were getting loud,
so loud that i was willing to feed them
with worms that formed on my skin.
pink, red, brown worms on my thighs -

they can have it.

the girl with the blue heart
waits by the bus stop
hoping someone would come and take her away.
a tumor had formed in her chest
from when she got drunk on stolen love.
she reeked of liquor, anxiety, desuetude,
and the fear that she may never be loved.

the girl with the blue heart
wasn't always like this;
her heart was once golden
with forest green streams running through her veins.
geraniums and chrysanthemums adorned her face
and kissed her lips like milk and honey.

now the girl with the blue heart
speaks with a mouth full of cobwebs
and the never-ending desire
to crawl six feet deep into the ground.
her caesious fingertips
chased maladies down the boulevard
until she reached dead ends.

the girl with the blue heart
craves nothing more than nepenthe,
melatonin,
and a place to call home.

i was weaving through lit-up boxes
with lollipops as joysticks.
i was following a fairy that left
a trail of violet pixie dust
behind her iridescent wings
and streams of what do you want to play?
i sensed the glare of a drunken owl's eyes
singe into my back as i traced letters
on the surface of a toy chest:
i'm sorry baby, it read,
yet he lowered his gun until it reached
just the tip of his wings
and he fired.
he fired life into the words i wrote,
life that made the words i wrote surround me,
suffocate me.
he was drunk on restless nights,
wanting to
f
  e
    e
      l
         love again.
love, love, lust, love;
does he even know the difference?
suddenly i felt the flat surface
of a blade stroking my back,
teasing me of my death.
are you having fun?

     do you want to know what real fun is like?

his embrace stole innocence from my lungs
and the kisses he planted on my cheeks
burned holes into what was once a rosy pink,
into what was once of joyful skin.

you lost weight, he acknowledged with a smirk,

     *you look amazing.

heart rate at 23 beats per minute.
people pacing, patients fading,
and i take my sweet time, not grieving in it.

called to cut, scalpel in hand;
sliding through their skin
at my own command.

mindless and ignoring
the moans and groans
between the man’s snoring
and the chill in his bones.
and as i intervened within his dreams
there came a scream from he
and a thrill within my bloodstream.

“pain”.
pain is an illusion.
an illusional delusion.
i’ve heard complaints
of pain from punches
but i tell you,
these pleas for ease
are false yet i
answer to them to appease.

you must not be so quick to judge
my sanity or insanity
or lack of grievances for calamities.
i swear to you,
i am not ill,
nor do i crave to ****,
and though you’d think that
from the way i behave,
it is not com-plex,
not con-vex nor con-cave.
my sole purpose,
i believe so,
is to serve others
by easing their “pain”.
do not underestimate me,
nor the amount
of lives i’ve “saved”.

i am telling you
of a true story
from the perspective of myself
ten years time ago.
this was when i,
for once,
had a twinkle in my eye.

i run the midnight shift
and spend most of my free time
with the patient in room 46.
i lay in bed beside him
and together we dream.
with our hands intertwined,
we dream that the stars align,
and i wish for patient 46 to be fine.

as i fill patient 46’s lungs with air,
he fills mine with a kind of
sensation no one could ever replace
and though i will never be able to
accurately describe it,
i wish the feeling will never go away.

rapid response team.
running.
i’m running,
reaching for my dream.
patient 46 is running (out of time),
reaching for the heaven’s gleam.
51 beats…28…9…flatline.

patient 46 dead on january 23 at 23:59.

“pain”
pain is an illusion,
an illusional delusion.
i’ve heard complaints
of pain from punches
but i tell you,
these pleas for ease
are nothing
compared to love’s disease.

SHE* used to be innocent and young and pure
but SHE had no idea about the pain SHE would endure.
ten years in the same school, pre-k to eighth
SHE was the teacher's pet, popular, and always got straight a's.
SHE was the eldest daughter of a family of five,
never dared to touch fire or stroke the blade of a knife.
everything was perfect, or so SHE thought,
but seventh grade was when SHE became distraught.
boys chased after her and dared each other to ask her out,
but between impatient teachers and drama queens, SHE couldn't tell what any of it was about.
SHE was caught up in drama that trapped her in a dome
but the real trouble was going on at home.
her father worked alone, and finances made him stressed
but her mother stayed home, not knowing of the tumor in her chest.
SHE begged her mother to see someone, even though SHE knew
that her mother would keep holding it off and saying, "soon".
in eighth grade, SHE was distracted by high school and her future life,
as was her father, though he should've paid more attention to his wife.
after her mother's birthday, SHE received news
that the tumor in the woman that raised her grew.
SHE felt heartbroken, an invisible pain in her chest,
but SHE didn't think SHE could possibly hurt more than her mother's breast.
months passed by, SHE was still looking for schools,
unaware of the fact that her dreams were to be overruled.
SHE aimed high, dreamed to board in new york,
but better opportunities knocked at her door.
more months passed, and SHE got a grip on the rope,
and her mother's cancer was removed, giving the family hope.
now SHE lives in a place SHE feels that SHE belongs
with friends that feel like family, that made her strong.

all was well, SHE had faith within her
until the night of thanksgiving dinner.
her mother was to drive, but was in so much pain, her mother cried,
and when SHE asked if her mother was okay, the only response SHE got was "i'm fine".
her mother did her best to swallow the pain
until SHE and her father brought her to the doctor again.
exactly a year after her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer,
SHE thought it would be over, but SHE received an opposing answer.
another tumor was developing from an escaped single cell
now in her mother's liver, and SHE felt her life turning to hell

again.

and while wondering where SHE should've been, ran into the embrace
of a woman (SHE considered her big sister)
who gave her the love SHE needed, and SHE felt safe

until her mother died eleven days later.

SHE'd never felt pain any greater.
SHE'll never forget seeing her mother in that **** hospital bed,
hoping it was all just a big, bad nightmare, and her mother wasn't actually dead.

SHE wanted a distraction, craved laughter and pleasure
but SHE was being followed around by her drunken uncle, and that scared her.
SHE tried to ignore him and her camera in his hand
tried walking away, thinking it was a simple thing SHE could withstand.
SHE fought back tears whenever he touched her and called her baby;
SHE couldn't see, couldn't run, couldn't scream, because everything felt hazy.

weeks passed, SHE returned to school and felt like SHE was getting better
with the help of her friends and her mother's sweater.
but even when in the focus of her friends and in the arms of her big sister,
SHE always thought about her mother, SHE obviously missed her.
SHE became scared for her family, future, and her sexuality
and these worries slowly killed her and messed with her mentality.
within that time, SHE fell in love,
something SHE felt deprived of.
time with the girl SHE loved felt rushed and abrupt
and SHE starting thinking SHE wasn't good enough.
SHE overthought whatever came to mind,
leading to an anxiety that cried her eyes dry.
now SHE lives in fear of worries sneaking up behind her back;
now SHE waits for the next attack.

SHE had her life flipped upside down,
SHE had smiles that turned into frowns.
SHE feels like her world is out of control.
SHE feels her life slowly stolen from her soul.

i'm walking across the rigid slabs of concrete
with the echoes of sirens etched into my hippocampus.
my pace quickens along with the pounds of an anxious heartbeat in a race against the carousel of red and blue because one day
they'll be coming for me too.

you took the shards of glass
          cutting my hands
                    and turned them
                              into flower petals.

baby, i still love you.

we stood there in each other's arms,
waiting for the waves to pass,
and though we were both scared of the water,
she grabbed a handful of seaweed
and seashells and starfishes,
weaving them into a crown
made specially for me.
she held it behind my back,
hiding it until the tides lowered.
she saved me from drowning
when i was about to give in.
i will make you believe
you are lovely,
she hummed with the sea breeze.
half of me wanted to take her hand
and walk through the ocean she parted,
yet the other half of me wasn't sure
if i could make her believe that she is too.

you asked for 15 minutes
to play with clear glass marbles
and grieve in it;
but instead twirled with dragons
in a clever patchwork and
a rodeo in your bandwagon.
light killed you on a crucifix
auditioning to give your spirit a lift;
started it all when you were six.
rented a loft to store your tears
hide hair ribbons in nail holes
that have been dead for thirty years.
you wanted to release hammers between sets
but you were stuck making french fries in coffee shops
and you hadn't told your husband yet.
now the clock reads eight and you're on your knees,
praying to saint margaret,
begging her to cut your cheek.

you had stuffed your mouth with stained glass
in hopes that they would block out
the dull and muted words you spoke
(and replace them with colorful vocabulary),
but stained glass isn't opaque.