Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
alasia May 4
I feel as though I am a slave to destruction, knees nailed to rickety floorboards that creak against creation. I am head bowed, pleading for pleasure against the cacophony of the ******, washing white floors with grime. I am the harbinger of ends, an omen of unhappiness. I am question marks, red streaks, spilled coffee on loved words. I am torment, tormented by the ways I’ve been tormenting the things I love. I am oceans inviting and striking with no warning, hurricanes gently shaking before swallowing and devastating, promise land offering refuge and whiting out identities because nobody gets to be free. I am shackled to remorse, self hatred, anxiety. A prisoner of pain, daughter of broken glass, born in spider breaks, marked by shards and splinters. I am the whisper of ruin rattled through crows calling home across worlds and realms. I am jutted bones cutting into flesh collecting blood for breakfast and sorrow for supper, feeding famine to families I am familiarly unfamiliar with. I am cast away, fallen angel, victim to the rise of hope and sequestered from safety. Left to forage fight in fields long forgotten, to discover decades of indecency and be punished by punishing the lucky ones. The thinned wrist souls slipping from restraints, to make commodity of clear consciouses, and deliver doom promised by our ancestors. I am an agent of misery, a companion of karma, nothing more than a slave to destruction.
alasia Nov 2017
How long will this last? Layering word over word un able to erase you from my book, forever stuck on this chapter, reliving you:reliving losing you. Trying to move on feels impossible when you are inked into the pages of my heart, dictating my story with your absence. I chose forgetting you but you are in his eyes and his smile and I try to envision you holding him but your face is fading under the pressure to remember you. I can not speak of you with casualty when you are a casualty, a cruel mind consuming thought eating me alive at the sound of your name. I wonder if you thought “how long will this last?” as you propelled towards non existence. I wonder if you writhed in pain or were gone before you could form a single thought. You said I was your family and I feel the weight of being your family as I cry these guilted tears that should not belong to me. He has watched me cry with the same fixation as shadows on the wall that they say are you, I am haunted by every stolen kiss, bounce, and moment he learns something new: I have stolen these from you. Held him when you could not, cried in fear of losing her when the screams ceased. White walls and beeps of hospital bells I clench my fist until the nurse tells me he is born and healthy and I can not be joyous because I can’t hear her anymore, how is she when can I hold her and I feel wrong, feel as though he is a gift and I am too selfish to be grateful, reminded of the night I drank myself to tears and screamed I didn’t want him, we couldn’t do this without you: and I’m still not sure we can. He was born healthy but full of holes we cannot mend. She tries but she is sure she’s not enough as she pins your hat above his crib and tapes your pictures to the walls and plays your music as his lullabies. Of course I love him. But I miss you, too. I am sick of being consumed with death, surrounded by loss, motivated by anger, you left mid sentence and no amount of rewrites spell out the right goodbye. You had only good things coming and I can’t help being plagued by these thoughts, the ones that swear to me that I should have been the one to die. How long will this last?
Naming the girl sadness.
alasia Oct 2017
All these night lights flicker like wisps of secrets that we whisper under the assumption our words will be forgotten when the sun spills out of the clouds. Blowing out candles until spirals of smoke dance to the cacophonous truths we set free. Darkness is a blanket fort where children's honesty is set free to the tone of ghost stories: haunted by the people we do not love back, followed by the definition of love, smothered by the guilt of growing up. She talks about our future like it can fill the hollows in our present. Like a big house and big job and two dogs can ease my mind away from how I clumsily attempt to keep up with her racing forward attitude. She is falling backwards gripping her adoration like a rope lassoed around my neck as though she is the only person I am trying, I am trying, to keep stable. To her there is only her and us. To me there is a small village on the brink of collapse filling the margins of my lecture notes and my customer service smile is plastered on my face every time she forces her imaginations into my realities. History promises me I can do it all. Survive the darkness until the bright comes back again: like clockwork. There is strength in these nights, a certain gleam of its own. Falling down is not the end but the point in which I reassess and plot my own plan for my future. There is hope in the blackness, in the now, in her and I, and all these night lights.
*Struggles
Rising to fall and falling to rise
alasia Jul 2017
I should apologize for the days I am withdrawn. This is not what you signed up for. I should apologize for when I don't want to speak or communicate with touch or when I want to be without you but also do not. My indecisiveness is appalling: and I should apologize for that. But today I do not want words. I do not want to be felt because I feel you grabbing and pulling instead of caressing and comforting. You have not done anything wrong. I am just mean. I am just inside myself today and when you want to know what is up I want you to accept that I say the sky instead of pressing for more. My thoughts are poison right now. You shake me like a magic eight ball and I keep thinking try again later but saying not likely. I have the capacity to be kind but my words are pinpricks in your chest and every time I claw you with my numbness I inwardly cringe because I don't mean it, I am sorry, and I should apologize. But I can't. I can not bring myself to vocalize that I am not okay because you'll want to help and I don't want to be okay. Not yet. I want to hide in my closet and cry without company. I want time to myself today. But I don't want to hurt you. I am sorry. You are no burden. I am withdrawing. Not from you, but from me. I don't want to be kind, or resilient, or strong today. I just want to fold into myself, I want to be small and insignificant. I am tired of being fun and happy, it's tiring work. I need time to be low without an interrogation. I just want to be empty for a moment. And I should apologize.
alasia Jul 2017
He said beautiful people have it easy. But he was wrong. He looked at her like he could look at her forever but forever is a smashed headlight now. She is no longer the tree gnawed with illness but a picture, a smile trapped in a flash, she only lives there. She loops like a scratched disc. She collects blame in her pockets and paints her walls with her faults. She stares at the parts of him he left her with and her eyes: those eyes like dew shine. She is supposed to love him forever. She is supposed to love. How can she love when she claws her arms at the sound of tires and gravels. When she can not make him stop crying. She can not cry. She wants a freedom but there is no escape to the life he left her. Where is the simplicity in fathers days in graveyards, in explaining why she is alone, in proving she is strong enough to do this. To do this all. To rise above the rumours in the roses and sort through the cards that swear things that he "would have wanted" and the hugs that promise he loved her. Only her. He would have loved her forever if forever could have been longer than DOA. He says --he said-- beautiful people have it easy: but he was wrong.
alasia Jun 2017
Could you stay a while longer?

Your chest against my chest, your ear to my heart, in silence and syrupy breath? Hold on to my wrists, rest your lips on my neck: "the world is quiet here". It is ours here. There is nothing but your eyes, nothing but your skin, nothing but intimacy. The right kind of intimacy. The kind of closeness that makes me want, need, to pull you closer until you can not be any closer and you are still not close enough.

Don't leave me.

Please,

don't hurt me.

Sing me to sleep. I just want to sleep underneath the weight of the feelings that make my heart feel like it is sinking, losing itself to you. I want to be lost to you, and these feelings, and these blue patterned sheets but reality ****** my fingers until I'm clawing at your back like you're going to escape me.

I don't want to talk about how scared I am.

You will leave me.

Stare at me so I can memorize your eyes for when the day comes. Right now I just want to be with you.

Could you stay a while longer?
alasia May 2017
Emotions are sewn into every stitch I make as I remember. Crooked like their crooning voices serenading each other under the blanket of black sky. Off track like their entangled limbs. Long like their memories and short like their fights. She blew out birthday candles and I wished he were there: I didn't ask what she wished for. She dons her black sky dress, cradling their moon. She falls apart in the car as she sings alone. They say he is sleeping I know how he slept: beside her, facing her, living only on her breaths. She checks her phone like they are arguing and he has wrote her yet another novel. I sew her dress up to cover her heart so when it explodes she can salvage it later. She says she does not feel the right to cry I say he loved her and we are eclipsed by silence. By our guilt heavy hearts. She put on the dress today and I pray my work is strong enough to hold her body as she splinters. She quivers like the tires on his car when he would drive too fast, she can not touch him but she needs him to hold her. We hold her. She does not want to make a spectacle. We all want to come home to him in our driveway but we know better. My thread has kept her in place for the day: but each stitch in me is unravelling.
Next page