My mind is this raging hurricane and
you can't calm a storm down lest it wants to be stopped
but mine never seem to want to stop.
Every gush of wind pushes me over
to the edge and forces me to look down
into a never ending medium
where nothing exists.

I'm sorry I'm not lazy, in fact
if you tore apart this facade and
looked inside this skin,
you will find a girl searching
tirelessly for her self worth
and for happiness for
she wants to prevail, she
wants to be loved and she
wants to never stop believing.

But my hands and feet don't stop
adding earthquakes to my storm torn
body. My brain races faster than my
mouth can speak so I'm sorry
if you can't understand what I -

No, it's not that I don't want to see you,
it's just that my heart is running a marathon
and I'm already worn out thinking
about the way I'm going to say "hi",
the way I'm just waiting for the ground
to swallow me whole just to be saved.

the moon learned "love" off by heart
in hopes to impress the sun.


Every breath you gave me, left me
aching in your light which was just
a masquerade for your burning touch.
Though, over the horizon,
you were everybody's
favourite sunset;
while below the horizon,
I was the broken reflection
of the moon.


but it never learned that the pair had
never and will never meet.
and that love is not meant to be
written down and learned
like poetry.

drawn to your emerald greens,
like you are drawn to the sea,
i fell into you blissfully.

your soft-spoken speeches echoes
inside your art-covered walls,
green. it's where breaths have slowed
and quickened into pleasurable moans...
"hey can you please open the window?"

it is funny the way i've grown in fondness
of the colour green, almost like a promise
of our love - an everlasting fluoresce.
yet i still want to loudly profess

all over again,
no motive, just simply me:
i am so in love with you,
with everything i have.
always will be,
always yours.

He watered the flowers in my chest and they blossomed.
I showed him all of the colours on my tongue and he stayed.

He’s like a breath of fresh air,
clearing my mind but filling my lungs.
It’s different and warm. It’s hopeful.
This feels so easy. It’s serene.

There is something remarkable in the way he speaks,
the way he laughs and whispers and sings.
It will remind you of knowledge infused innocence.
Until we’re ******* each other in the kitchen.

We kiss and it’s like I’ve tasted everything sweet,
while my body is being set on fire and
the butterflies’ wings still flutter with desire.
I lay my ear flat against his chest, as I try to
memorise the rhythm of his heartbeat.

We’re driving on an empty highway past borrowed land.
“Paris” is playing at volume thirty five.
I look over and you take my hand.
The rear view mirror is reflected in your green eyes
while the corners of your mouth turns up into a smile,
almost in slow motion. Now I can feel my own grow.

We stay silent but I know and you know:
this is the most profound feeling in life.

Sunlight crept in through the
slits in your blinds,
two bodies intertwined
at 11:30am accompanied by
two glasses of red wine
(quarter full) on your bedside
table, above which your picture
perfectly hangs and aligns with
the painting you finished last night.
Last night. Sigh
I was yours and you mine,
traced my finger along your hairline
while your head rested between my thighs.

These moments only last forever in my mind.

You are a bullet,
harmless, fascinating, daunting -
when unprovoked and on your own.
Except maybe a choking hazard.
Nice to touch and feel on my skin, but cold.

Give you power,
or a gun,
your aim is never accurate but
deadly all the same.

I can replay it - you charging
at the TV with incredible speed -
in slow motion.
The sound that followed was deafening.
It was an ear ringing, catastrophic explosion.
It was your fist meeting the screen,
us screaming and me crying,
on my cut up and bruised knees,
begging for you not to leave.

I had a tendency to chase after bullets
and a desire to fix the mess they would create.
I didn’t realise that I was the one being chased.
And that I was my mess I had to clean up.

I’ve stopped going after bullets.
(But now I play with fire.)

it is:
when lovers sit underneath the stars
and talk about promises;
when we let ourselves taste
the bitterness in rehearsing love,
only to learn to let go.

I’d like to believe in fairytales.

But where’s the one where the princess
hurls her body over the toilet
in order to rid the knot that’s in her stomach.

The one where she argues with the voice in her head,
then disappears for weeks on end,
having to lie to her friends
“I’m fine.”

The one where she finds her “person” charming
time again and again and again
in several different bodies.

And time again and again and again,
they leave her disappointed and wondering
if her happily ever after resides in the strangers
who take up her bed in the morning.
Charming.

But this happy ending doesn’t end with a prince charming,
a broken curse or a “happily ever after”.
This one does not even have “The End” in joint italics in the credits.

This will be a happy ending
with the battle with herself as the final chapter,
neither winning or losing, but drawing.
and her credits will roll in joint italics “The Beginning”.

I’d like to believe in that fairytale.

taking the blame has never been easy for anyone.
it's a shame that it took hundreds of days,
plus months of isolation where
some terrible truths have been confronted,
for me to admit not only
have I been hurt,
so badly to the point my bones ache for me,
my eyes forced to take the weight of simply surviving,
and my feet won't stand at the thought of you;
I also broke some others just as bad.
I should go back in time and apologise
for reflecting my hurt onto something
so wholesome and pure but
"I’m sorry"s sound like such empty promises now and
I should know because
I've been on the receiving end.