Often times I wonder,
If I stop feeling this overwhelming sense of sadness
and I get better,
would it be alright to start saying I am ok?

Truthfully, I am afraid of that the most.
I know better than anyone that I want to break free from the
problems that seep into my dreams and turn them into nightmares,
but getting better may be losing it all.

Without it, what am I?

If I am happy, how do I identify myself again?
Is it cruel to think that the nature of who I am is built around my weaknesses or that society has made me more shallow and confused?

When I was six, I recall seeing a young, feeble bird that had fallen out of a tree.
I do not remember the color, the clothing I wore, or why I did it.
I made a beeline for your place; you were kind.
Maybe this is why we are wary of consequences.

I know the weather that day was bright.
Like my personality and aura.

How do you feel knowing I am no longer the person I was?
Not because I have matured, but because I am too afraid to meet my younger self.

In your memories, what kind of child was I?
Do you remember? Do you choose to not?
Or maybe, you really have forgotten.

I sometimes wonder if things are different now, but I still can't face her.

Maybe I am not strong enough yet.

I want her to know I am moving on without her being a burden.
It's cruel, but there is not enough love in my heart.

I'm sorry.

Truthfully, you didn’t love me.
But you did care.

Can I believe you did?
I want to believe you did, to be selfish just once.

Perhaps you were with me
Not for love,
But because it was easier to see me deconstruct my worth
than to see yourself crumble.

There is blue in the way we settle.
The weight of the vulnerability that peaks near dawn.
It doesn’t make itself known
But we still wonder.
Is that the same shade of blue
When we float amidst our dreams
When we talk to our lovers
When we experience sadness.

There is a warmth we do not expect to feel that reveals itself.

Sometimes, I get like that too. Where my day feels very long and it seems like I’m living my very average life, day-to-day on repeat. However, the amount my brain thinks never stops. It’s okay to not do the things we are used to doing once in a while. It’s also okay to not be fine and to feel depressed, sad, or bored with our lives. The important thing is that you know that it is a very temporary moment in the present.

Before you, I never knew an "us."
I came and left as I pleased because I could.
Understanding it didn't hurt me to do so. At all.
Maybe the people I met felt a different connection.
Maybe the weather was brighter for them and the colors more vivid.

Then, in the middle of the sweltering summer heat, you were there.
Wearing a Casio watch that also functioned as a calculator with a half-smoked cigarette in your fingers, nails painted black.
You were so, you. Raw. Unfabricated.

And I loved it.
I loved you.

How we chain-smoked cigarettes and how you wrapped your arms around my waist while I heard the most euphoric laugh ever.

I wish I realized how similar we were. That for us, this was a first.
To wake up so early to meet someone and feel as if each step gets lighter as we near. To whisper in the dark while being unable to close the proximity between us, but feeling the tension of needing to.

You were not another piece on the chessboard.
For me you were real.
And I can't bring myself to provoke a conversation, but I’m thankful.
And wish I could’ve gotten to know “us” longer.

My shadow is splayed beneath me.
She doesn't stir, the silence between us, unbearable.
My thoughts have muddled it's too early to be maudlin.
I must confess,
My aching bones have not settled
These chrysanthemums I grow perish in my arms.
They yearn for the comfort of home,
But fall is too far away
And I am afraid of change.
And to become adulterous lovers with it.

Fragility is the stability of the broken mind
Do not confuse the lies that hold the two down
To be fragile is the empowerment of the vulnerable
To be stable is the advantage of the emotional

He was always loving mother even when mother hid.
Mother was the figure that spoke sentences broken by sin
Mother was the bird in the box
Mother was the solace that had no entrance
Mother was the heat that did not waver
In his eyes,
In her