img: sweat dripping down the curve of her neck, seeping through the collar of her shirt, tugging down said shirt & fanning herself, a popsicle, a wicked tongue lazily swirling around the top, a whisper & a light breeze by the ear, hot & bothered, warm, safe, loved, lusted after, all the same, cicadas crying out, hazy memories, hair messily pinned up, tiny pecks & heavy kisses, giggles, *** & cuddles, no blankets, cat & pup, iced tea, condensation dripping & pooling on a desk, sunlight streaming through the blinds, hands intertwined, soaked sheets, content smiles, bliss

may 13th, 9:22 pm
it's so silly to think that you used to be so warm underneath me and now you're underneath the ground six feet in and no one to love or kiss your broken fingers

may 16th, 8:41 pm
i wish you didn't have to leave me
i wish you could've killed me yourself
your heart's too soft for that though and i love you all the more for it
that's still not stopping me from missing you still

may 27th, 12:34 am
i loved you
i still do
******* for leaving and not telling me about it
how could you have done that
you caught me unaware, you *******
i miss you

jul 6th, 11:32 pm
my chest hurts
i don't think it's my ribs this time
it feels deeper

jul 18, 4:03 pm
i wish you and i had been a little stronger
i wish i had a chance to see your greying hair
to kiss your wrinkled eyelids
to wrap myself around you
'til death do us part

jul 20, 2:47 am
death came a little early for you, darling
you were my dream

jul 23, 6:08 pm
you still are.

and no matter how much i tell myself that i will never be anything to you but a hole to ****, as i twist my head back to look at you, your eyes closed with bliss, the space between your eyes wrinkled, and your lips stuttering with harsh grunts with every ****** of your body in me,
a whine escapes my mouth,
and almost carelessly, as if it cost you nothing at all,
you reach down down down;
mercy comes in the form of your tongue on my lips, and like a parched traveler, i drink from your mouth
as if it were an oasis in this ****** wasteland

i hate writing
i hate the whole process of having to destroy and to rebuild myself
i hate the way some words just won't flow right; the ideas are there, the heart and the soul, but not the words, god, not the words
i hate the way my muse keeps me up on completely inconvenient times, three in the morning, or two in the afternoon
i hate the way i have to bleed across the page to make something i can barely call good
god, i ******* hate writing

and you dare stand up from the sheets where our body fluids have mixed and dried, wordlessly dressing yourself up and leaving the echo of the door closing in your wake and just you ******* wait i'm going to lace your tea with poison, and oh, isn't it just unfortunate that your house has this terribly long staircase and your wife just always had to wear frighteningly high heels?

but then again, you'd like that, wouldn't you? you at my mercy just like a few hours ago when i pinned your wrists above your head and your pelvis under the curve of my ****, painfully teasing you with the slow drag of my hips, impaling myself on you, raising myself up so so slowly until only the head of your **** catches on the lips of my entrance and i slam myself back on you, as you gasp and gasp and gasp, begging for release, for mercy, like the pathetic lover you are with your cries spurring me on, the trembles of your body betraying you, betraying your wife, but never betraying me because you know, ******* you, you know, deep inside, that you are mine—you are mine and i will never let you go

choke me*, you gasp in the blinding heat of your embrace
his movements falter but return with more vigour, as if such a thing was possible
you guide his hands to your neck as if guiding a child lost in his path;
and yes, maybe you both are still children
trying to find ways to survive in each other
his nails dig into your pulse, into your airways
and never have you been more intimate
he is inside you,
wholly,
completely
within the cages of your ribs
and your lungs try to gasp for air
but it really doesn't change anything much
(you've been breathless around him for quite awhile, after all)
you still seek for his lips,
his tongue in your mouth;
you want to **** everything from him
into you
until you both become too entangled
and neither of you could be distinguished from the other

your moans stamped themselves on my skin,
but your laughter ripped my ribs apart and kissed this broken heart

you've always believed in two things religiously:
1) if you want something, you have to pull your hair back, grit your teeth, and work for it.
2) stopping from improving is regressing.

tonight, i realise that it was never about winning.
never about getting that medal or that spot on the stage.
it was silly of me to think that you just wanted my blood on your hands.
starving for recognition from your blood family, you were in a completely different competition than i was.

we carried corpses on our bruised shoulders.
they pushed against our broken backs; our swollen knees trying to keep our bodies upright.
you once told me i had a face that was good for punching,
and, oh god, i'd have had let you if it meant your hands on my skin.

in the end, what's left was this:
a single note in a cacophony of screams.

you are dead.
you are dead.
you are dead.

maybe if i keep repeating it to myself, i'd start believing it.

and yet it's far too late for impulsive declarations of love.
too late for so many things.

(but some days, i like thinking of you, thinking of me.)

and you helplessly look at him, your eyes following every curve of his face;
the curls of his dark hair, wetly plastered on his forehead, his flush high on his cheeks, his grin and his warm, warm eyes, looking down on you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever seen and wouldn't dare look away as if every second he lived shouldn't be wasted not staring at you
and so, chest undeniably tightening under the force of his smile and the way his glasses are messily porched on his nose, you think to yourself, god, good god, this man. i love this man so much i could die.

pressed against the cold bricks
outside the church,
she smiles around your lips,
her breath harsh on your face,
her scent compelling you with want;
you ravish her mouth,
thinking that maybe if you went deep enough,
you could stay inside her forever.
the drizzle comes to a stop,
and you hear nothing but the pastor saying:
Refrain from sin,
and He will let you in His Kingdom!

the crisp burnt wind
cuts through your parched lungs as
filthy sweat runs down your back
you gasp and you moan and you scratch and you groan—
you relish the rough touches of her hands
on your neck
you breathe
you breathe
you breathe

it's always been like this, you think.
she whispers in the dead of the night,
like the devious, bold Lilith,
and you blindly follow.
without fail, like a fool,
you walk her footsteps,
feeling like you're running on air.
you know what's happening,
what she's doing--
yet you still do as she wishes.

outside your window,
the branches of the trees you see
look like skeletal hands waving at you,
laughing at your idiocy.

a sudden warmth
causes you to arch your back
like a lover in heat,
your tongue peeks out from your lips
and the breeze catches on the sweat on your brow,
cruelly teasing you.

drifting through the atmosphere,
she lets you come close
but stops as your muscles tighten.
her breath ghosts over your painfully tense chest—
you reach for her,
but she disappears
as if she was born from a fire extinguished,
silenced,
by the wind.

dawn breaks,
and the circle is still unbroken.

you both sprung from the greens,
and now you have been wrapped in the color of rust.

why are you so enchanted by the light?
why do you keep on sticking to bright streetlamps
when strolling
through cold, quiet streets
bare of any living being?

(with their fingers crossed behind their backs
and knives hidden in their smiles)
the creatures mischievously sneaking around in the dark
are given the benefit
of spotting you right away

they easily observe you
(and see through your hesitant footsteps and shivering arms)
from a safe distance
and wait
for the chance to pounce

what is it
that makes you so
terrified
of the darkness?

is it because of the stories your mother told you
when you were a wee, little thing?
when you could barely understand the words coming out of her mouth?
when all you could believe in were your mother's words?

"Remember this: always walk under the streetlights, so the monsters don't chase you. They're terribly frightened by the light."

child,
do not be afraid
of slipping in the darkness.
do not be afraid
of what kind of unknown being lurks inside.
do not be afraid
of breathing the same air as your predators.

why not blend with them
as they search through their surroundings
all terribly confused
as to where their prey was
as you observe
(and see through their hesitant eyes and shivering backs)
from the shadows
and wait
for the chance to pounce?

/ after all,
creatures of the dark
rarely expect the attack
coming from their own side,
don't they? /

1.) i don't want another kid to feel the same way i did.

2.) some kids just really want to be hugged and told that they are loved.

3.) some kids need to know that someone cares about them.

4.) some kids are too sad that they become misunderstood—

5.)—i want to understand.

6.) i want kids to grow up not thinking that they wanted to die every time they woke up.

8.) i want kids to understand that violence will never be the answer—

9.)—nor is self-harm—

10.)—and most especially, not suicide

11.) i want kids to grow up feeling happy with themselves even though the adults around them can't.

12.) i want kids to grow up thinking that they are beautiful and worth every single breath they are given.

13.) i want kids to accept themselves for who they are, not for what their parents want them to be.

14.) i want kids to learn how to love not only others, but especially themselves.

15.) some kids struggle to trust the people around them because of adults (who are supposed to reassure them and make sure they are safe).

16.) living *****, and kids especially need all the help they need.

17.) i want kids to feel hope inside of them—

18.)—to feel like they're living instead of simply existing.

19.) i want them to know that there is and always will be hope for them—

20.)—regardless of grades, race, gender, ****** orientation, age, physical appearance, clothes, hair color, piercings, etc., etc.—

21.) —because those things don't—shouldn't—matter to others at all.

22.) i want kids to feel and know that there is someone who wants to listen to them—

23.)—someone who isn't "too busy for their whininess and angsts".

24.) i want them to feel as comfortable as they are in their own bodies—

25.)—not want them to rip their eyeballs out of their sockets or to starve themselves until their weights drop faster than a rollercoaster because they "weren't good enough".

26.) i don't want them to grow up thinking of "all adults are awful" as an amazing alliteration.

27.) i want them to know they are worth every single day they wake up.

28.) i want them to learn the meaning of "love"—

29.)—agape, most especially.

30.) i want them to believe in themselves.

31.) and i want them to keep on believing in this world.

(because we're all just people broken in many different ways trying to survive in this world, aren't we?)

love is in the little things.

the way a couple would hold hands and smile softly—not minding the snow gently falling around them nor the cold harshly reminding them of their time limit—because it was enough for them, wasn't it? the warmth between the molecular spaces of their fingers entwined together.

the way he would wake up first and press a chaste kiss on her forehead. the way she would open her eyes and giggle after he leaves the room.

the way their eyes would sparkle when they catch the other looking at them.

the way their hands would subtly brush by each other and slowly intertwining as one, finger by finger.

the way he'd leave the horoscope page of the newspaper spread open on their coffee table with their signs both encircled in red. the way she'd leave a small bit of poetry right where he left the newspaper, letting him see through a little piece of her.

the way she'd lean her head on her shoulder as they both gazed at the stars. (even though they know that their own personal star was right beside them.)

the way he'd put his head on his lap as the other worked through their balances on the floor of their tiny apartment.

they way they'd carry the other to their bedroom, seeing as their significant other fell asleep on the couch (probably waiting for them to come home).

love may be a coup de foudre—a wild hurricane with passionate storms.

but love is also the earth—solid, steady,
home.

there will come a time
when you'll find yourself lost
in the blazing throes of passion,
and you'll forget what the meaning of right is
because you know what you're doing is wrong,
but it just feels so **** right.

in this stressful society we have,
so much slanders,
                              sins,
                                     scandals
                                                     have been scrutinized over
and over
              again
for the satisfaction of sardonic,
                      scornful,
      "sacred"
­disparagers.

      nothing shocks me more
           than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others
  based on the dehumanizing standards
                                                       ­            of mankind.

shackled
              by the scalding hands of screeching vermins,
why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred--
                                  stuttering,
     ­                                                shuddering,
              screaming
for help
because simple succors are never,
                                       have never been,
                                         will never be
                                                                  enough?

why
       do we keep letting ourselves be singled out
as stigmas
        when "failing" society's endless scans for
superficial perfection?

*(how sickening.)

galaxies
  in your eyes,
constellations
  on your cheeks,
the sun
  on your lips
oh,
  how you put the universe to shame!

at first,
he had felt that
everything was going too fast
and that he could only stand and stare
as the world passed by.

now,
his whole world
became her,
and never had it been so
easy (painful)
as before.

and i suppose
               that you are a window—
    playing it safe,
        observing everything
  from a distance.
       (and i suppose
                    that i
             am your curtains.)

we have two ears
     and
  a mouth
            for a reason.

*humans,
             by nature,
     are supposed to be
                  creatures
   that listen.

judge
     by the color of one's heart,
not
     by the color of one's skin.

imagine—
   flying, flying
  dancing with the wind
       singing to the lights
         and
    feeling absolutely
exhilarated.


only to be stripped of your wings—

and forced to crawl on the ground.


(and society will make you learn its ways until you eventually get slaughtered.)

but i will never be silent.

scream
  loudly.
     fill this world—this void
with your colors.

raise your head up high,
    chin up.
never forget—
       nonetheless, forgive.

          let the wild beating of your heart
 run and dance with this stuffy atmosphere.

let it all be free.

a foreign flag hanging overhead.
deaths of many soldiers.
darkness looming on a seemingly sunny day.
freedom—close enough to touch, but not to taste.

closing her eyes,
an old, weary grandmother sighs.

and blows the candles.

pure, white walls
stare back
at the figure
trying to stand up
on their own two feet.

said person staggers
and breathes
into the deafening silence.

you look below
and see the ****** mess
that was your friend.

the fifty-meter distance from the ground
teases you.

and lures you down.

how do
people
go
insane?

they say
they drown in it.
isn't it more like,
suffocating?

you either choose
to stop breathing,
and the drive to
control yourself
will get to you,
andor
you just
run out of
air to breathe.

as some people have said,
everyone wants to be the flower,
but someone has to fill the role of its vase.
and it's all ridiculous,
because why be either
when you can be
yourself?

it's six in the morning,
and the birds aren't singing.
the clouds are rumbling,
and the winds are roaring.
this quite old
and creaky house
somehow manages to muffle
the noises—
with the help
of my cozy, blue blanket,
a warm cup of black coffee,
and you,
Mom.

the thoughts
running through
my head
i cannot
debug.

(is it time to install
an antivirus?
or to continue to
be stubborn
and
let it
consume me?)

darkness
  has swallowed
        the key
   to the room
     of my mind.

all of you,
watch us!
as we, united,
stand
under the blinding lights
of pride
and glory.

we will reach our rightful victory!

sometimes,
   we find ourselves
with no choice,
   but to watch.

if i were made out of iron,
then you are my flame--
melted my barriers and,
molded me
to who i am
today.

walls,
worn out with pride
paint,
scratched off with anger
floor,
mudded with vices.

start again.

(and there goes the sound of destruction.
then silence.
all that is left
is a broken wasteland.)

God, God,
if you will,
please tell me
of the things
i cannot understand.

what does
the melancholy
in my heart
mean?

what does
the wrath
pulsing in my veins
mean?

this strangely peaceful,
nostalgic feeling...
what does this mean?

they say we make our own choices,
that we choose our own paths.
we only have ourselves to blame,
if we ever fail.

but we,
we are all bound
by the same chains,
threads,
and webs
of the inevitable.

we meet new people,
and from thereon,
they have affected us
and,
we have affected their futures.

we spit out words--
words that may not hold meaning to us--
but influence others
so, so much
(in all kinds of ways--the good, the bad, and the in-between).

remember this:
we should not be pulled down by our past.

rather:
it is because we only have one past,
but we have infinite futures.

the tiny footsteps
   of the little, black ants
reverberate
   with a thunderous sound
throughout the room
   of sheer determination.

close
your eyes.
rid yourself
of the wrinkles
between your brows.
forget
about everything.

inhale.
exhale.

and fly.

S H O U T
   your heart out.

release
       all of your
unhealthily bottled-up
                  anger.

   scream out
your frustrations,
       slash the atmosphere
with your words.

and we will be here to take them all in.