it genuinely boggles my mind
when i try to fathom
how it is actually possible
to contain an immense amount
of warmth and love for someone
to the extent that it transcends physicality?
to the extent that it encompasses
more than just the body and the soul?
i could go on and on,
and write about how the act of selflessly giving yourself
to another person is seemingly something akin to breathing --
natural, unsought, easy, and innate
but i fear it would still not be able
to fully encapsulate the depth and ferocity
of this closely-knit emotion
that this frail body of mine holds.
(i could certainly try
but it would take a millennium)
mitski's new album made me think about a lot of things :) i missed writing a lot.
i love like a mangled dog,
rummaging through the grimiest corners
for some sort of semblance
of tranquility disguised as chaos
fangs constantly bared
but ceaselessly yearning
to be a subject of someone’s affection
how do i stop loving like this?
contorted. star-eyed. gullible.
how do i stop being loved
with anything but love?
i’ll still wait for you by the porch
tied on a leash too close to my pulse.
i’ll keep on waiting.
(when) are you coming back?
are you coming back?
i carry my mother’s rage
in every part of me;
i am never without it
i carry my mother’s rage
just like her mother did,
and just like her mother also did
if destruction is a form of creation,
then my mother
was never an inventor.
more often than not,
i find myself
scrutinizing the person
i see in the mirror;
and desperately reassuring
that i am not
i am not a reflection of their mistakes or their what-ifs
continues to grow and fester
beneath my fingernails.
but i don't stop groveling
down to my knees,
i don't stop to breathe;
you, who bears god's love;
whose love i could not know.
you and your sin-stained palms
continue to enshrine
dilapidated ghost towns.
i undo the stitches on my wounds
and pick at the grisly scabs
under your scrutiny,
yet you chastise me
for the pool of blood
bespeckled on your feet.
the night hides me once more.
the living sorrow,
simmered, bitter, and fresh;
nothing can be seen from the rafters.
the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
or even a speck of wariness.
the solace that i had found
in creating my own gospels
was nowhere to be found.
words no longer gushed
from the corners of my mouth,
nor did it try to burrow into nothingness.
no matter how many times
i twist and untwist these jumbled letters together,
i am woefully greeted with none other than
static and white noise.
perhaps this will serve as my memento mori
i want to make a poem
about how much i yearn for you
and for the moments and time
lost in the wind.
but the words refuse to come out;
it drags itself up to my throat and just hangs there.
kept and caged in the crevices of my mind.
perhaps it hurts too much to write
because the pain becomes real;
and it becomes terrifying.
and now im back to where i was before