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

loving 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,
ramble endlessly,
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)

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

tell me,
how do i stop loving like this?
contorted. star-eyed. gullible.

tell me,
how do i stop being loved
with anything but love?

until then,
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;

whispering
and desperately reassuring

that i am not
my mother
nor
my father.

the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
blunt conviction,
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.

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.

it 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.