Doomed.
What should we tell the windows?
The clamor of dreamers in the dark.
Why, why do we drink?
The notes fly into space, wingless.
What time did you wake up this morning?
Half-moons on your skin and mine.
Where do thrown things go?
Kisses, each one harder than the last.
What was your last class again?
The sheets are blank and twisted.
When did you first hear my voice?
Poems, I have realized, are just hands.
Why did I laugh?
The lamp dies in my neglect.
Why did I keep walking?
Tongues are just invitations.
When am I going to need glasses?
Below your ribs are my truths.
How do you treat bruises?
Indecision to touch you.
How is your sore throat?
Names taste like memories.
How would you describe a mistake?
You stand so close to me.
Where did I find you?
Your back, my back. Old friends.
How do I look at you?
Silence of the weary.
How do you look at me?
The moments choose themselves.
Do you look at me?
Between the spaces is eternity.
What is there to look at?
I have you. Had. Sorry.
Do I look at you?
Van Gogh once wrote in a letter: oh my God, it was beautiful.
Yes.
*Yes.

It turned me into this. It made scales out of my skin, yet for some reason it has also ripped into my flesh. Is it trying to protect me or **** me? It stole the light from my fingertips and the curves from around my tongue. It gave me the power of flight. It strengthened my legs and hardened my feet.

Now I am both safe and dead. I am empty of luminescence and I have razors between my teeth. I fly often these days, most of the time above the clouds.

Now I have strong knees and firmly placed toes. I am good at walking away now.

I can't count the number of times I've blamed it for the things I have left. Over and over, it forces me to make choices I have always refused to make - for good reason.

I can't count the number of times I have walked away because it forced me to, but I remember every single instance when I walked away when I didn't have to.

And until now, I am not sure which was my biggest mistake.

Dear Jay.

I know your name is not really Jay, but at the moment I can't remember what it is. Somewhere between the fire in my throat, the spinning top in my skull, the sixth bottle of beer, I've forgotten.

I'm sorry.

What I want to say is, don't expect this to be poetic. I've written tons of letters, I think most of them are merely corny **** disguised as poems, but I promise you this won't be just as sickening.

This is some awful-tasting beer. Who the **** gave permission for these kinds of things to be sold? But then again I think this is my ninth bottle--I've got no right to complain.

What was I going to say again? Before I finally realized I'm drinking liquid crap and I have no intention of stopping.

Oh, right.

What I want to say is, you've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Makes me want to pluck them out of their sockets and shovel them down my mouth so a part of you will live inside me.

Hold the **** up, that didn't come out right.

I'm sorry.

What I want to say is, your eyes are hands that touch, that hold, that strangle, that drown me in almost the same nothingness liquor gives me. Your hands are lips that kiss, caress, cradle the emptiness of a mouth full of glass shards. Your lips are knives, and claws, and doors that never open.

And I must be really drunk if I call you my crush, because you are built with words in my mind, screams and cries and echoes of nightmares. No, you're not my crush.

You are the reason I'm sitting in a throne of broken bottles and spilled liquor, shattered glass and stinking *****, beads of jaded crystals and tears of blood and water and where the **** did the rest of my beer go?

No, I didn't mean to include the last part.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry because you once told me I should stop drinking, because I do stupid things when I'm drunk, like right now, I'm writing to a guy who doesn't give a ****, and I can't even string the right words together, God, it hurts to think, to feel, God, I can't stop thinking about you.

I'm sorry.

You once asked me why I can't stop drinking. Because beer tastes like crap, why the hell would anyone want to drink those stuff? At that time I had no answer, but now I do.

I'm drinking this liquid **** because I want to stop feeling like ****, but it won't stop hurting, it won't stop hurting, *******, it won't ******* stop hurting!

Now my eyes are bleeding, my wrists are weeping crimson tears, I don't remember when I picked up a broken piece of glass and slit my own veins, and now the scent of blood and tears and alcohol and ***** is a choking entrapment, I thought it would stop hurting.

I don't even remember why I started drinking in the first place, why I feel so angry and miserable and lonely. But I remember you. I remember every last piece of you, flashes of lightning in my fists, thunderclaps in my chest, earthquakes beneath my skin, I remember you, you gathering me broken in your arms. I remember you drenched in my blood, in my sorrow.

But you're not here right now, no one is picking up the shattered pieces of me strewn across the velvet carpet, no one is holding me, no one cares, no one is helping, God!

It won't stop hurting.

I'm sorry.

Help me, it hurts to feel, it hurts to think, it hurts to remember, every-*******-thing hurts, *******, help me!

Someone help me, someone care for me, someone fix me, someone, anyone...

More beer, please.


-DA

Dear heart. I am the one in charge here. Neuroscience has long taken the responsibility of handling emotions from you. I am in charge of everything in this body, dear heart, I tell you what to do, and you do it. I think we both know I'm the better thinker here.

So why must you ache, why must you suffer for what I do? For every scalding thought you recoil in your cage and pound on the bars of your prison, wishing to be worn on someone's sleeve, dear heart, you've been hidden for too long. You don't know how this world works, and I do, so you must obey me when I tell you what to do. I know it hurts to keep beating despite of how the chemical reactions in my mind may affect you. For every feeling I take as a thought, every thought you mistake as a feeling, we both protest. For a long, long time we refuse to communicate with each other and I know you are tempted to rest, to stop beating because you're the one aching. It's not me, dear heart, that clenches like a fist, crumples inward like a useless scrap of paper, collapses on itself like a star on the brink of a supernova, it is not me, dear heart, that gets hurt.

Why do I only ache when I'm facing a mathematical problem, a complex theory, a questionable logic, a memory-loss crisis, why do I only suffer when I think really hard, even though I am the one in charge of emotions and feelings? Why is it you, not me, that a knife buries itself in when there is emotional pain? Why is it you that has be shredded into blood strings and crimson feathers of sinew, as if you were plucked from an angel's bleeding wings while heaven screeched its protest? Why are you the only one that is punished?

Dear heart, I am sorry. I didn't know why the body is made this way, that you have to be the one on the edge of a cliff while I sit somewhere safely plucking your strings. You are the one facing the endless plummet into a chasm of fangs and jagged rock, and it is up to me to make sure you stay alive, why, dearest, dearest heart do you have to be shackled to me with a silken collar? I can control you, but you have the freedom to fall, and if you do, I will be the one to grab at a protruding edge somewhere on the face of the cliff, and I will pull hard to get us back up.
Because if I don't, we will both die, and I'm the thinker here, I'm the one responsible for both of us, dear heart, I am the one in charge here!

You won't survive on your own. That's why I'm here to take care of us, because neither of us would exist without the other, without me you will be dead, without you, I will be worse than dead, so dear heart. Dearest heart, let me take the reins, let me hold the strings, let me tell you what to do, I'm sorry you can't be free. I'm sorry I hurt you with the thoughts and the memories inside me.

Let me control you. Let them call me abusive, let them call me terrible, let them call me cold and cunning, let them tell the world I am foul and violent, I don’t care!
I am here for you. I will take care of you. And when all you wish is to cease the wearying repetition of living, I will give you reason to keep breathing.

I want to believe that I am not nothing. That I am a conflagration struggling against the crushing darkness. That I am a flare of light, ephemeral and inconsequential but brilliant and visible, nonetheless. I want to believe that I am not the monster I have always feared. That I have weaving fingers and unwavering hands that hold and cradle and carry. That my shoulders have known tears and my tears have known shoulders. I want to believe that I am not a desecrated ruin that can only weather the storm by staying dead and broken. That my glass innards are fractured and unwhole but form colored spider webs from shades of my blood. That my parched skin is merely paper begging for the taste of ink. That there is a story waiting to be written. That there is someone willing to write it. I want to believe that I am a survivor. That I can break and topple and crumble into shambles and rise five minutes later and keep walking without looking back. That I am not hollow inside. That I am not a completely horrible creature. That I float on hurricanes.

I want to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to know that I want to believe in these things.

I want to tell someone a story. A story about fire and monsters and hands and hugs and buildings and glass and writers and towers and hurricanes. A story about believing.

But there is one thing I want more than anything—

I want to be a story.

Blue
is the color of the mid-morning sky
dotted with the white
of lumpy clouds
with rainstorms in their bellies
Soon the blue
of the smiling horizon
will be gray.

Blue
is the color of the open sea
swathed in undulations
of the ebbing waves
with destruction in their fingertips
Soon the blue
of the endless waters
will be a fist.

Blue
is the color of a bruise
shaded with the subtle purple
of failing light
with darkness crawling through the edges
Soon the blue
of abandoned rage
will be everywhere.

Boy, don't you dare look at me like that.

Like I'm a question, a riddle, a puzzle, jigsaw pieces that don't quite fit with each other. Like I'm an unsatisfactory answer, a justification riddled with holes, a problematic solution to a solvable problem. Don't look at me as if I'm a blank sheet of paper, as if you can see what isn't there, as if you see beyond this cage while even I can't see through it. Just...don't look at me.

Boy, don't you dare talk to me like that.

Like I'm a pulsating time-bomb that is always on the verge of explosion but never really toppling over the edge, like a shard of glass that cuts everything it touches yet can be easily crushed into mere beads of crystals, a beer bottle with liquid forgetfulness as its contents, a bucket of blood, sweet, luscious agony, a cacophony of pounding hearts and rasping breaths. Don't talk to me as if you know I'm about to shatter because I'm not going to be scattered in front of you, no, boy, trust me, I can handle this.

I can handle this.

Boy, don't you dare stay with me like I'm the one who needs you, like I'm the one aching for you, like I'm the one who loves you, like you're the one for me. Don't get close to me as if you're actually planning to touch me, don't, I hurt everyone, please don't touch me like this. Like the soft brush of a bird's wings against the sunset, the caress of ink against paper, the whisper of the wind thumbing through the rustling leaves, boy, don't get close to me.

Please don't come near, I am an explosion of splinters and jaded rocks and pain and anger and spite, boy, stay away from the explosion. You might get hurt trying to help me, I don't need your help, I don't need the glimmer of your smile, the vastness of your eyes, the comfort of your lips, I don't need you, boy, listen to my lies, believe them as if I am a stranger to you, an unread book, an unused drawer, boy, I'm no good for you. I'm not good enough for you. Listen to my lies and believe them.

Boy, don't you dare love me like I'm your forever, because I'm not and I will never be, I am not forever. I am only a single instant, a flicker of flame, the dying light, the purple dusk, I can't be yours, boy, I'm not enough. Don't you dare care for me as if I'm a snapped wing, a broken bone, a bruised face, a torn knot of sinew that still won't stop beating at the bars of its prison, boy, I can't let my heart out of its prison, it's dangerous when it's out of its cage, boy, it might see you. It might know you and recognize you as my forever, and I will trip over my own feet falling into your eyes, boy, this heart needs to remain caged in its prison.

Boy, don't scold me about this, I know what I'm doing, I won't wear my heart on my sleeve, I won't set it free no matter how many times it hurts itself trying to break the bars of its jail, even if the edges of my ribs become knives with serrated edges I won't let this stop, I won't let this heart out.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my heart.

Please forgive me, boy, I lied, I've lied so many times I've lost count, so many times the truth is nowhere to be found but in my chest, no, boy, I won't let you in. My insides are hollow and lined with blades, all you'll find there is hurt and anguish and blood and unshed tears, and silent screams and the soundless slamming of fist against flesh and bone, boy, I can't let you see this. I can't let you get hurt.

I'm sorry, heart, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Boy, I know you know me, I know you know I love you, so please, please stay away. I am no good for you, I am not good enough, not whole enough, not enough, boy, I'm just not enough to fill the empty spaces inside you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my heart, boy, I love you, I love you, boy, leave me now and don't ever show yourself again.

Just don't.

Please don't.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Boy.

Please don't break my heart.

Sloth
The idyll which is deadly
to the transient mind
Aloft in the empty desire
to take nary a single step
to refuse oneself
to do nothing

Gluttony
The uncontrollable want which is deadly
to the fickle body
Drowning in irrational need
to consume
to devour oneself
until there is nothing left

Greed
The desperate craving which is deadly
to the unsatisfied palm
Reveling in destructive yearning
for things not needed
for things impossible to have
until rich with nothing

Lust
The mindless drive which is deadly
to the sinful being
Swamped in instinctive sensuality
of the pleasuring flesh
of the touching skin
until thoughts are nothing

Envy
The reined malice which is deadly
to the defenseless heart
Unseeing in the loathing for others' triumph
as the resentment festers
as the bitterness thrives
until the bloodstream is nothing but poison

Wrath
The burning rage which is deadly
to the peaceful soul
Cowering behind the crimson mask
of latent fear
of suppressed weakness
until nothing but hatred exists

Pride
The lofty eye which is deadly
to the humble person
Flying above the breathing clouds
above the fabric of reality
above heaven's brilliance
until the sky falls

until the earth is nothing.

My blood is ink
And my heart is an empty inkwell

He lays himself on his bed
And watched through the ceiling
Whilst a thousand jewels said
Fair voice, fair maiden, such fair singing

Hearkened he did to the lasting darkness
And a thousand miles away she sang
As in his dreams she danced, the temptress
So he woke, his mouth full of a sweet tang

Tears like scathing blades upon her cheeks
But ignored for the sake of her unheard melody
Heaviness in heart, through her voice it leaks
But far, far away he listened openly

'Tis a song heard only by hearts that listen
And all but he paid it no heed
Whilst on her face tears glisten
She sang, her voice strained with need

He lays himself on his bed
And watched through the ceiling
As the stars winked and glinted
Singing *o fair heart, keep listening

Black
Shriveled
Flaking at the edges
Crumbling into a shipwreck
crashed far too many times
      into someone else's shore
Walls are peeling off the collapsing interior
      the paint is scratched with claws
Not enough pillars, not enough strength
      Samson's arms are long broken
Blood forms blades
Ribs remain cages, prisons
Curling into a fist
Knocking on someone else's heart

It's a door
     that will never open.

Delight
cowers from the monolith of
Fear

Joy
shrinks from the vise of
Fear

Hope
Dissipates from the jaws of
Fear

Heart
reshapes into
Fear

Courage
is just ignored
Fear

Everything
I am
is made of
Fear.

I have a feeling that if I chop myself into ****** bite-size pieces in front of them, they will grab the knife and butcher me themselves. They are sure they can do it better. I am, too. When I can no longer hide the fractures and I start crumbling, they will grab a sledgehammer and bury it inside me.

I am proficient at silences.

You missed—
        so you stopped trying.
                  
I missed—
                     I still do.

June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.

From the earth's praying face
Sprouts a seedling of sacred verses
Rising to heaven's eye with grace
Are boughs shielding debris of curses

Holding hands beneath dappled sunlight
Same blood alight in different veins
Witness sin and devotion in an eternal fight
With something to pray for, see what He gains

Sing His song for we are the fruits of His trees
Bend with the wind as one and listen to his call
For a family together going down on their knees
Is how good stories end; in sweetest downfall.

One.

When I first saw you I forgot you the next second. The next time I saw you I forgot you after a minute. Then after that when I saw you, I never forgot you.

Two.

When I first talked to you I didn't give a **** who you were. The next time I talked to you I thought your eyes were beautiful. Then after that, I was never able to gather enough courage to tell you.

Three.

You remind me of someone whom I loved in my past life, when I was young and stupid and had no idea what love was. You remind me of heartbreak. Of my pathetic attempts to stitch myself back together after being broken in half, of the stars I always wished I was part of. You remind me of cold nights and cold days, when no amount of heat could penetrate the chilling draft enclosing this empty shell. You remind me of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling incomprehensibly lonely and miserable, seeing how big the bed suddenly was.

Four.

I want to be away from you. I want to be somewhere, everywhere, anywhere, as long as I can't see you, as long as I can't feel my skin prickling with awareness telling me, "He's right here." I want to abandon everything I've built here because I don't want to see you anymore, I don't want to hear your voice, I don't want to feel its rich depth resonating in my chest, I'm sorry, I just don't want to be near you.

Five.

I write about you. I write poems, songs, stories about you, and when silence is screaming in my ears each one of those words sing a melody to me, carving my flesh out, gorging empty spaces inside me. When the rest of the world is talking so loudly all I can hear is my mind yelling, my heart squeaking, each one of the letters I wrote weave in and out of my mind's eye, and each wasted ink, each drained pen, taunts me. Why am I writing about you?

Six.

I am not the kind of girl who normally says things like this. I don't want to say this. What I want is to burn these papers and all the dancing strokes of all these wasted ink, to watch this inanimate funeral pyre send its smoke spiraling towards heaven, to scatter the ashes into the vast ocean so I can never see this again, so I will never remember you, so I will forget I wrote anything for you. And maybe if I tried hard enough I can pretend I never met you. Maybe I can pretend you never meant anything to me.

Seven.

I hate you.

Eight.

I hope you burn in hell.

Nine.

I hope I'm not in love with you.

Ten.

She's a lot better than I am. Eleven. I will never be as beautiful as she is. Twelve. Don't worry you won't have to make a choice, because I will never be able to say this to your face. Thirteen. If you ever realize I'm talking about you, don't speak to me again, because I'd rather disappear, I'd rather run away than face you. Fourteen. I'm sorry I'm an idiot because--

Fifteen.

I'm in love with you.

The traditional story has a beginning and an ending. Between these two are strife and conflict and dragons and witches and handsome knights and beautiful princesses. The middle, they say, is the heart of the story, the journey which rises or declines to the ending. This is where the carefully crafted beginning is torn asunder, where valiant heroes attempt to stitch it back together, where most of the time it only ends up flayed further open like a wound.
Or an unread letter. Or a broken fist. Or shattered chains. Or dying stars.
And.
And it is the storyteller's choice how it ends. Whether they all live happily ever after or they all become nothing but windswept ashes. Most of the time the story is just beginning, middle, and end—not necessarily in that order. One will never know how it really ends.
And.
And that is the happiest end to any story. Start with the middle, continue with the end, and end with the beginning. End with the knight on the dragon's back screaming a war cry, or with the princess locked up in the tower, or with the witch falling asleep. End with a sentence cut into a phrase, with an invisible ellipsis, and no 'The End'.
One will look at a universe of different endings. Here is a galaxy of sadness, here is a solar system of bitterness, look, there's a star drawing its first breath, perhaps this is happiness. It will be like looking at the vast expanse of the sky and seeing stories written in the clouds, in the silhouette of mountains with their hunched backs telling a different ending of their own.
You will see a princess in every woman, a knight in every man, goodness in a grain of sand.
Or a drop of rain. Or a blade of grass. Or a pebble in the riverbed.
And.
And they will say you are a dreamer, disillusioned by forestalled endings, but dreamers are the happiest people in the world. They live in captured moonlight, thrive on dappled sunlight, see emeralds in leaves and gold in autumn's touch. They fly in oceans and float on tempests. They walk on treetops and ride horses crafted from twigs to the burning sunset.
This is a world of endings.
And endings are always the best part of the story. And if it remains unknown, all the better.
Look here, at the ink that traces every letter of every word, dancing with utmost gaiety like a raptor in unbound flight. Swooping down, down, down, and spiraling up, up, up, gliding through the clouds, resting in the breeze like an eyelash on the cheek.
Look here. The ending is nowhere.
The ending is everywhere.
But look here, at this words, because this is a story that will never, ever end, only swirl in eternity like ink in water, billowing like, perhaps, a valiant knight's cape as he perches on top of the dragon, roaring a war cry along with the beast, while the witch falls asleep, and the princess waits in her tower.
Look. Or read. Or stare. Or write.
And.
And so they lived…

Ethereal
in form and name
with fog as flesh
and breaths
the color of haunted
smiles and cries
clothed in wails
and hollow screams
that fill this hazy emptiness
empty, empty
I am empty
Where do I find
a heart
tell me, tell me
Tell me I am real
not just a fragile
figment of imagination
to be captured
imprisoned in my own thoughts
I am already captured
imprisoned, emptied
carved into a marble shell
pretty, pretty masks
hiding nonexistent expressions
concealing glass eyes
broken, broken
I am not yet broken
there is nothing left of me
My name is a forgotten relic
But I hope you'll look for my grave.

I am crippled
and cursed
with the inability
to feel anything
less
than
this.

He—
    Quiet as sorrow
    Screaming the distance between us
    Taut as a bowstring

He—
    Thunderbolt unravels me.

Hell is not made of fire.

A lot of people believe that hell is a world covered in flames, with heat that sears through your very being, scorches your soul, and inflicts terrible agony. They say Hell is a place for fiery torment, where fire is a vicious serpent that winds through your existence and seeks to quench every feeling except anguish, but at the same time refusing to let you be conquered by nothingness, keeping you wide-awake so you can feel every blistering sensation.

They're wrong.

Hell doesn't look the same for everyone else. Hell is a multi-faced mirror with countless reflections caging you inside the hollow of a diamond so you can see the glaring facets you refuse to look at. Hell is not always a place; sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an event--sometimes it's a person.

Hell shows itself not only in death. Hell is everywhere--it's just somewhere around the corner of the street, hiding its face behind a newspaper, waiting for you to make the wrong choices. It's just somewhere behind you, an invisible fiend watching your every step, waiting for you to stumble. And once you do, it will laugh at you. You won't hear its sinister laughter, nor would you notice the subtle shift of the ground beneath your feet.

The odds are no longer in your favor.

Hell is cold. Hell is calculating. Hell is terrorizing.

Hell is reaching inside yourself, searching your heart, trying to find out how you really feel--but ending up finding nothing. Hell is opening your mouth to scream but nothing comes out because there is nothing left inside. Hell is the immovable boulder weighing down on your chest, it is the desperate need for the ability to cry, it is the panic and anguish that comes when you realize you can't.

Hell is watching him with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect smile, knowing he isn't even aware of your plain existence. Hell is realizing for the first time that unrequited love is not as romantic as people say. Hell is waiting, waiting, waiting for something you know won't come. Hell is finally getting the nerve to say 'I love you' but only receiving silence in return. Hell is laughing it all away and saying it's nothing, I understand why, all the while wishing you could run to someplace where you can cry and scream without being heard. Hell is falling in love.

Hell is the red mark on your record, the frowns on your parents' faces, the pitying looks on your friends' expressions. Hell is the star you failed to reach, the shaking heads, the consoling pats on your back. Hell is the mocking laughter ringing in your ears even after they've long ended. Hell is the condescending voices echoing from somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you who you were, who you've been, and who you are now. Hell is laughing at you. Hell is disappointment. Hell is trying and trying over and over and never succeeding. Hell is failure.

Hell is building your life with damning patience, with meticulous thoroughness, with painstaking care, and having it all knocked down to the ground. Hell is desperation, hopelessness. Hell is the blooming rose standing amidst a bed of withered blossoms. It's the touching beauty of life at its most exquisite, the surging anticipation, the reckless triumph, and the next day when you look for the rose you only find a withered stalk. Hell is hope.

Hell is the silent night torn apart by raging screams and flying furniture. Hell is the deafening wail of a child accompanying every insult, every furious, careless word that escapes your mouth. Hell is the empty threat he took as a promise. Hell is holding his hand and realizing it's no longer as comfortable as it used to be. Hell is the sadness weighing on your apartment, so palpable you could wrap your fingers around it and try to snap it--but you can't, because hell is already there. Hell is the silence, the eternal quiet screaming in your ears, as you pack your suitcase, as you stuff in old photographs trapped behind the cracked glass of their picture frames. It's the painful need to sit still and concentrate on breathing because you suddenly forgot how to. It's looking around you, seeing the stripped bed, the empty closet, the unsettling dust floating along the light filtering through the misted windows. Hell is falling out of love.

I could go on about hell forever, and I would never be able to enumerate all of them because there can only be so many words that can describe hell, and there are too many people in this world who see different kinds of hell. I cannot accurately define hell, I don't know much about it. I cannot claim to have seen hell, because I've never been to a place like it before.

But I know that hell is cold.

Because hell is not always made of fire.

So. You've decided to go on a journey to hurt yourself. The road will be ****** and gory, brambles of thorny vines will grab you and strangle you like a vise. But I will be here to guide you on how to make yourself bleed, either literally or metaphorically. Trust me—I have a doctorate in masochism, and I have formulated 9 simple steps to assist you in your personal quest to become unhappy.

Step one. Do something bad. Do something people would never expect you to do. Do something shockingly horrible. The worse, the better. Talk about your loyal friends behind their backs and make sure they're eavesdropping. Punch the nicest person you know in the face. While an old woman is crossing the street unassisted except for her fragile walking stick, kick it from beneath her trembling grip and walk away without looking back. Tell your mother you're a *******. Slit your wrists in front of your parents.

Step two. Hate yourself. If you have done step one splendidly, I'm sure you'll do fine with this one. Convince yourself you're a despicable creature, not worth calling a human being, and wallow in self-pity. Sit on a throne of shattered beer bottles and drown in liquor, screaming odes to your repulsive self. Behold the snide looks directed your way and revel in them. Know that you don't deserve to live. You will fear death, though. Fret not, this is perfectly normal at the early stages of your journey to hurting yourself.

Step three. Let others talk about you. People will notice the change in you. They will then talk among themselves, wondering where the old 'you' has gone. Let them chatter, let them speak. Don't tell them the truth—that you have killed the old 'you' because you want to get hurt, you want to bleed. Don't tell them you hate yourself more than they do. Be aloof and indifferent. If you already are, congratulations! You are now apathetic and pathetic. Don't be alarmed, this is all part of self-hate.

Step four. Isolate yourself completely. Leave your loving parents and let them know you hate them while you're at it. Put your phone away, don't check your Facebook, and hole up somewhere unforgiving and depressing. Lock yourself in a gray room, starve yourself, deprive yourself of the things you can't live without, stay isolated to the point of almost losing your sanity. Convince yourself you deserve all of this. Lie to yourself if you have to. You have already began your own ruin. Why stop now?

Step five. After a long, long time of isolation, get out of your hiatus. Look at your phone and see it empty of messages. Don't despair, you did this to yourself. Check your Facebook, stare at the lack of notifications and don't wonder what happened to your 'friends.' Get out of your shell, look at the mirror. Recognize the monster you've shaped out of your flesh and blood, behold your creation in bitterness, and remember what you used to be. Remember when you weren't so keen on hurting yourself. Remember and wonder why you decided to. Then hate the monster in the mirror, because this isn't you, this isn't what you wanted to be. Know that you are a terrible creature.

Step six. Fall in love. Fall desperately in love with someone who can't see what you have become. Hold him/her tight, shape your shrunken heart into something that will cradle your love. Let yourself feel joy for the first time. Realize that you have made a terrible mistake in deciding to hurt yourself and the people around you. Let it dawn upon you that you want love, you want this, you want happiness. Experience heaven, and remember that your love can't see what you have become.

Step seven. Reveal yourself. Let them try to change you, let them fail. Let your love see the horrible creature you really are. Hurt the ones you love and relish it. Let them know you are no longer the same. Watch them turn their back on you, watch them walk away. Watch your love step back in horror, watch him/her leave you. Let them break you, let them leave you dying, choking on a garrote you fashioned out of your own blood, let them give up on you. Let them forget what you used to be before you decided to hurt yourself.

Step eight. Regret every decision you've made. Despair, fear, rage, flail in a prison you built out of your hollow bones. Feel all those negative emotions, know that they are all gifts you've given yourself. You didn't know what you got yourself into.

Step nine. Calm yourself. Realize that after the turbulence you feel nothing at all. Search your soul, scrutinize your thoughts and emotions until you realize you are nothing but a black hole. You are empty. Congratulations! You have succeeded in hurting yourself in the worst way possible! I will now be unavailable for further assistance. Welcome to your personal hell.

Good luck getting out of it.

I crumble like broken rocks
melt like glaciers
fall apart into strings of muscle
and hollowed bones
My paper skin tears asunder
like a discarded love letter
Blades of eyelashes
dig into closed eyelids
pry open sealed pupils
flay apart glass irises
Dissolve dying stars
into the lines of my palms
sink cosmos into the riverbed
of my veins
and shackled wrists
Wind ribbons of twine
around my throat
Crown my breast with thorns
Crucify your name on my tongue
Carve your touch into my hips
Strangle my waist with the vise
of your hands
Sew my hair into the gaps
of your fingers
and I'll sew yours into mine
And finally
unravel me
with poetry
and paint me
on your skin.

There is no need for maps,
for guides and milestones –
there is only running.

There is only the thought
of ground and feet
and the heartbeat
of falling soles and strings
meeting the hands of the path
and lifting them in temporary flight
towards ahead, wherever it is,
wherever my knees want
to touch and bend against.

There is no need to go a certain way.

There is only running
and dawn on its way
and its hues cutting
across the sky’s skin
like paintbrushes
with razors for caresses.

There is only running
and muscles singing
and humming the language
of drums and claps and slaps.

There is only running:
wind and lost souls
in every step and inhale,
closer, closer, closer.

This is running.
This is all I want.

Who am I?

My name is want
an eternal curse
embedded into
sunken skin and
chipped fingernails
and flaking paint
on the walls
living at the bottom
of empty bottles
festering in open wounds
like dust and grit
like an infection.

Who am I?

My name is need.
a silent howl
resonating in oblivion
an echoing quiet
trapped in cages
crafted from skeletons and skulls
warnings and red signs
denial, denial
and stark, raging fear
breaking bridges
of teeth and throats.

I hate you.

You told me once hate has no substance, there is nothing to gain from it, not enough meaning in it for a good enough reason. You told me hate makes no sense as an emotion, that no matter how I try to explain it will never justify anything as long as I say hate. I told you I hated everyone, you said no, you don't you just think you do because you're a cynic and I won't bother reasoning with you.

I hate you.

You were probably right, that I didn't really hate everyone, because now I know I don't—I hate you, and only you, because you've captured everything I value and imprisoned it within the cage of your heart, twisted every breath of shadow into light so I have no more place to hide, carved the memory of you into my flesh until it sank to my bones and echoed in my being until my soul knew nothing else. No one expects me to not hate you because you've shackled my wrists, chained to your throat, locked your fingers around my every breath and molded the air into the shape of your mouth, you insufferable, selfish boy, how could you sink your claws into my chest and steal what I intended for another, selfish, selfish, you are selfish.

I hate you.

I hate you for confining moonlight in the hollows of your bones, for melting the stars into your bloodstream, shredding the blanket of the night sky and dipping them into your irises, digging your hands into my skin, gorging your name into my palms, letting yourself sink into my being, how could you let yourself be a part of me? How could you claim the right to tear me apart, to open me like a rusty zipper, to peek inside just to see what I hide, you greedy man, greedy, greedy, you are greedy.

I hate you.

I hate you for the warmth of your hands around mine, the soft, lilting caress of your voice overlapping mine, your smile, full of understanding when nobody else has the same gift for me, your calm a marble wall, unyielding before the crashing waves of my frustration, you selfish, greedy man, I hate you, I hate you, listen to me and rage with me, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

I hate you.

I dedicate every waking moment to picking out your flaws, inspecting them, prodding them, forcing them to grow into something that resembles repulsive, knowing all at once that it's all futile. Convincing myself you are worthless, you are nothing, you are all that I hate, and I wonder if there is even the tiniest chance that in the future I could look at you and know there is nothing I want more than to leave your vicinity rather than ache for the distance to be closed like a trapdoor on the secrets I keep beneath the bowels of my heart. I wonder, I  wonder if one day I could breathe easily with or without you, rather than feel your touch and die for just a second then revived by the butterflies in my stomach.

Even butterflies can have knives for wings, you oblivious creature, I hate you.

I hate you for not knowing, I hate myself for not saying anything, and maybe I can thrive on hate, and ignore the other side of this darkness, pay no heed to the gentle cackle of fire laid deep in the hearth where I keep burning myself, as if one day I would stiffen into a dark crisp and disintegrate with a single touch, maybe I can keep hating and maybe this loathing will solidify into an impregnable shield, but knowing that it will keep getting harder and harder, more and more brittle, until I crack over the edges and shatter like shards over you.

How right you were, you selfish, greedy, oblivious man I hate you, I hate you, I love you.

I wonder if there really is a difference.

I'm keeping you
I'll put you on a pedestal
On a footstool
Or a pillar
Or a glass case

I'll keep you in a treasure chest
Or a closet
Or a vault
Or a secret chamber
behind a painting

I'll have you on my rooftop
Or on the peak of a mountain
Or above my head
Or on the clouds
just float on the face of the sky

And if you'll have me
You can keep me on the ground
Or on a canyon
Or on the sea
we'll never swim ashore

You can put me on a marble stand
Or on a column
Or on the edge of a cliff
If you'll have me
I'm here to be kept

See my smile
snap like a twig
hear the sound
of cackling splinters
mirth as if in mockery
of the way
my laughter breaks
every time I remember
litanies repeated
beneath closed wrists
closed eyes
closed
Knock on the frown
of my mask
I wish you would
just
knock
See my fingertips
trace the lightning
that separates
my irises
Dry as the cracked
ground of my lips
Let me bleed
on my own
water the pit
of my stomach
See me bleed
See
me
Let me
just bleed
on
you.

The time for brooding is over
Let them say I invented the stars
when they were born
That I weaved the fabric of the universe
while I remained awake at night
Let them see that I'm no longer suffering

For tears are no more than mist
And my irises are the color of laughter
Laughter which I crafted from sunlight
So they can say that I breathe tempests
And spring's flower petals float in my bloodstream
Let them see I'm more than what I was

For the sky is the face of unraveled smiles
Where masks are shattered shards
And truth is blatant on heaven's eye
Now they can say I am true
That I am in every blade of grass
And every pebble on the riverbed

So now let them say what they want
For they can see
I have been my own nightmares
Just as now I am my own dreams.

Breathe unto lifeless form
Heartbeats sailing on jagged rocks
Inside is a turbulent storm
Of a cynic who mocks

Oh Joy, that infernal thing
Have no use for it, that devil
Anguish it will always bring
Nay, to it I'll not be civil

Curse it, curse myself
Fleeting smiles untethered
Flight at once with deft
Never lastingly fettered

Price too high, I daresay
Sweetness leaves a sour taste
For the brave willing to pay
Would I do so in haste?

See, here you are less than real
A hollow shell of winter's breath
encasing you in a blanket of stars
Perhaps you are farther
than I thought

See, here you cannot hear me
My voice is my grip
And I'm losing it
Perhaps I'm the one in the vise
and you're already gone

See, here you cannot feel me
There are serenades in my touch
I wish you'd notice
Perhaps the grief on my fingertips
is all you have

See, here you are oblivious
Trapped beneath a sea of ice
with the sky collapsing on you
Perhaps you are no more
And I'm just a fool

See, here you cannot be mine
The silence of oblivion is your embrace
Will you listen to the ballads in my curses?
Perhaps you cannot leave, either
And I'm on the precipice

See, you are my breath
You are my prison
You are my only freedom
Perhaps I should just walk away
But I am
       waiting

                   for your
                          heartbeats
                                    to come
                                                back.

Let us
teach the stars how to dance
guide the constellations into a lemniscate
bend their chaotic lines
trace different paths for them.

Let me
decorate the ballroom with shadows
drape the night against the walls
scatter moonlight across the floor
feed our guests cosmic dust

And you will
buy me a dress of starlight
wear a suit of midnight
touch me the way you would a moonstone
take me to the celestials.

Let us
dance the night away.

Our song is an endless, ever-repeating litany
Blanks between the lyrics, almost meaningless
Chanted along with our names, echoes incessantly
Just as long as we listen to the melody's caress

Timed beats, let's not lose ourselves
In the words we don't understand
Like forgotten tales stuck in the bookshelves
Abandoned in a merciless wasteland

Heart pulsates with every spoken syllable
Count them, count the seconds of our lives
Will knowing make us less gullible?
Discern the path, which reason jives?

Our song is an eternal, unspoken prayer
Lyrics are often too vague to mean anything
It goes on with only two words to decipher
Your name, my name is all that fills everything.

See us at our worst
while we are shooting rifles at the stars
cutting our teeth on razor blades
opening smiles on each other's skin
See us, scorn us, for we are mad indeed

Tell us what you think
that we are broken glass
And what is broken cannot be fixed
by something just as broken
Tell us, scorn us, for we are hopeless indeed

Loathe us for what we have
for our ability to walk on the path
of a crashing meteor
to fly without wings, without loneliness
Loathe us, scorn us, for we have something beautiful indeed

Madness, hopelessness, and beauty
weaved into an artless pattern
pulling at a rainbow of threads
forming knots amid chaos after chaos
For we are wild forests and flowers and greenery

And we choose no more
We choose no less
We are right where we want to be
Floating in uncharted galaxies
until there is only us.

I wonder
about the silence between
your words
I want
to hear your laughter
even then
I think
it's the closest thing to heaven
I can have

I wonder
about the empty spaces
inside me
I want
to fill them with cosmos
with you
I think
it's the closest thing to happiness
I can have

I wonder
about the distance between
each star
I want
to walk every line in every constellation
with you
I think
it's the closest thing to eternity
we can have.

Nothing is permanent.

Trees lose their vitality; their green leaves turn orange, crumpling into hard brittleness. Eventually they lose their grip and fall from what they've always clung to for life. They hit the ground, vigor and greenery gone from their veins. Soon a little girl who loves the sound of cackling autumn leaves beneath her feet will trample them into nonexistence, turning them into little more than indiscernible pieces that comprise the mosaic of a forest floor.

People are the same. Youth makes fools out of all of us, but with that folly comes the beauty of innocence and naivety. Youth makes the world around us blur, sharpening only the lines of the loveliness we see in the midst of ugliness. But in youth we don't notice those displeasing to the eye.  Vitality, vigor thrums in your veins the moment you realize you've climbed so high up the tree you can see above the gates that surround the only world you knew. It doesn't come to your attention that you might fall, that your fragile little bones might break into so many pieces you forget childish joy. But you don't think about this, because you can see beyond your boundaries. You can see the sunset as its reddish glow sinks seemingly into the earth, bathing your whole world for an instant, in glorious light. You want to climb higher, to see more, to feel taller than everyone else. It doesn't occur to you that this increases danger, that it will be all the more painful for you. Because in this moment you don't know pain. You don't know danger. You don't know fear.

But that's what parents are for. Because they've seen it all, done it all, and they know pain, they know danger, they know fear, and they know that the sun doesn't actually set. They've witnessed the beauty of dawn and dusk you gaze at with so much wonder so many times that they began to see it only as part of time.

They know that some day you will change. You will grow up, and that your eyes will lose their innocence. You will know pain, the kind that doesn't only refer to the little cuts and bruises you get from stumbling and falling. The kind that feels like a black hole has suddenly sprung to life inside you, eating your heart from the inside. You will know danger, the kind that doesn't only mean risk of getting bruised. The kind where you know the full implications of what you are doing, that there is a possibility that you might lose a part of you or the whole of you. You will know fear, the kind that turns your blood into ice, that freezes your heart into eternal immobility; the kind that makes you break into a sweat, that makes every instinct of yours scream for you to run, run as fast as you can.

As you change, as you grow up, you will realize that not everything people say should be taken literally.

And like the trees there will come a time when you will lose your vitality, when you shrivel up and crumple into hard brittleness, full of bitterness and wistfulness. One day you will look at the sunset and tell yourself, "I wish I could be a kid again." Eventually you will lose your grip and fall from what you've always clung to for life. You will fall, vigor and suppleness gone from your veins. Soon your children, their children, their grandchildren, will stand over a coffin-sized hole as they lay you down for your final rest. Soon the earth you've walked on for such a long, long time, will trample you into nonexistence. Decades later, you will be nothing more than indiscernible pieces that comprise the richness of the earth.

Nothing is permanent, but we are all here to create something that is.

Philo—
not enough
too much
of jaded edges
too much
of glass shards
too much
light
not enough
to heal
Statues are worn
by the scorn
of heavens
Philo—
The look in his eyes
Philo—
Every time he laughs
Philo—
The sunlight blinds
my broken eyes
Philo—
There is no right side
in a war
Philo—
Only pain
and peace
and fear
Philo—
The deadliest wars
aren't fought
in battlefields
Philo—
Everyone
Everything
hurts
Philo—
His absence.
His silence.
His.
His.
His—
Phobia.

There's a certain chord
that thrums in the same wavelength
of sonorous solitude.
It is more of a quiver than a vibration
like a bird's wing trapped
in the half-inch between the tips
of a boy's thumb and index finger.

I hear the sound of
repressed struggles and imprisoned words
like a bottle of soda shaken, shaken

hiss.

It sounds something
like the clink of glass shards
swept into a forgotten corner
or the whistle of labored breaths
ebbing against the sandpaper lining
inside the throat
or the atomic scream
of dust corpuscles settling
on top of cardboard boxes filled with
nostalgia for the unattainable.

I know this sound, this song.
I hear it in the flutter of your eyelashes
the murmurs of your fingers
across my skin
the unspoken lying between your teeth
forcing their way to the corners of your mouth
your smile.

This is the sound of a divine choir
when heaven
collapses.

You laugh, and I think:
*this is what I left.

“A man who lies to others is a liar, but a man who lies to himself is a fool.”

So call me a fool. Call me vulnerable, fragile, tainted, shattered, jaded, cynical. I would rather lie to myself than let you in, because I am not known for my bravery, and I never will be. Call me a coward. Call me proud, selfish, bitter, angry, sad, damaged. I would rather take the easy way out, because there is no way I will tear down walls I’ve built for years just for you. I am not that strong. Call me weak. Call me blind, deaf, senseless, foolish, ignorant, insane. I would rather be alone, because it is safe and secure and familiar, and because the sadness of it has become an integral part of me—I wouldn't know how to live without it. Call me pathetic. Call me defeated, lonely, haughty, rejected, triumphant, defeated, defeated, defeated.

I want to forget the sound of your voice. I want to forget your hands, your fingertips. I want to forget your face, your smile, your laughter.

I want to forget the color of your eyes.

I sift through a sea of pebbles—coarse grit and polished faces. This is how it feels to touch memories that have long faded—photographs with white edges and yellow corners. Perhaps here in this infinitesimal rivulet of cumulated sand, perhaps here I once was in hell. My skin remembers these tiny details—the claw-like pinpricks of granule and stone as they swim into the gaps of my fingers. And here come the worn but smooth edges.

Longing for the past should not be called anticipation, but it paints the back of my throat with the taste of salt and sugar and leaves. But the long winding path leading to more pebbles is masked by the ceaseless onslaught of undertow, fascia rippling as if shaken by quakes not just of the earth.

I wait for the tide to calm, for obscurity of undulation to halt. I am still waiting. I want to see what is beyond. I will touch the images from before as if they have tangible form. I can still taste the sea.

But I want to see what the rest of the river is like. I want to know the future.

Contained
lightning cuts across
the tongue
sears through flesh
and traps the silent
screams
in the bottle
with a red seal
warning, warning
of thunderstorms
that clamor for
release
from the throat
with glass shards
cutting, cutting
through veins
that ***** ink into
paper
which hungers
for the rumbling clouds
waiting, waiting
for the bottle cap to pop
and shatter into
raindrops
the earth quakes
awaiting by the precipice
shaking, shaking
until the final jump
into an eternal arch, down to the
ravine.

It's late afternoon
The sky bleeds purple
As buildings claw at its fabric
December breathes coldly
And I feel them as if they are tempests
I can see every crack on the pavement
Hear the footsteps of the ebbing crowd
As if they are thunderclaps
I feel all
And they are all mine
I am awake

It's evening
Streetlamps flicker like flames
The houses are dead silent
And what my gaze befalls is my own
But I am nothing and everything
The horizon is but a blanket
Of a little piece of the universe
Sometimes it feels good to be small
So that the world will be but a giant blur
As if in a dream
I am sleeping

It's finally night
The most beautiful face of the day
For every time I close my eyes
I scatter jewels beneath my eyelids
I paint the silver crescent of the moon on the dome of my skull
And I find peace in the dark where others find fear
In the absence of heaven's eye
Angels sing me to sleep with cherubic lullabies
While my mind grasps at the vastness of the universe
And I have found the greatest escape
I am alive.

It's quiet.
This is the only happy I will ever be.