I stopped dreaming
when my days started to be grey
even when the sunlight
was coming in through the window
of my childhood bedroom.

I started to live in the dark
and I could hear my mom
asking was wrong with me
even my dad notice
all the versions of me,
how I can't open up,
how much I try to hide.

He said to me
one day I will break
and all my emotions will escape
and I won't be able to hold them back,
that one day I will find my way back.

And I hoped
they will still take me in.
I almost prayed
that if I ever find myself
they would be able to feel proud,
or at least something similar.

For now I'm just the younger
version of my mother
will all the bad habits of my father.

And Caesar then wept
Before the feet of Alex,
Vast was his domain.

February is leaving
without a warning.

And I'm not ready to move on,
to welcome spring
and all the pain it brings with it.

My shaking hands
can't skip the page,
end the chapter
and await the uncertainty of the future.

Time passes too fast,
and I'm just an expectant
who doesn't know how to contribute to life.

February is leaving,
only the second month
but still I would get on my knees
and beg for January to come,
have a new restart.

And my days turned so lonely
I don't enjoy company anymore
people's feelings overwhelm me
and I can't find the right words.
Sometimes I feel closure
with my family,
other times they're complete strangers
their faces become blurry,
and I force myself
to memorize every detail of my face,
every scar on my body,
and the sound of my voice
to remember that I exist,
that I'm not another broken thing
in my apartment,
like all the burned out light bulbs
or the broken thermostat.

Shades of purple and red
cover the skin of my hands,
fresh paint in a white canvas
my eyes can't tell if the saints
are blackberry juice
or a sign that, like my soul
my body is starting to decay.

When the words
"I am a poet"
escapes from my lips,
people claim how full
of emotions I must be.

They seem to be shocked,
when they get to read me,
my poetry, my work,
how little emotional I am.

I am a poet,
because once upon a time
I chose to write
instead of dying.

Only when I let my thoughts be free,
I allow myself to feel,
and only when I write
I get to know some version of me.

i can smell the beginning of time
i feast on its flavor and in my belly
there's a suicidal undercurrent
this is love-hunger gnawing at a touch
at flickers of touch
i'm feeling my age