dearest stranger
is a stupid endearment i have for you
cause how could you be ‘dear’
when I don’t fully know you

And it’s okay that
your messages are so out of the blue
First one, on a Wednesday
Up to wondering if
I’ll get one today

And the next, two weeks
you’ll disappear like no traces
but yet I’m reignited
when i see the bubble
containing your
unregistered number

no designation
yet i know that its you fully
ingrained in my head
trying to catch the rush
that i felt when you’re with me
as if going back
to the night you gave me
a little bit of attention-
And I thought it would

complete me.

dearest stranger
Oh how im helpless
on your lips taking away
the courage to delete
Your unregistered number

remember i brought it up
and you told me i
was
paranoid.

i trusted you.

i gave my body to you, a permission
to wreck this body, as long as you give me
a chance to recover.

i wanted this, i wanted to feel you,
inside me, in this fleeting sense
that we are one.

and there it was, my trust,
went away as you take the barrier
the symbol of our agreement

and as you ******, inside me
i felt the warm sensation
of the consequences
that i'm about to face.

and then followed your words,
assuring me, but
i was foolish enough to be happy
with the pleasure
i brought you

and i realized
i was stupid enough
to trust you
and to put the weight
of the permissibility
on a thin veil
that protects me,
from you.

i was stupid.
my body told me, months later.
and there you were,
gone, away
with my trust, and my permission

i wish that, you'd stop
with
my stupidity
but i know you wont.

cause hurt people
hurt people.

hello there, a
you probably have gotten what you want from me;

my flesh, the gore that you seek
hidden within me, in this concept that
you feel so satisfied with,
getting what's arbitrary

hello there, a
remember, when you used to tell me
that the perception of 'being enough'
lies on the lips of everyone else but me,
especially you?

I guess so.

hello there, a
you probably had the time of your life
from your driven authority
on me, on how I act,
as if I depend on you
to breathe.

probably, the past is past.
but I want your apology.

maybe your apology
would stop me from shaking
every time a good person, a genuine one,
wants my body
for good reasons.

maybe your apology,
would help me sleep at night
and would offer me rest
from running away from
the nightmares you have caused.

maybe your apology,
would stop these thoughts,
that hinders me from
building myself
back up from the
scattered pieces, big, visible enough
to be reassembled, back
to the old me.

i need it; your apology

maybe it would help me heal
maybe it would help me forget
maybe it would

fill the gap,

the void
that you caused.

please, a

I am desperate.
I need to sleep.
I need to breathe.
to trust my body, and somebody.

and maybe, just maybe
your apology,
is enough.

even though, it will never be.

I like to see myself in a blur
a photograph, trying to get my motion
without stillness in consideration
with details scattered
within the grid of capture
like a speckle of stars
each without correlation.

A blur, you see-
for I am as elusive as my thoughts
indecisive, un-unabridged,
a true reflection of me
luminous, grainy
incomplete.

Yet the murkiness excites me.
for I yearn to chase the
memoirs, fleeting yet
effervescent.
like euphoria, on paper
even though it only last
seconds.

I like to see myself in a blur
Cause to feel the pang
of describing my faces
there, on the canvas

I'd like to think I was, happy.
Cause I only see it in a blur.

a PowerPoint presentation

woke me up, as i input the wrong

numbers that produced a chain reaction

of wrong combination; unacceptable

unhappy

across the room, your voice echoed

as you mentioned five-hundred discrepancies

I have yet to fill

five-hundred mistakes

I have yet to correct

unhappy

five-hundred more, I say,

cause you were wrong

five-hundred more mistakes

with four-hundred ninety-nine of them

is me existing,

and one, is for the wrong calculations

splattered across my dusty screen

unhappy

I am rich; but not in the way people perceived

I am rich, but not in the way that people would envy

As I sat here, feigning attention

I saw him; no harness, with hands displayed

as though he was gifted with the ability to fly

but his wings we’re vestigial

cause humans are made to walk; not fly

unhappy

I stared at him, ignoring the mechanical movement

of my hands, ignoring whether I’m corrected by my

muscle memory

I watched him.

Happy.

Dirt poor, with all adorning him was the flicker of light

dimly reflecting throughout, to avoid collision

I want what he had.

happy.

The freedom to fly,

even though flying means death.

happy

The freedom to choose,

to embrace the air,

breathing my last.

happy.

I could just imagine.

for my hands corrected

the mistake that makes me envy

the man with a reflector vest

unhappy.

All i knew is that

the more i press the keys onto the screen

producing what i never wanted,

I’ll always be

unhappy

unlike the man, on the top of the building

at peace, even though,

knowing that one single misstep

can cause him

to cease breathing

at nine point 8 meters

per second.

that to me

is freedom

and I'm

happy.

meeting men
was always that easy.

it was evident
     in the way I
     plan to prepare myself

to venture out
     in the uncertainty of the open

trying to align
the inevitable disappointment
        on my self-predicament.

the way I trace
        the marks of ugly, visibly seen
onto my body

hoping that someone
               would like the art;
                the interpretation
of my
               flaws and sad beauty.


it was always easy
     to try calming the nerves
as I knock at his door, the pounding
of my heart
     from excitement, fear
     and self-loathing

as soon as the eyes
of the outside world cannot see
what lies
           behind these walls
that covers
            not only our fragile bodies,
            but also, our weakened souls
till everything is a blur.

meeting men was always
                 that easy.

it's the same thing
       as we put back our clothes
and maybe,
       kiss goodbye

then run away, with such bliss
          from the thrill of doing
what others can do freely


             amplified
by the pulsing adrenaline
             panicked, weary
if anyone saw
             what we have done.

-----------

meeting him again?
                 that's the hard part.