it is gray outside
of my window,

and it is also
gray in this room.



but outside,
the gray is obvious.

the clouds are
blocking out the sun.



and inside,
the gray is irrelevant
because you shine
so bright that

I am only ever
looking at you.



the world outside
fades away in here.

it is beautiful and
sunny and vibrant.



here, the stress of
the world outside
can't touch me.

I see no sadness
or pain or fear.



I only see you.
I only ever see you.

Go to sleep
She said
You’ll see him in your dreams

my diet as a young, unsuspecting girl consisted mainly
of the saccharin that crystallized in between
the glowing, smiling teeth of Disney princesses,
and the artificial-like aftertaste that
coated the walls of my mouth,
enchanting me with fantasies of formulaic love –

level-headed, perfunctory love that
feels like knowing the color of
your dress complements some manicured uniform
waiting offscreen until the waltz your costumes are programmed
to perform, indifferent
(as you are)
to the bodies
that fill them.

so I painted myself monochromatic,
spending my days planning, calculating,
and trusting, wondering
why it seemed that other girls never got too hungry,
(living as they did only on sugar highs),
or bored of the one color they had chosen to become, to wait inside,
but starving was easier than searching for
(or, god forbid, finding)
what I knew I was missing ––

"you are a passionate person,"
he says to me,
truth spilling through my rotting teeth into my shriveled belly,
all rich and creamy-like, as if
he doesn't know what the inside of my mouth
should taste like, as if
his mouth doesn't know
how hungry I am ––

I know
that passionate people
spend their days feasting.
they lie underneath black starry skies
and spoon their own moonlight-infused tears into
each other's mouths, and chew crunchy, fizzling morsels of poetry
along with fistfuls of shadow-drenched notebook paper, and
guzzle violet-tinged philosophy and insomnia until sunrise, but

still, unfortunately, love is what sustains us.

passionate people
are no better at surviving than Disney princesses, but
their bellies are too big and their palates too sophisticated
for light, sugary, level-headed love ––

so, in our wild, potent love, we cram ourselves with
these decadent and deliciously painful things,
and when time and distance and gravity make us still
ache with hunger, we swallow fire the colors of our lovers' eyes and
we burn like kaleidoscopic beacons,
smiling.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

You are so beautiful that you compelled me to write
And so I wrote about you with my favourite pen
Every day.. I poured my soul out for you on the pages of my diary
The pages would beg me for mercy
But I just couldn't stop
I'd write about every facet of yours
I'd describe the magnificence of your beautiful soul
The incredible moon like beauty of your face
Your long black locks of magic
Your deep blue ocean eyes
Your ridiculously charming smile
I wrote about it all
And then one day the nib of my pen broke
And your memories and thoughts were left hanging in the ink
I could no longer capture them on the pages of my diary
I was so heartbroken and frustrated
I wanted to write about you so bad...
And so I tried with a new pen
But with a different pen...It just wasn't the same
The thoughts just refused to flow
My hands would tremble
I'd just keep staring at the pages
I miss those thoughts of you
I miss the emotions that I wanted to write about you
I miss capturing you through my words on the pages of my diary
My colourful diary is now an assortment of blank white pages
My diary which was once filled with life now has turned into a graveyard
I miss not being able to write about you