but what if i am all the things i couldn't heal from?

“i set my deadfall hands on fire —
swallow the ashes,” i wrote and laughed
as these words turned black with rot

in two months,

i am no longer inside the skin
burning away vividly at the feet of the sun god.
i am not a body at the crematorium
with matchstick-fingers and gasoline;
my bones are whole, pure, pearly, quiet white.

i have been holding my breath, waiting
for the smoke to clear without choking.
i no longer want to write about the flames and the embers and live-coal hearts;
i put my poems down, my cigarettes and pitchfork
and step into a gentler flare,
and stick my tongue out to lick the sunbeams —
they’re warm against my taste buds,
like honeyed milk and hibiscus stews.



i am four years old once more,
sleeping soundly on my mother’s lap.

𝐼𝑓 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑡,
𝑎𝑛𝑑
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓  —
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑐 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙,
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛
𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦?


𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙
𝑠𝑜 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦

𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒅?

There's something about falling in love with shooting stars and REM dreams and library books and strangers in the train, whose eyes meet yours for a split second. There's something about falling in love with petrichors that last for half an hour, with the songs you hear without knowing the title, with paper boats under the rain and CDs with scratches, with that person you spent a 5 am with in a desolate park, talking about life and sadness and life — what even is the difference, without ever knowing their name.

There's a nameless feeling, probably something between resigned and bittersweet, about falling in love with temporary things. Maybe it's knowing that I've lost some things forever. It's knowing that I should always learn to let go — knowing that they won't ever come back.

And so won't you. Darling, at least, losing them didn't hurt.

wait for me
on the concert grounds
of the bands we don’t even listen to;
wait for me
‘til you find yourself
singing to the second verse
of a rock song
you hear for the first time —
that one is gonna be our song, darling.

wait for me
in old malls and museums
people no longer come to;
wait for me on the forgotten stairs
'til you see my ragged old skool
and my bad, orange hair
parting the crowd
to give you my bear hugs.

wait for me
in coffee shops that play
my favorite songs;
wait for me with that
black coffee in hand
'til i arrive an hour later
to appease you with
kisses that smell like subways
cause they’re what
i give best.

wait for me
in busy, city streets
valleyed by nameless
skyscrapers;
wait for me in strangers’ cars
at 5 am 'til a sunray
hits my face a meter across
from where you are.

wait for me
by the shore,
where promises are lost
in the sea spray;
where the starless skies
can watch me drown
in the scent of your hair
when the sea is right before us.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer have to say
our i love you’s
through calls and texts
but in front of each other.
wait for me until
you no longer find
an “i have to go” note at three am
but my arms,
wrapped around your body
and my lips
planted on your neck.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer miss each other
more often than not,
and until the only waiting
we’ll do
is you, waiting for me
to get off work,
and me, waiting for you
to wake up.

wait for me until the moment
you find me
there,
next to you;
wait for me until
your home becomes my home,
and until all we’ll have
to wait for
are delayed flights
and underrated movies to start
and dishes served late
and our hand, finding each other
instantly after seconds
of being away.

wait for me darling —
wait for me until i’m there
forever,

and until we no longer
have to wait.

to this, i resign
and i will lie motionless,
as november nights lovingly peel my skin.

strip me down,
i am sick of feeling callouses.
i am sick of my sheets
licking all these wounds clean.
i am sick of waiting for tenderness
to grow from my open sores
so strip me down —
this is as loving as it can get.
to this, i resign —
to the mercy of lonely, november nights.

so hold me down,
a pillow on my face —
petunias in my throat:

this is as soft as i can be.

peel me open. peel me raw,
and beneath it all, perhaps, i'll stumble
on something that finally
looks like home.

i carry around bones from a dug up grave. i hold onto the thorns of burial flowers. i trip on the words scattered from my own séance. pray tell, where do i lay these down to rest, if not inside me?

i seal them in the dark. i seal them shut.

i still wait for my bed to dip beneath your weight —
70 days, 70 taunting moons still come and go
without a trace

the shape of your tiny body.
i know you are weightless now,
and the bed doesn’t dip — my heart does
until it resembles a blood-red, pink flesh quicksand;
i wish we had fallen here instead, within my reach;
you can reach for a rib, a branch, a lifeline,
i would’ve given you the whole cage —
warm enough to keep you home, each bone will bar the door
and keep death outside and eye to eye with me.
the first one to blink loses.


maybe he would’ve lost his patience
and taken my heart instead —
every dip, every beat, every pump that lasts,
no more now,
and all my angels will keep you safe,
and the bed will dip under your little pink paws,
and orange feet


as i watch from the other side:
you are all the living colors and the world is pale like a ghost.

I wish to fold my skin and bones small enough
to fit my subtlest sigh
to be held,
in solace,
by all the breaths I've been holding.

Status: Dragged bones to New Year's Eve

I.
This love was made for late-night drives and city lights, left hundreds of miles away. It was made for footsteps, softened by museum floors. It was made for crowded airports — your hand, still finding mine. It was made for sunset-lit kisses, as Intramuros crumbles in the background; the walls and I are both made of brittle bones and curiosities, falling away at your kiss and yet, I felt my purest — my softest whilst the free-fall.

Maybe I did love you more.

II.
Love, it was soft. It was good. It was home. And it was a lie.

And I loved you, I loved you, I loved you — finally with a kind that didn't hurt. And yet, I never knew how to miss you without wanting to rip my heart out.

Maybe I did love you more.

III.
"I wish I didn't hurt you."

"Me too."

And despite you saying it, maybe it was I who loved you more. I know my poems have been saying goodbye way too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.

IV.
But this love, it was made for endings. And I hope you comb through airport seats, looking for my face among strangers. I hope you see my name, fading with dying lights. And I hope you know I'll no longer allow myself to think of us. Tonight, poems won't be mourning you — it'll be mourning my wounds.

Your name is written all over them.

Tonight, your memory will feel the steady flow of my pulse. It'll feel each of my aching breath, in silence that once belonged to us. And tonight, your memory will hold me gently in its arms, for the last time. As if we weren't broken. As if we were still us. And I will slip away, one breath at a time — before the day breaks.

I hope your thoughts no longer haunt me come early, morning light.

And I know I say goodbye way too many times, darling — I say goodbye too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.

here's to the cruelty of the sunrise to watch on, as you break my heart.

the thing with betrayal is that it comes from the softest, safest places — like dark brown eyes and a smile that reminds you of quiet, content mornings. like candle wax kisses — slowly dripping on the sun lines of your palms. like warm rooms and august rainfalls. like sunrises, gently creeping about. so here's to their cruelty to watch on, as you break my heart. now, the daylight's apology means nothing after it has cut my chest open to take a look at all this ache — something to remember you by.

maybe the only thing to remember you by.

and no, i never wanted to write poems about you breaking my heart, so instead, i'll ask: how many more daylights do i have to curse to still the aching in my chest? how many more daylights do i have to make a mess of, just so i'm not one? how many more daylights shall i waste hurting?

how many more pretty daylights are there to break? how many more days?

the ghostly whisper of despair
lingers on ice-cold neck,
like lead, creeping,
like vines, crawling
like veins on quartz.

bash it. bash it.
bash it on my wrists.

lately, i try to write poetry but all that spills is violence;
i am a woman possessed. *******. all foul, sulfur scent.
this lace nightgown is weary from holding together
loose bones, loose skin, loose soul.

and the sunless sky has buried its dead,
all in bleeding, black mourning veil ensemble.
and i am gray — gray as a body drained of blood.

and with all these autumns i've spent bleeding, god,
have i not bled enough?

To outrun this storm on foot is a fool's errand. So if I stop — if I choose to stay here and drench myself with its sorrows — press each bit against my chest, will they finally feel mine? Will they feel my aching for escape? Will they finally let me go?



Alas, maybe it's not a storm I'm running from, but something else.

a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
pure,
still,
and burning tenderly —
burning softly before your eyes.

i liken myself
to a child's laughter falling
on patches of sunlight —
to persephone giving in
to the licking flames,

but she is no more than
a fading ghost,
and my skin —
no more than a haunted woodland.

i hold on to the flames,
to this perplexity:
how can immolation
look so soft,
so cleansing,
so **** hypnotic?

when it feels everything but.

a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
pure,
still,
burning tenderly
into oblivion —
just as softly before your eyes.