like a rabid dog, stinking of neglect and the absence of a loving home
its bones protrude through thin layers of skin and fur it’s cultivated by its madness
how did it become like this?
how did it deteriorate so horrifically into such an unrecognizable thing?
a curse?
it thinks sometimes that it has been cursed, either by others or perhaps, more frighteningly, it’s own mind.
choice?
no. it can’t be that simple. surely nobody would choose this.
a twisted combination of the two?
it ponders as it prowls, on the hunt for a resource it won’t allow itself. just passing the time really.
children stare and point at the state of the animal’s ragged form, whispering about cause and effect.
a pitiful thing,
like a rabid dog
frightened by the bass of its own growl
it scares itself
does it scare you?

it rots inside you like the vile heaps at a garbage dump
decomposing, digesting
no flowers grow from this haunted garden

you use your body’s already limited resources to filter this waste you put into it
straining to process your own gluttony
your weakness

it fills the pristine void
causes your sunken vessel to swell and bloat
it causes what was once clean to become something grotesque
something shameful
something rotten

It no longer bothers you—the dull aching of your flesh, the sharpness of your bones. Bones protrude the skin, enveloping your tender self and vital organs like a cage, a protective barrier of stone that has risen from the soft earth beneath.

This cage is not new, it has only grown harder with the test of time, slowly expanding. Protecting.

Protecting what? Protecting your soul?
Is there anything left worth saving?

You hear a bird’s cry in the distance, the shuffle of carnivorous creatures looming around it, licking their lips, baring their teeth. They do not hide in the guise of darkness, no—they stalk in broad daylight, staring through the cracks in the barrier. Your terror is only a byproduct of their patience.

Fear is the only thing that penetrates this cage, making every little thing under your skin crawl.

Yet, you feel at home in this cage. It’s one you built yourself, and you get used to the fear. For the most part.

It becomes a kind of comfort, knowing what’s inside and what remains out. After a while, you think you’ll be okay here.

You’ll survive.

You find solace, knowing the corvids wait for your demise.

All your life you have been shrinking, if not outside than in.

You cling to a purpose, desperately—your nails break and your fingers begin to bleed from your tight grasp.

“Why am I like this?” you ask, not for the first time. Your own desperate voice resounds in the chamber, sinks down into an endless void.
You’ll never receive an answer.

You’ve been trapped here your whole life.
This flesh suit you call a prison, others call a body, a home. Something that is supposed to be so innately yours, something you were born into, expected to grow, take care of. Something you loathe.

This home is something suffocating, something you are all too aware of.
You’re drowning.
You are drowning in it, suffocating on this thing you cannot even name.
You cannot escape.
You run from this thing that you are becoming, this thing that you are trapped in.

“Please, God, let me out,” you beg.
Just one breath of air, you plead, and you can return to your cage.

It’s a cloak you can hide under, one you find solace in, even after all this time.

You could live your entire life under it- a pillar of your lonely crusade into oblivion.

“Is that really a life?” They might ask. You don’t know. Definitions are a subjective and fickle thing, a mess of arbitrary jargon designed to help us understand. Often, they work to the contrary.

If the past is any baseline, they all lie through their teeth. Is life nothing more than an infected wound, slowly killing you from the inside as you desperately try to patch it? Something perpetually healing and never ‘healed’.

It begs for a resource it is not allowed. You can feel it twisting, turning inside of you like a voracious beast, one you thought you had conquered long ago, arisen from the dead.

“It’s your own fault,” someone whispers to you. You are alone in your room.

You turn on the lights to feel less alone, your only company the voiceless dancing entity within the small bulb. A presence not really there, yet comforting nonetheless.

“Why did you do that?” something else will ask. Something deep within the boundaries of your mind, though it is not you. It’s not you, yet it becomes a part of you more and more each day, growing like a malignancy, a wronged adversary with a penchant for revenge.

It haunts you, clings to your bowels, takes your guts in its hands, and squeezes. It permeates though the entirety of your body—it seeps into your blood, it infects your brain. Simultaneously. It’s everywhere. It’s nowhere.

Is it really just you?

It can’t be. It can’t be you, because that line of reasoning doesn’t make sense. Why would you do this? Why would you do this to yourself? Later, they’ll ask you the same thing. There is no answer you can give them that will satiate their curiosity.

You don’t even know yourself.

a gasp of lavender
reaches the parts of me that belong to you
smoke that twists, twirls, transforms
a weapon fleeting but lethal
will it glow inside like it did before
will it emulate your touch
sacrilegious
the false wisps of a former life
rush under my skin
into my blood
it’s not enough
never enough
not you

beauty not created but transferred
your voice flows into the brush
a fluid magic
the shades of your wings reflect it
transferred for me, mine
I’d take any small piece
a fraction of you
to feel it’s warmth emanating
the surface a gentle thing
sparing nothing
every particle I crave

how long can you go on fracturing yourself
splitting your soul into pieces
hiding them in the woodwork of your mind
before the pieces are found?
how long can you live
knowing you’ll never be whole
only a part
how long can you survive in the dark?

mon menton repose dans mes mains, lourd
heures passées à lire, mes paupières tachées pâle rose
la seule évasion de la prison de mon esprit

Pantone noir skies
but a thousand buildings glow
not with light, but life
people working, watching, waiting, living

through the rear window I see thousands of lives
lives unaffected by my presence, unaware
thousands of realities, stories, perspectives even more

humanity reflected in each pane of glass
i yearn to have a human life too

a life of possibility and not restraint
to do, rather than watch

i am a poet in the way i am human
by nature and birth
an intrinsic responsibility to life
to write, to tell, to be heard
but even if i write and share not a single word I am yet a poet
the way a human could live a hundred years in isolation and still be just that

how much longer can I lie
and say I like it alone
because what started off as truth
has grown into a big blackhole
I’ve been burying myself in the sand
and hiding from the sun

they say to be loved by a poet
is to be immortal

paper containing a lifetime
a museum of memories
both lived and unlived
what was
and what had the potential to be

features equated to celestial bodies
moments and emotions in detail
each laugh memorialized

when your touch is golden sunlight
and your gaze blooming daisies
it’s hard to act normal
hard to think straight

when your laugh is a chord that rings
and your movements a choreography
the sound of your voice dewy and familiar
it’s difficult to pretend
but I’m used to it

I ignore how the sun turns your eyes to honey, soft and saccharine
how my heart responds when you look up at me through foggy glasses
I ignore the way you light up when you tell your convoluted stories
how the world is brighter when you’re beside me

because in the end it’s meaningless
amounting to nothing more
I never win
I’ll just keep dreaming of being yours

it hurts
when you can feel an ocean inside
waves crashing into the boundaries of your mind
begging for release
to reach the shore
denying them, holding them back like a well-built dam
not a single drop gets through this facade

I’m an actor
in a role I never auditioned for
one I never wanted
one thrown upon me by the cruel hands of society
family
is this life better than none?
three months
I whisper to the face in the mirror
one I have never recognized
one that is not my own

i hope one day to look
and find myself looking back
a true reflection
real and not imagined
but for now I do my best
with whispers
the tears I cannot release
sweaters in the biggest size
corners to curl into
alone when I can imagine
how I’ll look when I’m me
not you

be friendly
personable
but always know your place
only speak when spoken to
perhaps if you behave you will find a nice husband
be a good wife

raising me in her image
it’s a facade
I’m fractured
a picture from long ago
broken and never properly repaired
the shards put back wrong

a smiling photo of a girl i don’t know
darling daughter
know your place
smile but not too long

dark red rose
crumbles under the weight of darkness
falls apart into thousands of pieces
each one morphing into small black spiders as they hit the cement floor
scattering
running to hide from the impending moon’s glow
into the safety of the dark

would you love me if i were normal?
if I could hold hands and laugh without peril?
if i could meet you halfway
if i could say the three words?
would you love me if i weren’t so irreverent, if i could show how much i care?
would you love me like the sun loves the moon
an unbroken bond
eternal

i stare at your celestial glow
waning and quiet but speaking volumes to all who listen
i crane my neck up to you and listen
i hear the undying hope of those who have suffered
the moon will rise
the moon will rise again
it is a constant and a beautiful one at that
a gentle reminder that you’ve made it another day on earth
a promise
i hear the whispers of billions
sad laments, happy memories, and everything in between
when I speak, do you listen?
do you hear my voice among billions
do you differentiate each person’s sorrow
do you even hear me at all?

the odious night’s darkness
crept into her heart
put its hands around the muscle
and squeezed

the wind whispers and runs its fingers through her hair
a melody in her ears, the salt in her tears
the darkness in her heart beware

I am who I’ve always been, the scales have just fallen from my eyes
I’m no longer deceived by you and your lies

deep green forest lit by the faraway sun
leaves crunch under his step, echoing the blast of a gun
her dirtyblonde hair tainted crimson red
some things are better left unsaid
they say fetch the profiler whose sanity is challenged
maybe he’ll notice the parts that were salvaged
look at the ritual, the signature, the crime
what is the significance, what is my design?
remove my glasses, step into his mind
sometimes I wish I had been born blind
analyze the evidence, make the connections
step out of the box that controls your projections
there is no one disorder to explain
the things that go on inside of my brain

the flame of a candle flickers in the dark
her wrists are bleeding from the rope that’s been leaving a mark
she can hear the rain coming down outside
a single tear falls from her eye
the dark cellar walls are closing in
a bead of sweat forms on her skin
locked in this cellar just like a tomb
there is no escape from this lifeless room

they said she would never feel the rain
see it gently pour again and again
watch dewdrops settle on fresh green grass
or feel caerulean waves crash over her back
they said she would never feel the breeze
get lost in forests emerald green
yet she steps outside with her heart on her sleeve
the world and its beauty just within her reach
slow shallow breaths she manages to choke out
crying for help but she’s unable to shout
her hope she knew was too good to be true
an unfamiliar world blurred before her eyes
all it was was beauty in disguise
red and blue lights accompanied by sirens
but she knows they’re too late to prevent her silence
they said she would never feel the rain
because all she ever knew was the feeling of pain