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gd Aug 2014
"It's
better
to burn out
than fade
away."

But whoever has
said  t h a t  has
obviously never
tasted a sparkler
at its  p  e  a  k ,
piercing the tip of
your tongue and
bursting the insides
of your  g  u  m  s ,
causing canker sores
to spot every single
inch he's ever tasted.

It may be better to burn out, but trust me,
a fourth degree burn is much more lethal
than a bunch of paper cuts.

gd
{you reminded me of a firework: beautifully dark, tragically deadly}
gd Aug 2014
You're the last person I should be falling for,
spiralling head first into this void
of paper-mâché'd "love"
but god,

I'm so in like with you.

gd
{last month, you were the only thing that kept me awake on my morning bus rides}
gd Aug 2014
Let me tell you something about falling in lust before falling in love:
They say the first cut cuts the deepest,
the first kiss lasts the longest and
the first goodbye will always be the hardest.

But only now do I realize we were never really in love,
but rather in great—crazy great—unmistakeable lust.

Lust: hands in your hair, and yours travelling downwards
leaving a trail of fire in your path as it runs down my spine
and seeps through my skin to poison my heart.

By the end of it all my heart sat frozen in place,
unable to beat to anyone except you,
leaving it feeling cold and still
like the bottom of the ocean.

But if I was ice, Love, you were nothing but flames,
engulfing and suffocating.
Lust, sweet lust,
like a never-ending dream, so real but so temporary.

And when the sun is hidden by the clouds
and when the rain starts to pour
and when the wind picks up to the rhythm of our paces in sync
and so intertwined, well, there's nothing left but a catastrophe—
a sweet ephemeral tragedy.

See, Love, we may have been great
and crazy and frozen and burned
but rain washes that all away,
not even nice enough to leave any evidence behind.

The first lust doesn't cut . . . it stabs,
and it has just forced me to spill new blood on old pieces of paper.

gd
{I've come back with a new perspective on everything I never really saw beforehand, and it has changed everything}
gd Jul 2014
Is this how a first love is supposed to be?
Indestructible and Irrevocable? Hanging
over your head even 10 months after and
counting cautiously? Carrying this dark
heavy cloud beyond the border of sanity?
Pacing and passing by all your positivity,
creating colossal chromatic colours of blacks
and greys up and down the edges of your
spine?

Following you? Never ever leaving you?
Watching over you in that devil-on-your-
shoulder-conscience kind of way? Restricting
and retreating the surface of your sentiments
until they've all been turned to ash and embers
of doubts and lost longings?

Preparing you for disappointment, always & forever?
Like that first time you locked lips and left the key at
the bottom of the ocean? Like that last time you laced
ligaments between the sheets of some paperweight
comforter?

Under all that dust and debris, does it bury deeper
in the cracks between your heart—or solely in the
space where it's supposed to be? Does it feed on
your sorrows and make homes out of the abandoned
buildings of your bones? It does, doesn't it? This is
how a first love is supposed to be? That even when
a second walks your way, you can't help but flinch?

gd
gd Jul 2014
T  w  o    l  o  v  e  r  s
in each other's arms,
both dreaming to be
in someone  e l s e ' s.
There are  c r a t e r s
where hearts should
be; there are  c u t s
where there should
have been  k i s s e s.
Lurching forward and
back, back-tracked and
b r o k e n, looking for
a road less travelled so
nothing else can be
s p o k e n.

gd
{sometimes we settle to feel safe; sometimes we settle to feel loved}
gd Jul 2014
It was quite funny because
you told me you hated poetry today.

Appalled and speechless
I just stared blankly at your amusement
because little did you know,
I saw every language run down your smile;

I watched words sputter out from your eyelashes
and could make out the faint heartbeat
of a poem waiting to happen.

Plastered all over your face,
twisting into metaphorical features,
unlocking a gateway towards iconic alliteration, and
found the foreign flutter in the irony between your syllables.

You told me you hated poetry,
and I laughed because when I looked at you,
all I saw was a poem.

gd
gd Jul 2014
I know
who you
were,

no longer
who you
are.

gd
{a year ago I remember catching my breath, trying to muffle my giggling obviously initiated by you. Those times were good, those times were pure. But they mean absolutely nothing now}
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