She always told me to choose my battles,
but she was never really a fighter. She
was selective, and exclusive - creating
a stone fence around her kingdom, in
hopes of blocking all suffering and
trapping all the happening. She was head
strong, stubborn - liked to be right, even
when it meant doing something dead wrong.
"You keep your friends close, and your
enemies farthest," and that was how she
got by amongst those who were toxic. She
made homes out of rubble, and found
something magical when all and everyone
had left; it was a kingdom of only a few,
but it was hers. And she liked it that way.

                                   My mother always told me to choose my
                                   battles. And I never really understood until
                                   now. She was selective and exclusive, but
                                   she was cunning and realistic. Why risk
                                   warfare over the approval of one person,
                                   when you could spend your time creating a loyal
                                   army instead? Fighting for nothing but the
                                   upper-hand on some golden pedestal, I burned
                                   down the remains of my dignity and became
                                   a soldier I couldn't even look in the mirror. I
                                   fought to be the better person, all to risk
                                   becoming the complete opposite. I chose his
                                   battle, but I did not have to lose mine. So, I
                                   finally waved my white flag high, surrendered
                                   to the will of my own. And somehow that was
                                   just enough to win the war inside my mind.

gd

Lately, it's been so hard to stay awake,

and       I'm just looking for signs
              to get me through these gloomy days
              I think about summer sunsets
              I think about us
              I think about how we were never
              really an "us" in the first place
              I think about disconnection (yours and mine)
              I think about the late nights I find comfort in
              I think about the early mornings
              that always start with dizzy thoughts
              I think about why it's been so hard to stay awake,
              when I have so much more to live for than this

gd

Love is fear,
eye to eye
love is fear,
hand in hand,
love is fear.
heart to heart.

I am tethered to you
by a slender golden chain.
A puppet and
its strings above.
An ordinary girl and
a spectacular love.

The depths of my bones have hallowed out
to store our memories
and ours alone.
Clear as day, sweet as honey,
but as gentle as the wind,
as fragile as a snowflake under a spring sun.

We are one
and yet not one enough.
Two halves of a destined whole.
How disheartening it is to realize
you are mine
and yet also betrothed to Providence.

So I whisper prayers
for a mourning
I will never have to feel.
I whisper prayers of winged feet
to carry us to an unbreakable,
unshakeable land.

Because love is fear
And I fear my bones will stay hollow
without you.
Love is fear.
And I fear my body would buckle
under all that heart break.

To love is to fear.
Fear that we may never be
eye to eye,
hand in hand,
heart to heart
ever again.

gd

It's weird.
Some days I will have complete periods of strength
that reach till the ends of my nails and the tips of my split ends,
then some days I am drained completely from head to toe.

As if I am the rigid metal that carries lightning currents
downwards into the earthy ground -
emotionless exterior but interior chaos.
And if I was a storm I would be the circumference:

Hectic and reckless causing havoc in my path
when all I ever long for is to reach the eye of my own destruction;
to touch the absolute stillness of its centre;
the becoming and acceptance of the right here and right now.

But I am never here; I am everywhere all the time.

I am the rain that falls even when the sun
is shining on the bare skin on your backs.
I am the gasp after shock and the light ringing
in your ears hidden behind the invisible vibrato in the air.

I am the strength and the weakness;
I am the hurricane all together,
attaching myself to imaginary homes
I made out of the rubble of temporary emotions.

And maybe that is why
I cannot seem to hold onto anything long enough.
Or when the storm reaches its peak, maybe that is why
I cannot seem to let go quickly enough either.

gd

There was always something weighing me down
much more prominently than gravity. It sat on my shoulders
as if it were a king finally gracing his throne, and pushed downwards
on my temples in some attempt of keeping me grounded.

But I began to believe in this burden -
looked towards it as guidance, when all along
I had been walking down a path of blotchy grass and stone
that shouldn't have been trudged along in the first place.

I looked for the answers underneath the soil
and tried to piece my puzzles with left over morning dew,
but the soil just fell through my fingers
and the dew had disappeared before brunch.

The weight was my blanket, my sturdy bridge, my fireplace
- it was protective, sempiternal and warm -
but it was also transparent, rigid, and uncomfortable
- safe, but entirely manifested hesitance -

All this time, I believed that the weight was right;
the burden was compressing me to be simpler and lighter.
But today, I chose the path leading to a faulty tightrope across the way
and I ended up flying instead of falling; free rather than frivolous.

gd

I miss your beating heart making music in my ears.
They used to sing lullabies
that would always leave me drowsy in desires,
and I wonder if you still hum as often as you used to.

Because that was the mood shift,
the tell tale sign that you were happy.
A soft rift here, another octave there;
I miss that sound because it always filled the silence with serenity.

Recently however, silence has been all I've been used to.
And the only beating heart I'm hearing is my own,
running like I've been running miles.
But in actuality

I've only been sitting still, staring at ceilings
wondering if I could turn back time
I wouldn't have had to watch you turn around
and never look back.

My hands always shake just thinking about you
and I can't help but wonder if maybe
it's because your fingers are no longer intertwined
to keep them still.

I miss the warmth and the pure comfort.
I'm wearing layers and fake smiles
and I can't even think about tomorrow
without wondering how things would be different

if you were here today.

gd

You turned
me into ash;
I turned you
into poetry.

gd

It just doesn't work, trust me.
You said matter-of-factly in the tone of voice
that could have persuaded me to do anything,
except believe this.

No, it does. It just requires both people to put some effort in.
I remember myself contemplating
and convincing you;
trying to make you believe it was possible, because it had to be.

Exes can't be friends after everything. It just doesn't work.
You told me of all the others
pretty and playful who ran away with your heart
but never gave it back.

But for the longest time, I tried to prove you wrong
tried to make us invinsible in some sort of way
tried to make you see in a new sort of light
tried to show you it wasn't that hard
tried to hold on to what we had
tried to keep our friendship
tried to be the exception
tried to keep us intact
tried to find a way
tried to be more
tried to stay
tried to
tried

But I just came out breathless and heartless
because I hate to admit it, but
god, you were right.*

gd

I met this guy in
white Ralph Lauren
and right then and there
I knew we couldn't be friends.

We clicked like a puzzle;
literally every piece seemed to interlock
and I couldn't keep my eyes away
as if this burning desire lay between us
across some paperweight bridge of tension
and affection

and please, I just want to cross it
and I want to throw my hands up
and scream to the mountains
and just yell ***** it! at the top of my lungs
and plunge into whatever void his presence has planned for me

because I can't seem to
shake him off of my mind,
so I know this is already bad.

I can feel it chattering and creating a
foundation under my epidermis
scattering my nerves in places
I did not think were possible
and there sits a bed-sized
crater just for him. And I
know it's bad, I know
it. And I shouldn't
even care and I
shouldn't let it
happen but
here I am
o  n  c  e
again.

gd

I don't understand what I want.
I feel like I'm cutting through a layer of thick metal,
enduring the sound of scraping steel scratch from surface to centre
and I'm not getting through—through to you.

I talked about him today. Embraced his disappearance in my memory
and seemed to watch him walk away all over again.
I was washed with emotion and serene understanding
of some in depth sentiment that I only found intact with him.

And it just ******* ***** because I acknowledge my surroundings—
they're printed and plastered all over in bright reds and yellows
making room for summertime without the sadness—
yet some void remains sat square in the middle;

Some lost hope, unable to make sense of what exactly belongs there.
And I'm cutting through layers of other peoples' minds
to see if their context can create art with my emotions.
But it's nothing but dull.

It's all surface and no substance,
which discourages the complexity of my being
and causes the wind from the outdoor tempest to reach
the ends of my eyelashes and the edges of my clenched teeth.

What I'm trying to say is, maybe I'm expecting too much from you.
I'm imagining mansions and kaleidoscope chemistry
with sparks sputtering out of my mouth
in the form of stutters and laughs that keep me breathless.

But instead, I'm getting dying embers,
that come from the scorching coal path of my memories burning beneath my feet.
I'm expecting too much, but I can't risk expecting nothing at all
for someone who can't even make my fingertips tingle or cause my heart to race.

Especially because I know the feeling of awe;
especially because I've felt it all before.

gd

Don't look so sad, darling. I know it's tough right now
to think there is nothing worth living for. I know life
can be cruel when you turn your attention away for
even a moment. And I know how much you try and
how hard you work, but there are still some things
you need to realize.

              Maybe a year from now, a month from now, a week from now -
              even tomorrow, you'll find someone who will love the way you
              scrunch up your nose for no reason. Someone who will laugh at
              all your lame jokes; someone who will understand why your
              clothes need to match and your books need to be straight. They
              will notice the way you make patterns with your fingertips and
              how you breathe for good luck. Someone who realizes you only
              like your cucumbers with cream cheese or how you don't like
              peppers. At all. They will smirk about how you smile to yourself
              when no one looks, and how you gasp at TV characters like they
              were your best friends. Even how you like to hum when you're
              bored. And scream your heart out in crowded concerts just to feel
              like part of the noise, because they will know just how much you
              hate the silence. They will bring you sunshine on rainy days since
              that's when you will need it the most. They will realize why you
              never read a book if you've already watched the movie, and give
              you the time you need alone just with your words. Someone who
              will feel the cringing when you hear metal on chalkboards and be
              able to smell your favourite mid-August breeze. They will watch
              you dangerously dance with your fingers as much as your feet
              and sway to the rhythm even without any music around. Maybe
              they will know when you want sushi and how you like it raw,
              when you want pizza - with extra cheese and barbecue sauce on
              top - or how you like no onions on your double bacon cheese
              burger cravings at midnight on a Tuesday. Someone who will love
              you for your big mouth and your little mistakes; someone who
              would bring down a comet when you get tired of stars; someone
              who will be there before, during and after the morning hangover.
              And who will still love you the most when life gets cruel.

But first, darling,
learn to love yourself just as much.

gd

The last time you looked at me with love
was somewhere between September,
where summer was nearing its end and
autumn was saying hello.

The last time you said you loved me
was Thanksgiving weekend, when you reminded me
how your world only consisted of my presence and
"grateful" was an innocent understatement to define how you felt.

The last time you held my hand
you wrapped my fingers in every crevice of your grip
squeezing it tight as if
never wanting to let me go.

The last time you kissed me
was a passionate concoction
embroidered on the satin fabric
of lust and love.

You picked me up from behind,
spun me around my living room
and kissed me against my front door
as if there was going to be a next time.

But Christmas has presented itself like a shooting star:
visible but barely there, flashing by in a second only to steal all your wishes.
And it has come to my attention that it's been far too long
since you've even allowed my name to roll off your tongue.

The last time you talked to me* was at a mutual friend's party,
where my heart became nervous, an all too old sensation,
to even have the courage to talk to you
wondering if your voice would be warm even with the belligerent wind outside.  

The last time I felt your embrace
was the exact same day, given in an awkward stance,
ending with you walking out the door where
winter awaited to kiss your cheeks because I had no right to anymore.

And this time, you didn't look at me with love, or kiss me from behind.
This time, you used your hands to push me away,
and that's when it crossed my mind that
those three little words abruptly became Latin on your native English tongue.

Though those were the last times I had any signs of your presence still physically in my life,
they weren't the last times I dreamt of you, longed for your hand (or kiss or hug), or loved you.
But as a new dawn rounds the corner, I solemnly swear today -
today will be the last time I miss you.

                                                        ­        *Or at least I'll try to.

- g.d.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind
and it sounds like pebbles hitting the nerves if my temporal lobe.

It's tapping in morse code and I can almost hear it
singing all those songs I was meant to forget.
They're slower though—acoustic and remixed
to the dying beat of all our memories.

If I focus on it long enough
I could probably pinpoint where it's coming from,
but I know I'm just choosing not to.
If I focus on it hard enough,
I could probably repaint its rainbow splatters on a canvas,
but I'm just choosing not to.

If I focus on it long enough,
I might just hear your voice again—
coated sweet nothings in nothing but syrup,
but I'm just choosing not to because

you never chose me, darling.

Even until now, we flinch at the sight of each other
rather than letting the light consume us like all the times before.

And maybe I'm just mad at the stars for not giving me some sort of sign
or godforsaken comet to warn me from falling for you the first time,
or the second,
or over and over again

Because it's not fair that you've still got my head spinning
when I cut every single piece of red thread that tied us together.
It's not fair that you've got me second guessing my present
because of the ashes and rotting debris of the past.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind.
It's tapping in morse code
about all the questions you left hanging in mid-air.
The thumping is getting louder and I can't—

I can't make it stop.

gd

Don't look too proud, darling,
because dignity is dripping off
the Swarovski crystals on this
broken chandelier and your
name is the last thing they
would spell out if they came
crashing down. A bunch of
boisterous words & boastful
stories won't get you very far
except for a couple steps
[s d a r w k c a b]

And if you wanted to dabble
a chord on my heart strings,
it would have been easier to
not say anything at all, but
your once dormant thoughts
began pouring out of your
once silent lips in some childish
attempt to rattle some sort of
r      a      t       o    
   e       c      i       n

And behind those innocent
eyes lie only craters you dug
out of yourself because of
your own selfish pride. So
don't act too proud, darling,
speak a little louder and you'll
end up biting off your own
t   o   n   g   u   e   .

gd

How foolish of me to take a harmless quiz
to truly understand if I "got over" you yet.
Little did they know I walked across (and "got over")
the bridge we created a long while ago,
but I still remain on the other side
guarding it from unwanted visitors.

I "got over" the persistent reminders
that you would never say you loved me,
as well as the overwhelming whispers
that you would never walk me home anymore.
I "got over" your name falling to the bottom of my contact list,
and the fact that you never smiled when I was around.

I "got over" a lot of things, my dear,
yet I still took that test just to make sure
I "got over" your scent
and your touch and your taste.
And all it confirmed was:
not quite yet, but you're almost there.

I always knew quizzes were complete ******* because
boy, were they wrong.

- g.d.

Our ambivalent choices lead to impulsive actions
and every inch of your scent pulled me in like a rope,
unable to set myself free.
Your eyes like lighthouses to guide me from the tempest in my mind;
your pulse to the beat of my heart -

racing and heightened with emotions of lust and love,
merging the two as if they were one.
Every kiss sent shivers down my spine,
and a trial of flames down my skin.

You left scars in my heart
the same way you left them on my neck -
bruised and aching for your love.
A voice so cynical and undeserving

once told me of a love story so tragic it could only be true.
Regretful and confused, have I given away my dignity?
When you’ve given all your love,
what more is there to give than lust and pity?

In the darkest corners of my mind,
you stand there walking away and coming towards me
at the same time. Your eyes like lighthouses,
but your lips like satin,

your touch like alcohol: addictive and tempting.
Your scent so captivating,
while your kisses inescapable. You see,
you live in the darkest corners because you are the lamp in the dark

and the weakness in my soul. You have me lost within myself
with every smirk and smile.
I am bruised and aching for something I shouldn’t.
You are the wind and the sun

and every season I await to bask in.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
you are my courage wrapped in the scent
that make my knees go weak.

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                             - g.d.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the worst type of pessimist.
At heart I'm an optimist, looking past the highest mountains,
trying to reach the sky with the tips of my fingers and
catch the clouds at the base of my palms.

However, in head,
I'm the biggest pessimist
finding the dark spots on the sunniest days,
herding death between the cracks in the concrete.

And the head is like the heart's big sister,
telling her to take a step back and make sure of her actions,
bossing her around, burning out her spark,
leaving the dead of the night with nothing but doubt.

But you've got my lips coated in sugar and
my intentions wrapped in flames.
You've got my heart scrapping its knees and
my head spinning

Because who would've thought
it'd finally meet its match,
unable to hold something down
with two hands and keep it in place.

But both of them are undoubtedly worried,
darling.
They're running for the hills and
finding a place to set camp where you'd never find.

Empty handed and confused, they're still searching and
the only thing going through their thoughts remains to be

"there's still time to run
          there's still time to run
                  there's still time
                            just move your feet,
                                       don't look back
                                                 and run
                                                         as fast as you can."

gd

How did we shatter our innocence?

Tripping over the laces we tied together,
building homes solely out of old memories,
finding comfort in our worst pieces of skin
and calling it love at 3am
crying about insecurities and infidelities.

Darling, how can it still be called love
when the fires are burning down our sanctuaries, and our sanities?
How can it still be called love
when our foundations no longer mimic the Great Wall of China,
or stand indestructible like the concrete Pyramids of Egypt?

We are paper thin
and just as fragile
as the tiny paper houses
we used to make out of playing cards.

Our hands no longer fit
like perfect puzzle pieces -
they mimic sheets of sandpaper instead,
scratching out every ounce of sincerity
we once engraved into each other's palms.

Our footsteps fall separate octaves away,
out of sync and out of touch,
in this **** grand scheme
somehow labelled a masterpiece.

We were once flawless.
But now we've just made flaws
out of every single thing we used to fall for.
Now, we're just flawed.

gd

There's a pulsing in my head I can't seem to shake off
and it always beats to the rhythm of your breath.

& because of this I can't seem to pick up
another black or blue pen for my life because
it still leaks the words you told me;
still leaks the words that used to be true.

& I think that's what baffles me the most:
that words remain in the moment - just like pictures
and carved wood - but as time passes by they
lose their meaning and fade away like dust in a sandstorm.

& there I sit, right at the eye of the tempest
waiting for the pulsing in my temples to subside
in the dead of the night with nothing but
the silence to keep me company and the chaos to keep me warm.

gd

God, I need to stop writing about you.

But it seems my hand moves with your eyes
forcing me to forge letters with its movements,
and the words you say always sounds like music,
so by the time I look at my paper,
I've already written sheet music to last eternities.

I even went to meditation seminars in hopes of
finding peace within body and mind to get rid of you,
until I realized that you left a trail of your DNA
on the surface of my skin after the way you touched
every inch of me; its particles leaked its way
into the crevices and grooves of my brain.

And God, I just want to stop writing about you.

gd

Sometimes I find myself searching
and searching
for pieces of myself that
I've never really wanted in the first place.

And I'll keep that pamphlet,
and I'll cherish that trinket,
and I'll store that bus ticket
just for safe keeping.

And I'll sleep for hours
to see if I can find
what I've lost
in my subconscious

but over
and over again
I find things I never wanted
in the first place

and I'll throw them into the sea
only to swim back to shore,
too late and too far gone
to realize I'm going to have to jump back in.

And maybe I'm talking in circles
and maybe I never really belonged
anywhere
other than where I sleep for the night

Or wherever I decided to
set foot to scavenge
for any remains of myself
that I took for granted.

Maybe a nomad
only finds peace
at the edge of losing everything.
Or maybe they never find peace at all.

gd