What if my trauma wins?

What if the doubts swallow me whole
because this is all I have ever known?
The darkness all around,
not even the slightest sound,
but my heart beats like ocean waves
leaving me to tire,
begging me to drown.

They’ve made my chest feel heavy for hours,
for days,
for weeks,
sleep reeks of tears suppressed,
sheets a mess,
a failure at best—
no rest.

No rest ever
not even within the cushions of my mind.
They whisper my happiest thoughts
only to douse them in day old wine,
lighting the matches,
tearing the seams,
my faded dreams
sprawled all over the hardwood floor.

What if my trauma laughs?
Because I dared to challenge it
within the cages it built,
filling my mouth
with all the words I never had the guts to spill,
onto pages dripping with
nothing
but guilt.

When will my trauma leave?
When all is said?
When all is done?
When life is lost?
Just tell me when
and where to run
because I am tired of fighting a war
my anxious mind signed me up for.

gd

How troublesome it is trying to forget you.
Every twist, turn and shift
leads right back to your eyes,
which never seem to be looking back at mine.

I'm stuck in this pool of quicksand
filled to the rim with memories of seeing you,
feeling you, hearing you,
loving you.

In my head - like a flash of lighting or
Halley's Comet -
I beg and plead for a wish,
any wish in the moment to

guide me away
from the tormenting vivid doubts of my own mind
and lead me back into your arms.
But it never ends up that way;

what a troublesome act it is trying to forget you
when all I can see,
feel,
and hear

triggers the inner depths of my emotions;
the shallowness of my breaths;
my liquid stained eyes similar
to the stains of red and purple you once left on my neck,

and my gleaming pearly whites I flash for the cameras
who know nothing but my face -
contrary to the knowledge I have of you touch,
your stride, your lips on mine,
your scent hypnotic in such a troublesome way.

It truly is such a troublesome act trying to forget you,
when everything I've been left with
is sewn and threaded with reminders to
always remember.

- g.d.

I watched you fall out of love.
Slowly, then gradually,
then all at once.
Only now am I realizing it;
everything about you drifted
into a space I could no longer reach.

I watched as your eyes changed with the seasons -
your vibrant summer glance
turned cold and gloomy with the autumn breeze.
Your hands, once warm and tight,
loosened with your smile.
It was no longer firm and gleaming,
but rather forced in a dead straight line
laced with words so harsh they mimicked the sharpness of
ice.

And your laugh,
oh that laugh,
no longer echoed in my mind with such simplicity;
never was it once again renewed or reheard,
just replayed over
and over
and over
before it faded backwards through my ears,
past my skull,
to the hairs on my neck
which no longer showed any signs of your lips.

Sincere sighs of wonder
became solid sighs of impatience.
Slowly, but surely,
your tired brown eyes and the heaviness of your stride,
said everything you didn't have to say.
Slowly, but surely,
your stare became dull
and your embrace no longer wrapped me with comfort.
Slowly, but surely,
your lips no longer tasted of fresh mint love,
that I memorized oh so well.

There was always too much on the line,
and even though I tried
to grab
and reach
and hold onto something,
I always came up empty
like the void in my chest that grew
every single time
I watched you fall out of love
with me.

- g.d.

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I'm just falling further
                 into the depths of some
                 monstrous black hole I dug in
                 the back wall of my closet.

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I'm just falling asleep
                 under some mysterious concoction
                 you injected into me when I got caught up
                 in your faulty promises, but I should have known
                 that you were nothing but an awful distraction

Everybody is falling in love
                 and I can't help but remind myself that these clouds above me
                 will only remain grey until some external force sweeps me off my feet
                 and carries me towards the highest mountains with a stunning view,
                 and he'll set me on the ground and I'll make a run for the edge
                 only to think twice before jumping off because

                 you ruined me in all the right places  
                 just to make sure everything felt so wrong after you left.

Everybody is falling in love**
                 and I can't help but notice that the weather seems to be looking up
                 and I can't help but hope for it to come crashing down;
                 for the sea to break through the cracks in the concrete
                 so I'll never have to see your face again
                 and you'll never get to see hers either.

gd

Just the thought of you
makes my insides feel like someone is playing chords
on my veins and they're strumming intensely
to all the pieces of stanzas I've failed to make into songs.

And this very scenario happens thrice a day
for good luck . . .
but it seems I've just fallen out of luck
because you're nothing but gone;

disappeared into the air
like smoke
that were once embers
of a blazing fire.

And now you're just ash,
over-ignited,
and I feel like throwing up
at the sound of your name

because the pesky little butterflies
are festering in my stomach
since the electricity running through your fingers
was the only thing that could ignite them.

They're just fluttering there,
rotting,
growing old and restricted
within the lining of my digestive tract

because I can't seem to digest the very memories of your voice
oryoureyesoryoursmileoryourstupidlaugh
without wanting to cut myself open
just to let the creatures inside me free.

I just want to be free.

But now I'm trapped
under some bittersweet limestone sentiments
that are leaving my mind
just as crippled as my heart.

I was soaring, you know.
You had me flying without wings,
and now I can't even look up
from the carpet you left me crying on.

gd

I.
You were supposed to last. And I think this very statement is the reason for the sudden pangs of pain in my heart.

II.
I am a ticking time bomb, and even the thought of your name—the slow rhythmic articulation from that first letter to the last—is causing an eerie, yet familiar, squeeze on my heart. And I'm pinching myself in every single place that you touched as an attempt to make myself aware that you're never going to touch those place again. But I'm tired, Love. I'm tired of having to pinch myself every single day just as a reminder that your were real. Were. And for the past couple weeks, I thought I had it all together, soaring over the mourning only for it to come knocking at my door with every memory you managed to leave me breathless with.

III.
But don't be fooled by time. Time doesn't heal anything. If anything, it is only a master of torture: playing around with your efforts at forgetting, then flaunts all the promises you ever made in front of your face just so it can film your features when it shreds it to pieces. Time does nothing for you. And at this point, I'm afraid it's using up every muscle and nerve in my body not to pick up the phone and tell you I'm willing to settle.

IV.
You were the best thing for me; that just doesn't leave! It doesn't walk out the door or tells you you're gonna find someone great. It doesn't break up with you as you're on the ground in tears. It doesn't kiss you with sincerity and then never even looks back.  It doesn't shatter your heart, your poor glass heart with a boulder and then make you watch as the shards are ground to grains. It doesn't leave you, not like that. And it for sure doesn't linger. It doesn't stick around because it shouldn't have to.

V.
It doesn't ask to be in your life even after it cuts the wound. Because it's supposed to last. You were supposed to last.

gd

If I had a penny for every single time you crossed my mind,
well, I would have gold bleeding out of my pores,
and every step I take would leave behind
a footprint made of diamonds.

With the wealth of the world,
I would be able to visit the stars every single night;
maybe even build a castle at the centre of the universe
just for us.

But darling,
I'd trade it all
if it meant you'd throw away your pride
and hold my hand one last time.

- g.d.

If pain was a colour, I feel like it would be purple.
At a crossroad between the sadness of blue,
And the rage of red.
Bruised. Confused.
A consequence secondary to the impact.
Not intended to pierce skin, but lasting long enough to feel it.

How can love be the only thing able to create and destroy;
Mimicking the divine, yet making you lose faith in it altogether?

My eyes are coloured red.
Cheeks flushed with despair.
Salty tears splatter my sweater.
Nails chipped.
Sun down.
Clouded and silenced.

Disoriented from the recoil of a loaded gun pulled too soon.
Every melody sounds flat, but the ringing in my ears remain sharp.

I can only hear the faint hum of my heartbeat,
Attempting to carry on.
Barely blinking. Eyelids half shut.
Egg shells have turned into shards of glass on every floor I walk on. Disconnected. Discombobulated.
Disorganized. Disappointed.

A bleeding heart turned purple.
What would it take to feel whole again?

gd

Sketch a diary in autumn frost
leave behind a sorrow lost.
A night beneath whispering stars and
listen to their voices afar
for they may drift in colossal numbers
yet their words speak -
the words of the wise
and the words of the weak
for there lies a thousand wishes
so hopeful in brindled streaks

And at last they remain -
captured by the stars,
but freed from the night.

gd

I can feel my heart mending.
I can feel the thread pinching
in and out coating the exterior
in a protective layer of glass.

I can feel the irregular beat return to its natural state,
and most of all, I can feel the veins
fill with hot rushing blood
trying to reach the ends of my extremities.

But I hate it.

Why is it that when I finally sew the stitch,
I would rather rip it wipe open for the
diseased thoughts of you to make its way through
and infect my soul once again?

As if my heart is mending over replicas of recovery.
And when all is said and done,
these trapped grains of sand will come pouring out,
leaving my chest just as hollow as it is supposed to be.

You see, I can't seem to unleash myself
from the remains of your embrace.

It's as if I can feel my heart mending
but I'm afraid of losing you so much so that I wouldn't think twice
to break it all over again the moment it is repaired.
I'm torturing myself with broken memories and empty promises;

I am the master of my own destruction.
And you, my dear,
are the devil on my shoulder whispering,
"One more stab for the road, it'll make you stronger I solemnly swear."

- g.d.

I'm running on
black coffee and
a couple faded
dreams all for
the sake of some
promising future.
But if we would
all just be honest
with ourselves,
we'd realize that
promises were
solely made to
be broken, and
another cup of
coffee will only
make my dreams
disappear.

gd

I.
I still get flashbacks.
Like that time we explored a forest at a whim
and found out we had a thing for bridges.

And I think it was because we were both awestruck
with how easily we were connected by two apposing worlds,
so we made our way to the middle of the arc to claim it as ours.
And you used to hold me from behind with satin hands;
a soft satin parachute
that was ready to catch me if I ever fell.

And every single time I did, you were there.
You cupped my big cheeks,
the ones you always made fun of,
and kissed me for the first time in the middle of green and bush
like we were the first humans on earth,
destined to be the last.

II.
But now I'm staring out the window of my car
and I'm freezing inside and out.
The earth is no longer green;
it's white,
plain Jane
and frozen.

It's surface is glistening against the moon
and I'm witnessing more sleepless nights
than I did when your presence was still part of my life.
The sheets of snow look like sheets of cotton,
so close to satin.
So close.

But I promise you, Love,
they could never replicate your touch.

It's covering the soil we used to explore on,
as well as my leftover slivers of sanity
I've barley managed to scavenge.
And I can almost guarantee,
if I fall,
nothing will be there to catch me.

I still get flashbacks, mostly of our bridge.
But it's just a memory now
because all the green and bush and trees
that once surrounded us have gone silent,
all the trees have forgotten who we are,
all the trees have turned to ash.

gd

Sometimes you meet people that you grow to love.
And then other times, you cross paths with some
that just click with your senses;
heighten your emotions so high everything else seems to disappear.

But beware of those who just snap into place
for they will inject their venom
into the depths of your heart
and leave skid marks on the surface.

They will plaster your atriums with Picasso murals
and sheet music from Bach
only to cover the walls with kerosene
and burn it to the ground for the sole soul-wrenching sake of "art".

And that's okay, you will live on.

But there will still be scars at the entrance sites from every drop of poison.
There will still be scars from the train tracks he carved
from the bat of his eyes and the pucker of his lips.
There will still be scars from the blaze

because when fire burns it does so
passionately
carelessly
wonderfully with furiosity  

And you will find pieces of clay under different piles of ash;
You will find treble clefs and fermatas
hidden under every ember that was left to die.
You will still find beauty in the destruction.

And maybe it's still okay to admire the ruins,
even just for a little while.

gd

There is no song in the whole wide world that would be able to capture this sadness. I hear notes in my head, but they all fall flat. Dissonance dominates my peripheral and the ringing leaves me bruised. And confused. It takes my breath away whilst suffocating me.

There is only hurt. There is only pain. There is only anger here - deep rage.

A place to call home has burned down from these flames. And I am watching the last few embers flickering from a distance. A homage to one heart split in two. And there is no amount of glue that can salvage these ashes. Hell, there is not even love to latch onto.

There is only hurt. There is only pain. There is no peace here.

gd

Just another
drink they
whisper and
they think
                                  "what a waste of innocence, when                      
                                    you can gain some confidence."                        
Just a little sip,
sweet taste and
blood red lips -     
                                    another for the road even                                  
                          ­          after everything they've told,                          
you'll just stumble
for a boy who might
just leave you cold.

gd

The first one hurts the longest.
The second one hurts the hardest.
And the third one doesn't hurt at all.

He's your fifth 4am ***** shot
your beer pong binger
your 6am hook up,
numbing every nerve in your entire body

and it feels the best but ends up the worst at 5am
when he's holding your hair over the toilet
and singing you to sleep
when he's lacing his fingers through your hair

and your waist
and your hands
and through the tiny fractured crevices
between your injured heart.

The third is the tallest climb
the longest fall
the most honest hour
the pounding hangover and

the beaten emotions you never even knew you kept pent up
until he's slipping his tongue through your mouth
and you're pulling his bottom lip to pull him closer
to let him take whatever is even left of you.

The third is your weakness
because he will catch your heart when it's still on your sleeve,
tattered and stained from the ***** you threw up
as easily as the words that got him to hold you like he used to.

The third will whisper
the third will listen
the third will taste like the butterflies you thought you poisoned.

But the third is definitely a charm.

gd

My life is at ease.
Unstoppable, but still at ease;
similar to tidal waves,
unable to stand still
yet calm in its constant wavering.

For once,
I feel so unattached
from my surroundings
so much so that I no longer depend
on crutched souls similar to myself.

I no longer cower
at the thought of solitude
or cringe at the sight of corners
or frown at the feel of nothing
except for my own hand to hold.

I am okay.
I am not great.
I am not disastrous.
I am just okay.
And I am okay with that.

gd

He's got me singing love songs, and I never
realized how foreign they became until
I was holding a brush in my hand, half-naked screaming
at the top of my lungs that maybe love is an open door;
an open door without an obstacle screen, and faulty locks.

And when the song ended on a high note, I realized
that I was so used to wallowing in the bass chords
of another sad tune to realize that this door was wide open -
past all the piano acoustics and vocal cracks between sniffles;
past the stressed fermatas and slow tearjerkers while I screamed

Mayday, please do not rain on my Parade again.

And in the first time in a long time, the sun is shining
and he looks at me everyday like you've only done once
or twice. And maybe, just maybe, I'm willing to break
the doorknobs you once taught me how to put together
just to keep this door slightly ajar a little while longer.

gd

"The more you hate, the more you love."

Her eyes widened in my direction as if she knew it would stitch itself like a knife into my temporal lobe, which in turn caused my memories to be severed into oozing mush coming out like stuttered words and physical reactions.

So
my memories pooled all around my eyes causing them to shut closed in an instant while I envisioned the first time our teeth clashed from our first kiss and just the thought felt as if someone struck a blow to my stomach because I took a sharp breath in and yelled stop! to no one in particular except my own desires.

So
I remembered when I asked you why you'd been so cold and you couldn't even make a sound to assure me you were even alive and I followed that question with if you had hated me that much, so much so that I wasn't even worth an explanation and I was relieved when you said no but now I'm starting to realize that maybe you never really loved me at all.

gd

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

I'm trying to mine for gold under all this rock
solid ornaments of disarrayed desires. And I
am having trouble coming to terms with how
I've been flipped upside down one hundred &
eighty degrees without a single warning; not
a single foreshadow from my past personas.

And I cannot even piece this puzzle without
finding a couple lost causes stuffed under beds
and old covers that hid everything else I could
never really come to terms with, face-to-face,
unable to find the solid grace. And I can already
imagine him trying to impress you—flirting with
ease. And you fall for it every single time, love,
because your heart is caught on the inside of your
sleeves.

gd

I wore black
from head to toe.
Snapped through two hair ties
trying to keep my mind and my heart together.

But it was no use.
Useless,
because this godforsaken place was love-less
and cruel.

They say honesty without tact is just cruelty.
But honesty can slice your soul
just to spare your life at the very last second, too.
Every breath feels like the last.

Hanging onto the very last thread of normalcy.
When the clock reaches the final hour,
I pray for sweet mercy.
I pray for peace and peace of mind.

But I am left in pieces, nonetheless.

gd

I haven't even been writing for myself anymore.
Does that still make me a writer,
or an entertainer?

The most painful rejection
always seems to come from someone
who already told you they'd never leave your side.

You say
he made you feel like never before,
but so did alcohol honey.

I found myself humming again to the beat of nothing
and the birds are singing with me,
trying to control the pitch and find the harmony.

Recently, I've been on the outskirts looking through the
broken glass of other people's homes trying to make
sense of the dust that settles at the core but never
around the corners and it comes to my attention
that people do not thrive off of happiness,
but rather pain. At their most vulnerable
they are the most loving; but at their
least, they can be so careless, so
blind, so naïve.

gd

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

It seems every single time
you walk back into my life I fall ill
under the heaviness of your stare.*

As if your irises could burn
similar circular orbs straight through my heart,
deteriorating my insides until
I can't find the means to even breathe anymore.
My mouth remains shut and
my throat is swelling closed.

Yet I am still debating on whether I should just let your stare
turn me to ashes, or use my extra ounce of effort for the latter -
to rapture a scream and finally force you out.

gd