I still hear the ocean
whenever I close my eyes.

"I love the beach," you said.
I looked at you then
with a grin on my face.
It wasn't intentional
but I used to make those
when you were near.
I guess it meant I'm happy,
or stupid enough to believe
what you say.

I still feel the sunset—
its glow, the overrated
orange skyline,
the melancholy it
wrapped us in.
A subtle reminder that the day
was about to die
and that it's so **** beautiful
when it does.
I told you this kept
my heart beating.
You were too quick
to agree.

Maybe that's why
you had to leave.

Maybe you liked
the sunrise more.

i spend a quarter of my time
dreaming of days gone from memory,
their vestiges lost in anticipation
of something new—
something worth betting
my remaining life with.

i wish i could go anywhere,
yet like a bird in a cage
i am merely a slave to these chains
and there's little to no chance
i'm making it out alive.

there is reprise, they tell me,
in my laughter—
perfectly rehearsed,
unapologetically
apologetic of jokes
meant to soothe
my own misery.
it is all i know,
and it is all
i will ever need.

"you remind me
of greatness," they tell me.
yet they forget reminders
are odes to what used to be
rather than what is.

these days, i turn to the future.
"dreams are for the blessed,"
i tell myself.
someday they will fade
and i, alone, will remain.

whatever i touch
turns into tragedy—
Midas wishes his hands
were made of mine.

i dare not touch
trees and their leaves—
their old age
will not matter
once i graze their skin.

i do wonder
if everything good
that comes are worthy
of my ruin—
they quickly turn
sour and ugly
once they,
finally,
rest their heads
on my lap
and i am left here,
once again,
picking up the scraps,
telling myself
nothing incredibly,
or inherently, bad
has happened yet.

but what if it comes?

what if the world
decides to put
the blame on me
and punish me
for simply being alive?

should i keep
crawling back
to life?

or should i
accept the fate
i have been given?

days seem endless,
and i, bound,
chained to oblivion,
do not see a future
in the beyond.

my fingers, as stout
as they are, are the first
to dissipate slowly
into nothingness.
i have given
everything to
not make it so—
yet a man left
to perish can only do
what a dead one
is ever allowed to.

i love you,
and although love
is but a word riddled with
fantasies, lies, and heartache,
i surrender to the idea
that i am yours,
and yours alone.

i wonder,
will my bits and pieces
remain in your memory
after all of this?
will a part of me
stay humming,
breathing,
in your own little world?

when everything is gone
and i have faded,
will my words,
pretentious as they appear,
still ring true to your ears?

will you forget me
in the vastness
of the void,
in the grand
scheme of things?

i believe so.

but darling, it is not
your fault.

it never will be.

starving as he was,
the snow could not hinder
the undying rage
beneath his fur, his skin—
it was boiling,
as if to erupt,
to evolve into
something entirely
different.

wailing, he kept walking
despite the weight of it all,
shredding every piece
of humanity ever
afforded to him.
it was then
that he realized
animals were never
concerned with rights
or wrongs—
only what was
in their hearts,
or their craving.

he kept his fangs
showing, his claws
sharp enough to maim,
to turn his next friend
into a victim—
just so he can go back,
rest, and live
another god-awful day.

you walk this earth
with nothing but pain
and yet you blossom
so beautifully—
a lotus in winter,
defying all odds
and all of nature.

you are more than
who you think you are.
a king without a throne,
a lion without a pride—
you can be either
without anything else
to your name.

i am not who birthed me,
and i will not apologize
for this space i consume.

i am not their mistake
and i will not mistake
kinship for love
any longer.

i will own myself
once and for all.

when the sand fills,
and the hands of time
caresses you into submission,
freedom feels a little too
overrated a concept.

we are puppets
dangling at the side
of a building, waiting to
be taken off the clothesline
or by the wind—
both of which we know
we'd gladly take just
to end the discussion.

i am a firm believer
in whispers.
small talk isn't
too small for me.
i hold my words too close
to my chest i barely breathe
without them.

so now, as my eyes fail me,
i wish time will be so
kind enough to tell me
how all of this ends.
i do not want to suffer
more than i already do—
and i do not need
another lesson on how to
survive in this
god-forsaken life.
yet everyone feels
compelled to
give me one anyway.