some days i leave my bed shaking in anger, for i haven’t slept a blink the night before. and how can i sleep, knowing that this world is burning and i, a ball of fire and wrath, can’t do anything but make it worse?

and gods know i want to make it worse. gods know i want to explode and watch as this world eats itself and burns out. gods know i want to end this world.

but then, when i’m done thinking about it and about what gods know, i find myself shaking harder: how will i destroy this world when my beloved is a part of it?

(what do i do?)

put your finger on the trigger, aim, and let it rain.

cross your fingers and say you do it for the earth.

shoot until bullets turn into petals, and until the ground’s thirst is quenched. shoot until the metal burns hot, and your skin starts to melt. shoot until pain breaks every promise you’ve ever made.

you told me i’m the ocean because i look calm and beautiful on the surface, when in reality all the danger lies in the depth, in the tides and the currents;

and you told me my danger is bred by anger, for there’s so much anger in me and it’s aimed at the shore; the world, and at my waves for being so reckless; at myself for being so powerless;

i kissed you on the mouth so i can swallow your words and drown them out; then i told you you’re the sky because you give me waves and blue;

i told you, with your winds, you give me motivation and reason, and with the rest of you, you give me the colour blue. they think i own it; they don’t know i took it from you;

and there’s also the moon, a big part of you, one i gravitate to. but you don’t know that yet; you think it’s always daytime; you think we’re always blue.

you’re a siren and i’m a sailor. i’ve seen this before, and i know how it goes. yet, i still let you break my walls and lure me in with your sounds. i let you take me high — higher than i’ve ever been — and put me down on my knees as you please. you’re a siren and i’m a sailor, so i’ll beg and beg and beg, over and over again; use me while you can, you know i want you to. toy with the wind and drain the sea, before the game changes and becomes real, before my ship crashes and i’m too far gone to be the sailor you’ll miss.

i’m trying to write a poem but —

the last words you said are the only ones that come to my head

i’m not a moving statue you can control with any statutes but i’m not a stuffed puppet you can tug at the heartstrings of, you can’t dismiss the blood in my veins or the thoughts running in my brain but you can’t **** on me dry or lead my thoughts astray, i’m not in black and white but i’m more than a colourful mess, i’m more than a broken child of the universe but i’m not, yet, a god or a goddess.

i’m the impersonation of a god when i need to be and a child when i want to be. i’m the personification of versatility. the duality, but at least three. i’m a moving statue if i will it, or a stuffed puppet with a beating heart inside of it. my hands are cold because they’re dry but the bottom of my throat is full of blood and warmth and life. the thoughts imprisoned in my head are waiting to be set free — with the aid of an outlaw on the outside — and into a dog-eared safe haven; a heaven, if you may, with black lines and white skies, colours chaotic and alive, it lacks order but it’s not a mess. it’s a multiverse. and i, an artist who mastered the art of to be and not to be, and the versatile state of instability, happen to be a god over there.

and it’s only because i want to be.

(free will is a triviality, though, isn’t it? you’re only a god because you will it, but the others — can they see it?)

i want to write a love poem, void of the bitterness that pulses through my arteries and the politics that latch onto the muscles of my heart, forcing it to beat louder and stronger, fighting and hoping to keep me alive in a world that wishes upon my death.

i want to write a love poem, overflowing with the sweetness of honey and the description of the high that comes before the fall; the sensation of being in love, the craves pressing down on my chest, the touches brushing against my skin, and the memories running in my head.

i want to write a love poem, but how?

how do i write a love poem about loving a girl? how do i write a love poem about a political statement? a crime? a sin? a taboo? a category men frequently visit on shady sites?

how do i write a love poem that overflows with the sweetness of honey yet remains void of the bitterness that pulses in my arteries? how do i write a love poem without bringing politics when the love i have in my heart is a political topic?

i can’t so i don’t.