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jay Jan 2019
darling, you’re a beautiful mess,
and it’s such a shame
that your
hatred for yourself
is deeper than my love for you.
~ if only you saw what i could see
jay Dec 2019
how do i make you open up
without breaking you apart?
jay Mar 2019
you put yourself down
just so you can lift me up
with a casual reminder,
a good thought,
a sense of solace,
a form of comfort,
you keep me on the ground,
safe and sound,
without holding me down
or pushing me around,
you’re close enough
yet so far away,
you hold my hand
so that i don’t float away
yet you still insist i fly my way,

and your words;
they’d hold me tight
as they swear it’ll be okay,
and your words, your songs;
an anchor for a flying ship,
a promise that it’ll be alright,
a glimpse of light,
a handful of hope
enough to get me through the night,
and your words, your songs,
your presence;
a sense of solace,
a form of comfort,
a promise that it’ll be okay,
and that i’ll never fade away.
happy birthday ❤️
jay Jan 2019
i’m constantly screaming but no one’s looking at me; should i scream louder until my voice is heard or should i stay silent until they notice the change?
jay Dec 2019
i’ll kiss you in a protest
and they’ll know:
kisses as sweet as ours
are worth fighting for.

(and they’ll forget
what their protests
were once against.)
jay Feb 2019
i could write a hundred poem about your sad brown eyes and i could compare the sight of you to an awaited sunrise after a lonely night and i could tell you that i love you more than the wolves love full moons or gods could ever love their creations but—

i can’t.

you doom me into speechlessness with a simple smile. i’m as putty as clay and as vulnerable as a petal and as weak as a child every time you do as much as touch the back of my hand with yours. so yeah, i can’t. i can’t recite you poetry or beg you to love me but—

i’m yours.

i’m all yours and you know it and that’s all what truly matters.
i wish i could stop. but i can’t. i hope you never find out.
jay Jan 2020
what a world it is,
the one in which we live.
girls are raised to be beauties,
and boys are left to be turned beasts.
jay Jan 2019
their hearts bleed for us while bleeding us dry;
yet they turn their heads to the other side
when our blood is spilled on ***** sidewalks late at night,
when the sun’s on the other side of the world,
when justice is asleep
and the facts are on their side in courts
which our blood, which our loved,
are too poor, bled dry and white,
to keep up with,
or to speak up about the jury’s prejudice.

their hearts bleed for us while they watch us bleed to death
from the wounds they’ve inflected upon our bodies;
yet they turn their eyes towards the sky
and act like they’re blind and scream,
“we all bleed red,”
as if we don’t know that,
as if we haven’t seen our own blood on the sidewalks,
as if they have seen their own blood spilled before,
as if their fake sympathy isn’t a side of the metallic,
copper-tasting irony.

( but our wounds will heal and we will rise;
we won’t bleed again but when we inevitably do,
our blood won’t be red — it’ll be golden and holy,
and our stories, and our bodies,
they won’t be pushed aside.
our martyrs will light up the night sky,
for they are stars and their names will immortalised.
for we are gods and gods don’t bleed nor cry. )
jay Jan 2019
it’s really late and you look annoyed at being awoken at such an early late hour but you also look so soft and small? and yeah, i’m freezing but i’m suddenly warm at the sight of you?

god. i’m sorry. honestly. scoot over, give me some space. don’t turn around, or we’ll be siding face-to-face. is it okay if i wrap my arms around your waist?

yes. thanks. but now i’m wide awake. your minty shampoo is loud i can almost smell its taste. if i nuzzle my face against your neck, does your breath hitches because my nose is cold or because of something else?

oh. you twist in my arms and turn around. the moonlight brings out the chocolates in your eyes and the soft tilt of your mouth; a sleepy smile. your hands are cold, but i don’t mind when your fingertips trace my face, down to my neck, down to my chest. a trail of what, i don’t know, but you leave it behind. a trail of petals? goosebumps? burns?

and then your mouth is on mine, and it doesn’t taste as devine as i thought it would. it tastes like mint, like your shampoo or toothpaste. your hands are on my face. you’ve got me breathless.

but you’re kissing me goodnight, isn’t that right? you part away with a sigh then turn to face the other side. we’re giggling for a minute, louder than the moonlight, but then you start to fall asleep, and i start to fall in love.
i’m not cold anymore
jay Oct 2020
i stand here
and there’s nothing i crave more
than to run away and disappear,
nothing, but the secret spinning inside me.

i stand here
and these voices are all i hear,
and they’re calling out to me,
screaming of fate, screaming of destiny.

i stand here
and the blood of ten thousand years
spills from my body onto my streets
spreads like the ink i spilt on my sheets

(and i’m rooted in my place,
sinking in my blood, like a tree,
i stand here, unmoving yet free
as if freedom meant what it means.
the voices won’t let me go,
the voices won’t let me be)

i stand here
and i’m not a patriot or a lover, no,
but beneath my feet,
lie more empires than i’ll ever know
or count or amount to.

i stand here
and here i will always be.
jay Oct 2020
from jerusalem to damascus, and you haven’t figured it out yet. who am i?

put your hand on a book and repeat as i say, i will find myself.

it’s an oath. the cities have witnessed it.
jay Oct 2020
you are afraid to die in your sleep because you think you will forget how to breathe. it’s okay if you do; this mortal, dying body isn’t something familiar to you.

neither is the air you breathe, or the soil beneath your feet, or all what this body craves and all what it needs — but it’s okay, see, you’re not lost. not yet, anyway. you simply don’t know where you want to be.

you aren’t even sure if you do want to be.

but here you are.

here you stand, in all your glory, void of any connection to this planet and its people, and your ears ring. you listen. you don’t care, but you listen and you hear voices, coming from beneath your feet, and they’re calling out to you — they’re calling out your name, telling you where you need to be —

and it’s right here.

damascus. she’s a city built on seven and she has many names — the ones you call her are the ones  your heart claims. jasmine blooms at night but thrives under the sun; shameless and proud, aggressive and loud. and you love it more than you’ve ever loved.

it’s damascus, and it’s a holysite come nightfall, at midnight. you follow your heart and wander around, and you forget not to breathe so you end up drowning in the jasmines — the yasmeen, and that’s when you realise it —

you are more alive than you have ever been, standing right there, in all your glory, with the yasmeen framing the old streets and glowing in the moonbeam. you are more alive than you have ever been.

you try not to breathe, but it’s too late, and your fear of dying in your sleep is replaced.

a newfound fear of living forever swims in your head, haunting your thoughts like a shark with its eyes on a prey. you’re afraid of living forever. it’s okay if you do; you know that the world will someday turn gray, you know that it will all fade away, but you won’t be alone.

the voices calling out to you — your ancestors, kings and queens, artists and their muses, the ones who wrote history and the victims of the margins, the saints and the sinners and the ones who got away with their sins — their voices will always be there, echoing in the air you breathe, calling out your name from the soil beneath your feet.

they will always be there, and so will this city — damascus, the city with an infinite faces and endless names. the city, the beloved of fate, the sister of destiny.

and if she were not fate’s beloved, how do you explain her immortality? and if she were not the sister of destiny, how do you explain the fact that you ended up here, with all your mortal, dying glory?
jay Jan 2019
take my hand
close your eyes
follow me;

the journey
is something
you wouldn’t
want to see,


we’re destined
to follow
be where we’re
meant to be.


hold on tight
smile once more
just trust me.
but if we
end up lost,
don’t blame me.
jay Jan 2019
they thought the snow and cold could shut our mouths and freeze us into silence and submission, but little did they know that our words are scorching and our ideas are evergreen.
— and even if the snow weighed us down and the coldness froze our thoughts and the wind scattered us around, summer is always just around the corner and it will be fine. we will be fine.
jay Oct 2020
here’s to the angels
who love playing with fire
and to the demons
who are too scared to set the world ablaze

here’s to the angels
with the attitudes and snarky remarks
and to the demons
with the soft smiles and fragile hearts

here’s to the angels
who like faux leather and dye
and to the demons
who prefer to cover up their horns

here’s to the angels
who were kicked out of heaven
and to the demons
who want to escape hell

here’s to the angels
who never fit in
and to the demons
who can't fit in

(here’s to us; humans.)
it’s an old one. thoughts? x
jay Feb 2019
‪no matter how hard it gets‬
‪to spend your teen years in closets,‬
‪remember that it's worth it.‬
‪stay strong and fight to stay alive‬
‪because, sometime, in the future,‬
‪a child would sleep with a smile,‬
‪knowing they are special to‬
‪have someone as accepting,‬
‪strong and brave as you‬
‪as the person they look up to.‬
jay Dec 2019
his name is gabriel. he has the greenest eyes
i’ve ever seen, the softest hair i’ve ever touched,
and a voice that, in a world where we’re gods,
can awaken wilting flowers and move the skies.

and i’m always listening to gabriel’s voice;
at first, it’s back in our local highschool,
where miss razan silences us and asks us
to close our eyes so we can listen to gabriel’s soul.

time passes and we’re grown ups,
local boys turned men,
secret lovers hanging onto an edge.
and i still hear his soul.

in sunday mornings, before the choir arrives,
we meet at church, he sits on my piano,
sings about heaven and god, while i press the keys
and lean up to kiss his lips when a note goes wrong.

right next door is the nightclub we work in,
i pour drinks, and gabriel sings of worshipping
a better god. angry drunks call it blasphemy,
but i believe that he is just loving me.

i wake up to his green eyes, bed hair, his family,
prayers under his roof, love over the roof;
things are getting worse at my house,
and i hope my stay here is temporary.

and it is, because his mother kicks me out
the day we hear the news. gabriel isn’t alive;
angry that he sings of worshipping a different god,
they force him to meet their own god in the skies.

time passes and he doesn’t grow,
local boy forever young,
a widow without a proof of love,
but i still hear his soul.

i get lost in the streets of beirut,
finding myself seeking every corner
his laughter and words and lyrics once lived in,
but i never hear his voice again.

only his soul.

i don't know what happens to me
but i know that people sing his songs
and his soul lives on and on,
and they forget the real story —

leaving both of gabriel and me in a dusty alley
between the church and nightclub we fell in love in.)
jay Mar 2019
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.
jay Jan 2019
help me stop
wanting to
be more than
what i am
meant to be.
jay Oct 2020
you’re just a boy, everyone says, but no one gets it like you do. be responsible, everyone says, but no one knows just how responsible you can be. don’t be cruel, everyone says, but they don’t know cruelty like you do, because you’re just a boy and boys use their fists more than their mouths, don’t they? don’t you? because fists (fists, whitened knuckles, dry skin, salty and sad) fists can hurt a lot, but mouths (mouths, bloodied red, bitten raw, bittersweet) mouths shatter hearts, ruin lives, push you down and tie you up, bare and defenceless, suffocating, rumours and confessions like bullets — and boys aren’t that cruel, are they? are you? (even if you are cruel, you are unarmed. you use your fists because you don’t know how to use your mouth, not like this, anyway.) you should know your way, everyone says, but you’re just a boy and all what boys do is get lost over and over again. you walk with your feathers puffed like a peacock, hips swaying like a courtesan, eyes staring ahead as if you’re too good to see humans, too holy for humanity, or as if there’s a place you’re aiming to reach, a destination dancing in your head. but in reality, you are lost. your confidence is an act, your puffed feathers are a mask, and you’re sitting in the lap of the gods pretending you’re right where you want to be when all you want to do — all you truly want, deep down — is to go back home, back to your mother’s lap, back to your sister’s arms, back to your father’s fists.


you’re just a boy, and you act like you’re a king because you’re possessive and a natural leader; you want to be rich and have pretty things and be listened to. and you **** like a god because nothing satisfies you like being worshipped with sinful mouths and soft touches. and you fight like an animal because once you’re angry, you don’t hold back, and once you feel threatened, you jump with your paws out and your sharp whites bared, and you don’t give up until someone wraps their arms around your chest and pulls you back and holds you tight, until the wild drumming of your heart ceases into a soft, melodic rhythm, until the adrenaline dies down and the craze to spill blood turns into a crave to be held. (to be loved.) and you cry, but you don’t let anyone see you but yourself even though watching your tears fall only makes them fall harder, the same way young little boys sit behind behind their windows and watch the rain punch the invulnerable glass, and realise that it will only keep pouring down more and more as long as they keep their eyes on it. because the sky loves attention, so she rains more when you’re attentive and awaiting her to change, and you love attention, so you cry more at watching yourself in the mirror and at the mere thought of someone walking in and seeing you, in all your glory, a king and a god and a beast, lying on the ground in the middle of a pool of his own tears, his walls wrecked down and his doors wide open, hinges ripped off.

you’re just a boy. you want them to cut you some slack, but why is it harder for you than everyone else?
im gay ? ***
jay Mar 2019
i’m sorry. i’m a phoenix with ash for blood. i’m a walking tragedy. i’m a travesty. i’m a shadow of what i dreamt to be. i’m a heartache shaped as a human being. i’m someone who survived but never truly experienced what it’s like to be alive.

i’m sorry. i’m a ticking time-bomb. i’m a veteran without physical scars. i’m a pretty vase stuffed to the brim with dead roses and spiky thorns. i’m beautiful and broken — shattered, actually, way past repair.

i’m sorry. i’m the collateral damage no one gave a **** about. i’m the byproduct of humanity’s downfalls and weaknesses. i’m the mess no one wants to pick up. i’m the dust building up on your picture frames.

and i’m sorry.

i’m so, so sorry.
jay Oct 2020
one night i stopped being alive
but the next morning i was revived;

i found myself in the city of shalim,
bleeding, disbelieving, without sight,
lost and confused, tired and abused,
searching for hope, asking for peace,
in a city the world was fighting for,
in a city i’ve never been to before.

my eyes were dead, but i was alive once again,
and the darkness slowly drove me insane.

and then i heard a voice,
from the skies, calling my name,
“do you want to be a god?
just believe it is not a game.”

i believed, and then i could see,
after a blinding light shone at me;

the light shone at the truth
(a saint, i will never be)
and casted shadows at the lies
(they are lies, always have been)
i’ve been raised up to believe,
without questioning, out of fear
of god’s wrath in hell,
and his men’s anger in here.

i’ve never felt as afraid as i felt back then,
when i stood there, watching his men.

and then i heard a voice,
from beneath my feet, whispering,
“is a god what you truly want to be?
just be ready for the responsibility.”

one night i chose to stop being alive,
the next morning i was thrown back into life;

i worried and thought carefully
for a moment that lasted an eternity;
i’d never let a man **** in my name,
or treat a human life like a game.
i’d never summon a lethal flood,
or a drought without a drop of rain.
so i said yes and took a leap of faith,
and a god i learned how to be.

but if a child wore a mask, they’d still be
a child in a mask pretending to be somebody.

so in jerusalem, in the city of peace,
a city where i’ve never been,
i learnt to love and create;
i created my own deen.

(but, please, don’t you think that for a moment
being revived was something i ceased to regret.)
jay Oct 2020
i came here to find myself.
all i found was a reminder that i’m not a saint
jay Jan 2019
drape me in silk and dip me in gasoline and slap me with a flame and let me burn brighter and hotter than ever before.

(then put me down, will you? **** me when i get too much of a wildfire for you to control.)
burn the witch
jay Mar 2019
i aspire to flow like a river of lava
with stones that float,
and rocks for foam;
for my words are set in these stones
carved onto these rocks,
and there they flow, there they go;
aimless and weightless,
adrift and afloat,
in spite of all the way and weight
my shoulders carry and my statements hold.
jay Oct 2020
come on, little one, listen to me,
hear me out, carefully:
we are running out of time.
soon, the sun will show its face
so be quick, be swift, tie your shoelaces,
bring your heart, wear it on your sleeve,
and sneak outside, so we can leave.
i’ll wait until the sun starts to rise,
so be quick, be swift, save your goodbyes.

come on, little one, i want to ask:
have you ever been told,
well, it’s not the end of the world
i know the answer (your thoughts count too)
so be quick, be swift, let go of the past,
bring your true self, throw away the mask,
and stay alert, for your worst fear is here,
but remember? i’m here too,
so you have nothing to fear.

come on, little one, don’t you know?
the end of the world is here.
be quiet, be patient, hear me out, carefully:
there’s no time for stupid games
like exchanging stories and names;
i will be calling you little one
and you can call me
whoever you want me to be —
a friend, hopefully?

i know, little one, i know.
i don’t know you
and you don’t know me —
but come on, little one,
how is this of any relevancy?
isn’t it enough that i’m writing you
a letter in the form of poetry —
and that, in spite of everything,
you, little one, still happen to trust me?

(is it the moles on my skin,
or the shape of my eyes?
is it that i know the thoughts in your head
better than you know them,
or that i’m good at telling you
what you know and don’t want to hear?
is it that, for once, you are not
smarter than the closest adult to you,
or is it that you simply like poetry?)

come on, little one, time is running.
but so are we,
and as long as we keep running,
time will never catch up with us
— let alone catch us —
and i promise you, little one,
we will keep running,
and we will live for eternity, we will be free,
we will do as we please, and we will be happy.

come on, little one, listen to me:
i’m by your side even when you can’t see me,
and i’m proud of every single step
you’ve taken on your own, without me,
and if you doubt my words,
or if you realise you miss me,
then do as you are told:
look in the mirror and you’ll see me,
wearing your heart on my sleeve.

come on, little one.
come on, little me.
if only, if only, if only —
you knew how far you’ll reach,
or all the places you’ll go,
or all the things you’ll get to be,
you’d have never ever shed another tear,
or wasted another night without sleep,
or wished you could just fade away or disappeared.

come on, little one.
come on, little me,
i’m proud of you,
don’t you know?
so why won’t you be
as proud of me
and love yourself
the way you fell
in love with me?

come on, little one, don’t you see?
the end of the world is here,
and you will take advantage of it,
you will adapt, you will grow,
you will change, you will see,
you will make the death of the universe
a stepping stone for you.

come on, little one.
come on, little me,
be quick, be swift,
be you, forget me,
tie your shoelaces,
bring your heart,
pull your sleeves,
listen to my voice,
and sneak outside.

and do what you want to do.
i will be watching out for you.

and if you need me,
you know how to find me.

(i don’t think you will need me.
you will be fine on your own,
because, come on, little one,
did you forget who you will be?)
jay Apr 2019
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?)
jay Feb 2019
welcome to my city,
in which fog spreads melancholy
and rain is restless yet lazy.
angels and demons live side by side,
on the edge of a sharp knife.
peace exists under the sun
so nighttime is wartime
but beware; for shady alleys at any time
are battle grounds full of mines.

(i asked a flower and
she swore on all the little mistakes in my city
that it was angels who planted those mines.)

welcome to my city,
in which some boys are too ugly
with their dusty faces and grey knives,
and some girls can't be pretty,
with their black knees and shallow eyes.
in which some boys are too pretty.
with their nice clothes and dead souls,
and some girls can't be ugly,
with their shiny hair and million rules.

(i asked a little mistake
and he swore to me on all living souls in my city
that he shall never become ugly or pretty.)

welcome to my city,
in which flowers bloom in trashcans
the way the moon does amongst the fog,
and green plants grow in the corners
the way little breathing mistakes do,
but the plants turn out to be poisonous,
and the mistakes are hopeless children
with broken hearts; they're dangerous,
with an excessive sense of fearlessness.

(i asked an ugly girl
and she swore to me on all the restless droplets of rain
that half of those mistakes will always be afraid.)

welcome to my city,
in which you can find:
children and flowers in trashcans,
angels and demons in a constant fight,
setting up mines in shady alleys
where the ugly boys and pretty boys lurk,
waiting patiently for the moon to shine,
and for girls who are neither ugly nor pretty to show,
and for the melancholic fog to settle down.

(welcome to my city,
in which we all have been waiting for you.
i asked an angel and a demon
and they both swore to me on all the humans in my city
that you're a god.
and gods. don't. cry.
you're our saviour.
we can start off by removing the mines,
and making sure that the sun remains alight.)

jay Sep 2019
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.
jay Oct 2020
to be damascene,
you cease to exist in dimashq
you start living behind the scene.
you fall in love with a mask
and an infinite faces underneath.
you learn her names without needing to ask
and you carve them onto your heart,
letter by letter, one after the other.

to be damascene,
you cease to remember what love and hate mean.
you start loving the rain and the scathing heat,
you start hating the brick walls and the old streets.
you fall in love with yasmeen
and imagine him tattooed on your skin;
little white flowers drawn in black ink,
so fragile yet so keen.

to be damascene,
you start loving from the bottom of your heart
which desires the unspeakable,
the good, the bad, the colourful, and the gray
and you start hating from the depth of your eyes,
which have seen far too much
to let you turn your head away
and act like everything is okay.

to be damascene,
you cease to love unless it’s a sin,
you let go of the songs and the notes,
and you start to sing along
with birds and bricks and bullets.
you treasure memories over lives,
and you let go of the present,
all you do is reminisce.

to be damascene,
your words cease to make sense
as you mourn the present tense,
and you worry about the jasmines
and the city you grew up praising and cursing,
but you remain painfully aware
despite all the senseless words no longer say,
and all the things you cease to be —

to be damascene
is to belong to a city unlike any other;
an immortal city with an undying soul.

and if your body falls
the way jasmines do,
and if your home falls
the way bullets do,
and if your world falls
the way lovers do,

she will still be there:

a new world will rise
and she will be there still,
right in the center.
she will have a new name
but her children will rarely use it.
she will live a new chapter
and her children will be writing it.

to be damascene, is to believe in it.
jay Oct 2020
this is it: the true story of how i came to be, ripped apart from its sad romantics and its poetry.

i wake up with two thoughts on my mind, and just like pre-written script waiting to unfold in my life, i can’t push them away or find different words to say.

the first one is simple and easy; a thought philosophers on the internet love to share, a thought born when existence meets will:

why am i awake?

but, it can be something else. see, i think in too many languages and colours, and i forget what words can mean. why am i awake? why do i choose to wake up? why am i forced to wake up?

why am i awake — why am i not sleeping, still?

why am i awake — why am i not dead?

the second thought comes to me the moment i open my eyes and i realise i don’t recognise the body my soul hides inside, or the walls of the room i’m trapped in, or the smell of the air that rushes in once i open the door and run outside, as fast as i can, as far as i can —

i run, wondering,

where am i? who am i?

why am i not in my body? what am i not in my city? do i have a name? and if i do, what’s my name?

i run, and i keep running until my feet are sick of the taste of salt and rocks. she finds me hiding in a place where my people come together to worship their gods. they don’t do rituals like they used to, but they still use their voices and value faith above all.

who am i? why do you pray?

i don’t know i’m running from her until she finds me, and then i know. she’s beautiful in a way words can’t describe, and i can’t begin to fathom her soul.

she taught me how to be a god, once upon a time.

who am i? why do i know her face?

i still don’t know what i am, and the only one who knows is time. but, until time comes around and tells me who i am, i’ll try to be a god.

i may be a god.

who am i?

i am a god.
jay Feb 2019
a part of me
wants to runaway
and leave all of the weights
you placed on my back, behind.

but another part of me,
wishes you were
something i could fit in the pockets
of the hoodie i stole from you, one time.
jay Feb 2019
i hope i’m not asking for a lot but

please forget about the world
and how much it hurts and owes you,
and all the issues that worry your mind,
and the things you need to do,

and kiss me with all what you have
as if it’s the only thing you know how to do,
as if it’s the only thing on your mind,
as if you’re dying to.
jay Jan 2019
i don’t sleep when i’m lying by your side.

not because you cling to me the way you do, or because i feel uncomfortable or unsafe or anything other than solace and ease when i’m with you.

but because how else can i protect you? if i were to sleep, who would lie awake at night and guard you?

you say that you sleep better in my bed, in my arms. that you dream sweeter and your nightmares are lesser.

so i’m telling you; that’s all i want. and if it comes at the cost of a few sleepless nights and tired days, it’s still worth it. you’re still worth it.
and you look like an angel when you sleep. looking at you puts me at ease. so it’s a win-win, isn’t it?
jay Aug 2019
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.
jay Feb 2019
the brightest stars
are the dying ones
but none of them
can ever outshine
these supernovas
living in your eyes
jay Feb 2019
someday i will shine as bright
as the moon does in spite
of all the men and wolves howling
at her throughout the night.
stay away from my light
and let me rest in plain sight.
jay Feb 2019
someday i will shine as bright
as the moon does in spite
of all the men and wolves howling
at her throughout the night.
stay away from my light,
and let me rest in plain sight.
jay Dec 2019
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?)
jay Oct 2020
boys like me ache with loving boys like you. boys like me stretch our limbs and try as hard as we can, but we never reach the stars boys like you enjoy staring at. boys like me wear our hearts on our sleeves, knowing boys like you wouldn’t think twice before ripping away and stealing, because boys like you keep their hearts nested safely behind their ribs and boys like me only hope you’d keep our hearts safe too. boys like me ache with loving boys like you, and boys like you love to be loved more than they can ever love boys like me.
jay Mar 2019
i hope you’re reading this right now because it would mean that i’m still on your mind even if i’m not in your heart.

if you’re reading this, however, please stop. spare me whatever amount of dignity i have left.

and if you still haven’t stopped reading and you plan to read until the very end, then don’t ever let me know; allow me a safe sense of anonymity, will you?

alright. so. i miss you. you don’t believe in yesterdays but i missed you yesterday and you believe tomorrows are todays but i know that i miss you today and i’ll miss you in a different way; more painfully and more familiarly tomorrow and everyday.

i miss you so much and it hurts so bad but it’s okay, you know? take your time and take some space— take all the time in the world and take all the space you need; it’s all yours. i meant it when i said i’d give you the world and if you want time and space then it’s all yours. everything is yours.

i’ll miss you, though. i don’t know if you would care but yeah, i’d miss you. i miss you. but it’s okay, as i said, yeah? it’s okay as long as you’re happy. you do you and i’ll do me. and if you need me, then i’ll be there even if we’re worlds and aeons apart.

i hope that someday we’ll meet and things will be different. i feel it in my bones but i don’t want to lie to myself but it’s the truth... i think? i don’t know. all i know is that i miss you and that i hope you’ll never truly let go of me.

(and this isn’t about me, it’s about you, but i personally can’t see myself without you so please don’t let go. don’t let me go. don’t forget my name or my face and don’t let go.)
and i love you. i’ll always do.
jay Oct 2020
here’s to the superheroes who want to save themselves before they save the world

(they’ll call you selfish and self-centred because they don’t understand the difference between self-love and being vain)
jay Jan 2019
let me hold your face with both of my hands and whisper into your mouth all the secrets i wish i could scream out to the world
jay Nov 2019
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.
jay Jan 2019
i wish you’d be
half as happy
as you make me
u deserve the world. and so do i, but i’m content with having u.
jay Jan 2019
hi! please hold me as if the world will fall apart the moment you let go (because to me, it most certainly will.)
jay Aug 2019
i’m trying to write a poem but —

the last words you said are the only ones that come to my head
it’s been months since i last wrote; i blame you but it’s my fault.
jay Jan 2019
if somebody asks you,
“who are you?”

here’s what you should say;

that you’re a god who swaps faces
more than the moon changes its phases.

that you’re a different person than who you were,
yet you’re the same person you always were.

that you’re a mess that contradicts itself,
that you’re a puzzle yet a piece of something else.

that you’re the rise and fall of empires,
that you’re a phoenix without its fires.

if you ask yourself,
“who am i?”

here’s what you do know:

you are you.

— The End —