Heart beats fast
            clock
                        ticks—
           ­                         tocks—
f           a          s          t           e          r

eye lids .    .    .
            f

                        a
           ­ l
                        l
                                    ­s
                        a
            w
                       ­ a
                                    y————————
—————darkness­embraces———————

silent songs whisper in cold air——————

f——l——a——t——l——i——n——e———
                           ­                                             speaks
**—————————­—————————————darkfateawaits—————————

The dun slit on your face——
————resembling the sky’s radiant croissant————
had revealed a black cave
filled with sweet unending—echoing—vibratos
of your fine-tuned chords——
——erasing my melancholic note——
and glistening, slender,
jewels sitting in thrones——
————————in shards——
————in thorns——

how generous of the universe,
to give my name a kingdom——
——a castle——
for its new home——

The gold concave shells on the east park cathedral
sang songs of silence
with forgiveness trapped in every note;

the gears moved and squeaked
on that hollowed bell tower
(and all I can hear are the murmurs
of those gears rotating in agony to bring me to sleep.)

White skinned queen glares
reflection of a million spectrums that just pass through
people’s translucent glass chest

(and she walks down the aisle;
her face—flood ravished)

The groom waits
like a God on an altar,
perfectly smiling with grace etched
on his face.

The ravishing flood around the town
became the wine that intoxicated them.

This is the lonesome leaf they waited to see
to fall down from a withering tree.
This is how they make cheap whiskey and *****.

I remember when I was flooded
by the light this ring on my finger reflected.

I remember when tasting your lips
is enough to intoxicate me into a sweet lullaby.

Because your lips are pages of a bible—
(because your promises are gospels.)

I’ll wait here on these cathedral steps
that were once filled with my footprints,

Because I still remember how your words clang
like a bang from that bell tower—I remember
how you said “I promise, I’ll come back.”

I love how I were
the little boy crying off
the second street—missing.
I love how your smiles are like
candy gemstones to feed me.

It’s been years since we dated
and I still remember the mixing taste
of your lips and that sweet *****.

The bristles of my toothbrush have been bended
and I can still feel the ravishing flood of your flavor.

And every day, I visit the bathroom
to cleanse myself of the memory you
etched in my mind. You see,

sometimes, four baths are not enough
to erase the stench you left on my skin;

sometimes, emptying the perfume bottle
won’t make any difference.

The fogged mirror is whispering
that my cheek is still wearing
that imprint of your chapped lips
that I don’t remember you gave to me.

The shower walls are molding
and so is the bath tub;

Sometimes, I forget how we bruised
each other’s body by slamming the other
against the wall.

Sometimes, I forget how we turned
a mere bathroom into a house
full of living.

The drain is clogged again by the hair
I cut every day, and the room will flood
with rusted blood coming from the pipes of my broken body.

I know, you hid the soap

somewhere around the corners of my eyelids;
somewhere where the rats escape.

This is not about giving two *****
for a “Please, come back.”

This is not about begging pities,
under dim corner lights—No!

This is about washing a dirt filled face,
an overused ragdoll, with tears.

People use words
like pieces of letters to crumble
and pass on to the next person.

They use it
like a candy wrapper
to be thrown away to the trash bin they’ll see
or hid it inside their pockets.

Often times, they’ll use it
like an engagement gift
like a diamond ring that glimmers
from the light of a midnight moon.

Other times, they’ll use it
as feces to be thrown
to other people’s mud filled face.

I use words differently:

1.
I use them like blades
slitting wrist and carving chest
trying to get inside
of the heart of my victim.

I use them like I’m a surgeon
filled with mistake
and my words are my scalpel:
a dire reflection of every blood I’ve wasted.

2.
I use them like hands:
strangling thick necks
with throats craving the taste
of air to flow down.

They longed to scream;
but I feel no vibration.

3.
I use them like grenades
with each blast is a realization
to damage their face grave;

with each word, a fire
to burn down their insides
and they cannot escape.

4.
I use them like chains
heavy metal shackles
to trap them for eternity
of a never passing guilt
they knew they never had fault with.

5.
I use them like candy gemstones:
with each word from my mouth
a sugar filled field dream:

a sweet gift to a crying child
on his fifth birthday.

I am my own sculptor
I carve words into poems
that make people bleed
through the insides.

And I know, I have far too many miles
to walk on broken glass to even regret every syllable.

Somewhere between the points
of your smile—reaching ear to ear,
hides a coffin for a shallow grave man—
that you as a master of poker,
hides a dagger in your sleeves.
I pricked my fingers with every thorn
of the rose you gave to me,
and I know I should lie down
as if I’m a cold corpse to rot
down under a garden filled
with your perfume.
I slept…
I slept…
and slept…
and slept…
My body is paralyzed
and it could not feel anything
from the wounds you are carving to my skin;
I cannot even smell the rust imprinted on my blood.
My eyes blackened out;
my lips are dead pan pale;
and my skin has been long withering
just because it misses the regular
brush of your own skin.
My ears have far too long became
an empty cave, which used to be
a house for the echo of your name.
I have been long dead,
but you made me feel new
and now you shattered me
back to a useless cadaver
I was just your experiment after all…
When the hospital room is empty
on a six o’clock cold evening
and you happened to be there by my side,
I want you to ***** me one last time
with a needle, or with your dagger,
wound me once more and make me feel the most.
And if my heart does not beat
for another pound, I have only one wish:
In a bright Sunday burn dusk,
I want you to prepare a wake for me,
so that I may feel to be alive
one last time.