there was this time in the park
a frosted, gray-misted November
me, myself
on the brown benches

my head seemed forever tilted
to the right
my head didn't know
but my heart knew

I was looking for a yellow spark
hidden in the crowd of wispy passerbys

I was waiting

for you.

it seems silly when i think about it
when I pause and force
my body to stop, halt
freeze, think rationally
it's terrible to be the only one
who leaves their entrails everywhere
nothing will come out
when I squeeze my heart anymore

I have this amazing way
of hurting myself
more than I need to be hurt

the birds sing from my backyard
and the morning sun hits my window at an angle,
effusing its gold-tinted rays into the glowing room

i dig deeper for the warmth
beneath the bed covers.

moments like these, i think of you.

I know what it means now
to love;
it kind of emanates from the core
somehow, somewhere
and makes my heart feel heavy,
but also warm, blown-up,
like it's expanded enough just so
that it hugs the insides of my rib cage gently.

you know that feeling where you don't want to get out of bed
you don't want to open up your blinds and see the world pour in through the sun's rays
because you know deep down it wouldn't make you happy anyway
you have nothing to look forward to
nothing to smile for

that is how i feel every day these days
and i wonder when it will go away

everywhere i turn
i am disgusted
my life seems to but nothing more than
a collection of disappointment and lies
soon enough it will drive me
off the edge
and i know i will go crazy
there-is-no-turning-back crazy
just like esther in the bell jar
that's what i think
that's why i sympathize and empathize with her
she is just like me
a person muffled and choked
by customs and expectations

I write poems,
not English essays.
period.

rupturing; that's what I feel
slashing, tearing, scratching
as if my bones have not been cracked enough times
as if my heart is still short of crooked, broken veins
and bruised, dimpled indentations

because my blood really does need
to break through arteries
and spread from the inside--doesn't it?
otherwise, I might not be alive.

I like the things you say in bed the best
words that caress against skin like your finger grazes
sweet nothings that escape from your reckless mouth
when you are still drowsy from the veil of sleep