My theory about reality
is that it does not exist.

Reality is a figment of the mind,
which can be morphed, twisted, and altered,
based on how the individual sees fit.
Reality rests in one’s perception—
flimsy and weak.
It can be tweaked easily.
I used to do it all the time.

For a while, my reality was endangered,
because my mind was constantly hanging
off the edge of a steep cliff.
I fed it with colorful substances
that made my vision fuzzy 'round the edges
and left my fingers tingling
as if licked by electricity.

Manipulating my perception took on
a graceful, gradual easiness,
and life was less painful that way;
objects and thoughts became
murky, dull, and intangible—
like lying in a pile of clouds
and fluffy, cotton candy pillows
while the whole world passes you by.
Everyone you glance at
is in dark robes, their faces plastered
with stern expressions, but you
are the only one smiling
and the only one wearing white.

It felt nice, simply, and so
that’s why I did it,
and that’s why I did not stop.  

Facing reality is too difficult
when you are drained and feeble.
It’s a truth I still acknowledge
from time to time, when my feet
are too tired to walk and my hands
are too tired to play.

He was dead too, I believe—
deep, deep inside—
but he never let me see that weakness
even though I suspected it
and tried to find it.
I knew it was there in him,
that same thing I had that made my knees
wobbly. He was good
at pretending and perhaps
that was why I really loved him.

when I pour ***** **** on my wounds
so I can sleep in the pain
that burns a hole in my chest when I drain
away the **** with a side of *******;
it's as if I'm winning it all--but in the end
I've only lost myself in the fall;
from the finest of nights to the poorest of woes,
I'm throwing just for throws 'cause I've got nothing to hold
‘cept you when I'm gone, done escape from this world
to sounds of shot glasses shattering insane,
blood falling like rain;
"****, ****, I'm out--
I ain't playin' this game."

In too far, don't know how it'd begun;
Don't know the difference
between dying and fun, it's all the same--
There's lipstick smeared on my name, whiskey flaming
too bright ***** can't even put it out
so I shout, hoping you'll pull me out,
push me down, **** me out--
It's over, I'm done.

"I wouldn't say I'm happy," she breathes,
cigarette smoke drifting from her fingertips
and diffusing into her tousled, coffee-brown hair.
"But I'm not sad either, no--not exactly.
I feel very...empty. Yes, very much indeed."

We sit together at a small table
at a corner cafe
separated, but somehow a part of
the busyness of the city street.

As we sip our teas,
we watch the cars, people, pets
materialize, flicker, and disappear--
she, with a heavy, languid weariness
that peeks out underneath
her black eyeliner and dark eye circles;
and me, as if
I am looking behind a glass screen.

She laughs softly, bitterly.
Blows out more smoke.
Sips more tea.

I stare at the condensation forming
on the inside of my cup,
see the droplets accumulate only to fall
down again into my sea of tea.

"You see, life moves in circles."
With her cigarette, she outlines a rough circle in midair,
producing swirling trails of smoke that solidify,
then diffuse into nothingness.
"Infinite, never-ending cycles that take you
right back to the starting point.
It's happened always,
now, in the past, and
will continue to happen.
And it's an unstoppable force
that of which we have little influence upon.

"But no, cycles are necessary.
They are there in nature, and naturally
also exist in society."

She pauses.

"But there is an unspoken pointlessness
to this cycle of life."

She stops talking and so we drink our teas
together,
silently.

I don't want to be

one of those girls that need love

but I think I am.

sometimes when you aren't looking,
I gaze at you the way
a painter gazes at his artwork in a museum,
like you are mine but not mine all at once.

my eyes run along the scar on your forehead
to the brown leather shoes you have on your feet
and my hands comb through your thick, black hair
and trace lines on the back of your pianist hands.

I am inspecting you silently and wondering
why and how you have become mine
and asking myself in tiny whispers
why and how you will eventually leave me.

but you bicker and laugh with me
like you have not a care in the world--
like this moment with me will keep replaying for eternity
until we both drop down from old age and die--
and for a moment, I believe that too
so I pull a veil over my worries and smile.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll fade away
and all the mistakes I've made
they'll stay
and haunt the Earth for years to come.

yesterday, my body vanished
and found itself in somewhere new.
and when it awoke
a bed of grass lay beneath it;
a lawn of wildflowers
tossed among the green
like cherry tomatoes in a salad bowl.
the sun reached out behind
faint wisps of white, marshmallow clouds
and its light swathed my body
in dazzling streams of melted, glittering gold--
warming and kissing and seeping.
as my body watched the small birds flit
from branch to branch
throughout the meadow,
I think it knew
that I was absent--
****** into the real world
as if by a tornado.

The seething cold that seeps into his skin pores
bleeds into his wooden guitar too—

and when he plays, all I hear
are Heaven’s tears pounding on the rooftop
like discordant footsteps in an empty room.

It is living that brings forth words
and shapes them into sentences inside my head.
Sometimes they are beautiful,
but usually, they make my palms sweaty
and my chest hurt, as if my lungs
have expanded too large
for my rib cage to contain.

Today, the words
come to me in slow rhythms,
like two lovers waltzing.

I love these days the best,
when I sit at my kitchen table
and gaze outside across the street
while the afternoon sun warms the side
of my body, my head cool and calm.

I twirl a spoon in one hand
absentmindedly,
rest my head on the other hand.

I wish the sparrows would sing
like they usually do,
but today, they seem
to have gotten tired of it.

They are all scattered across the front yard,
little flecks of light brown splashed
in between splotches of grass and cement.
I see one perched on the top
of my mailbox, its head in my direction.
Words sprout out from the fountain inside
my head, and suddenly I am crooning,
Sing, little bird, sing.

I gaze at the sparrow intensely,
urging it to understand. It ***** its head at me
and then flies away in the other direction.

...

The next time I wake, the words flow
angrily.
They stain my head
like splattered ink,
and no matter how vigorously I rub at them,
they are there,
as black as the soles of my shoes.

The sun won’t reach me today, because I refuse
to let it. Living is safer
in my room, where I am shielded
by walls and doors, cocooned
by blankets and shawls.

My mother taps lightly on my door,
begging me to return
to the outside world,
but I keep the bitter sentences
I have formed
from slipping past my lips
and curl tightly against my pillow.

I am done with pretending. I am done with words.
Living would be easier if I could shut them out the same way
I shut everyone else out.

On days like these, I like to imagine
that I have a little hole in my skull,
and when I tilt my head just right,
the words pour out in dark streams.
Then they will be irretrievable,
gone forever like the silence I wish
I could give myself again.

Whisper to me softly
like fingers grazing on skin--
slow breaths like early spring mornings
and riverside freshness in the autumn,
emptying both warmth and coolness
into my lungs like liquor drunk in sips;
a clump of lace bunched in my hands.

Whisper to me softly
like the wind whispers to the leaves;
each word a caress on your lips and on my chest,
heaving with desire and emotion and wanting
to collide our bodies violently into one.

Of gazing eyes and tender limbs,
curves of light and dark on bare skin,
full in your words, full in your arms
of whispers held for solely me.

"left me in the dust"--I've become dust literally
and my legs now melt like lipstick left too long in the open sun.
pungent words, medication--morph into heat waves, brilliant intensity.
red-violet, gamma magnified--I swallow them whole like you swallowed me.
my spirit will crawl inside you through the holes in your soiled skin
and I'll make you breathe me in
like winter smoke, a gray cloud
of inconveniences and memories better forgotten,
to remind you of the burdens of love and life
the turmoils of entanglement, the sacrifice of my energy
wasted on the feeble candle of your inner light
and the insignificance of adolescent love.

from your lips in angry waves of nausea green
come those sweet words and feathery caresses.
a thick, musky gas that hangs,
meaningless sentences strewn from thin air,
a cloud of wrathful bees swarming;
ready to encase, devour
my body and leave you whole.
you watch as I shove firecrackers between my teeth,
sparks fiery, light flying
sending heavy shadows like knives toward me.

my love, don't go--leave me and my soul will die.
footsteps I do not hear, dim and disappear;
a candle flickers and dissipates into fragments.
my body sags under the weight of failed causes, my heart
has been stuffed with more debris than I can hold in my palms.
it's thanks to you, thanks to you, my devil, my love.

Two months, seven days; I wonder why I still count anymore
when the world has become an empty blur of bodies and mixed paint,
colors indiscernible, laid out before me,
urging me to go on and take a needle
and let seep from my fingertips his blood and energy.
I am tired of just relying on what once fueled me,
the electricity of life's purpose, my flames of desire.
My dying heart needs to be fed diesel gas, instead of
the kind of substance he has injected into me all these years.
It's accumulated inside of me and become a kind of poison,
making me move slower than I have ever moved before.
Before that, I had stomped on the flames with my own two feet
although I didn't know, and I guess if I had known, I wouldn't have.
And I'll tell you it seared my skin just as much as it did his--
I'm still recovering, still mending; but he's better, he didn't need to mend at all.
Those tiny flecks of orange and red embers were too little, so he left me;
it was like pouring ice water over what we had.

In the early mornings when the cloudy haze of the night hovers weakly over the earth, and the sun is hidden behind the great bundles in the sky, my eyes open to the stillness of the shadows, the junction between night and day. I exhale. My father's soft sighs can be heard through our thin, crumbling walls. My fingers slide over my bare legs and I curl up like a caterpillar, not ready to shed my layers of blankets and confront the stinging, cold air. My head feels heavy and empty at the same time--misty, as if the thick, morning fog had been ****** up into the space where my skull should be. My eyes are grainy and dry; my skin feels raw and cracked. I pull the cocoon tighter around my body, ready to sink back into my state of unconsciousness. Suddenly, his name is on the tip of my tongue, bitter, burning the insides of my mouth. I am pulled by my neck out of my reverie; uselessly, I struggle. They come to me in waves--the realization, the recognition, the understanding, the pain--rocking me while my body lies shriveled and numb.

It was a matter of time, I think.

I hate waking up to this.

Time is but a soft breeze
too weak to rustle my chiffon skirts.

Here, where the air is denser and darker,
I sit dully in a cloud above my room
to watch the details below me like I am not a part of that world
but detached, as if my sadness has manifested around me
and become a tangible, misty box.

Eventually, my cloud will mix with sky.

Its ivory vapors will be lost to the blue expanse,
letting me fall back to the Earth,
and then I will have escaped the reverie which has bound me.

But by then, my skin will have grown coarse and rough;
my hair will have turned as white as clouds.
And you will be gone, probably
because time moved too slowly for me
and too fast for you.

when I think of dying,
I think of you--tombstones
crushed beneath your feet
because you are my Dark Angel
and that's why I picked you.

because you aim so well
with those daggers hidden behind
the pasty irises of your eyes,
thrown adeptly
at every person that bites
too ******* your neck
like me, like me;
your favorite, your cane.

Tonight, the waves seem gentler
and the moon's white light curves softly to me
The trees cease their restless shaking
and urge my thoughts to sit peacefully
inside my head, so they do, they do
And my feathery heart meditates
to the ocean waves and its breeze

I have become the wind again
It plants braids into my tree bark hair
My skin, like flower petals
ripen and bloom and fall
from my arm branches in rivulets
to join the cool night and quiet air
While my toes **** life
from cold, dark earth

"Let me live," I chant,
"Let me live and feel life."
The waves, they listen
and lap at my feet
and rock me, rock me
to and fro

"Let me live and feel life,
Let me live and feel life."

The brilliant sun pierces
straight to my heart
every morning;
it used to embrace me
like an old friend.
But these days, sleep,
that paradise of faraway unconsciousness,
that heaven in which
his face means nothing to me,
caresses me, soothes me--
and with tender arms, I
welcome it gladly.

My eyes bore holes into
distant objects
more frequently than usual.
The hand that grazes my arm
to wake me
feels like ice

(because it is not his.)

Another piece of me recedes.
I can feel my bones, meat, skin
thinning
unraveling

like thread.


Everything feels like ice.
The grave must feel like fire.

everyday, I wake  
to the kind of dullness that doesn't go away
but ebbs and flows, and carries me
like a small, nearly-sunken boat
through these rooms with their tight walls.
all the while, I see nothingness,
and over the years
it has swallowed my body,
and here I am,
gazing out from within it at my surroundings,
unhappy and afraid,
but because I have sailed
for so long now,
I don't feel anymore

I am tired
of watching my legs move
and my fingers twitch
as if someone above me is holding me
by many strings
like a puppet, controlling me
so that I don't have to think;
I don't think

I sail blindly, I am held by strings.

Deep within a damp alleyway, the worker gathers his coat
and walks swiftly into the crisp air of a late fall night.
Above him, the stars twinkle restlessly from light-years away,
illuminating the path before him as he hurries home.
Around him, in heated homes and comfortable beds,
the city people are lazy and tired,
shifting into monotonous nightly routines
of teeth-brushing and pajama-wearing.
Beneath him, the ground stirs and then settles
as his feet briskly tap along the surface of the dirtied cement.

The worker does not focus on what is in front of him -
the empty roads that amplify his sense of foreboding,
the street lights that make ordinary objects seem to stew in shadowy evil,
the lonesome cars littered along street curbs, looking abandoned
without a person in the driver's seat -
instead, he catches a cloud and drifts home,
to where his children sleep in bundles of soft cotton,
illuminated by the hazy light of a distant hallway.

From there, he glides silently into the living room,
where his wife is wrapped tightly in fleece blankets,
awaiting his arrival.
Her body soaks in the warmth of a nearby fireplace;
her eyes gaze into the flames thoughtfully.
Her sweet, kind face is contoured by shadow,
but glows from the gentle light of the fire.

Carefully, the worker floats into the seat
beside his wife on the ottoman,
but she shows no sign of any awareness of his presence,
continuing to watch the flames flicker.
At long length, she relaxes
and reclines along an arm of the sofa,
legs stretched out before her.
Her eyes close and her breathing slows,
and the worker believes that his wife has entered sleep.
With a feeling of satisfied content, he hovers above her
and watches her chest continuously rise and fall ever so slightly.
Her body, once young, giggling and bold,
has now blossomed into one of mature, refined beauty.

The worker catches a small glimpse of unshielded skin
exposed by the low cut of her womanly dress
and remembers the first time she let him hold and touch her,
her cheeks burning pink with excitement and lust.
He remembers the gentle curves of her body,
the silkiness of her pure skin,
and the small gasps she made into his ear as he caressed her.
He remembers the late nights spent at her bedroom window,
away from home, from his unknowing parents,
from where he should have been.
He remembers the tears that peaked
along the edges of her eyes,
intermingled with the joy and happiness of marriage
and a sense of forever,
as she spoke those fateful two words.

And here she is now, his wife,
dutifully awaiting his return home
while his body lies stripped and motionless,
face down on the dirtied cement.

there is
slow breathing and sweaty skin
crumpled bed sheets clutched in tiny fists
and shadows, heavily strewn across the room
that slither closer and unite underneath her body
merge and stream upwards
to form rivulets that bind to her skin
so that she may wear darkness and feel darkness
among other things.

computer screen, computer screen,
please fill yourself with words
my brain is much too tired now
writing decent diction hurts.
computer screen, computer screen,
please let me see the light
my head cannot think of anything
but cliche phrasings this late at night.
computer screen, computer screen
I sort of wish I were dead
but perhaps I should log off Hello Poetry
and finish this so that I can go to bed.

If I could reach inside
and pull out a string of my own thoughts
for you to swallow and make yours,
I would.
If I could piece together a drill formidable enough
to shatter stone to dust,
I would.

Then, it would be different
than sitting still and letting the rain
thump rhythms against the rooftop;
even though sound cannot find a pathway
to squeeze in between the crevices,
somehow, a cloud manages to condense above me
and then, I am soaked in the sky's tears--
then it becomes impossible
to tell its rainfall from mine.

Here instead, I watch you feel around
the edges of my glass box,
searching for an entrance and finding none.
Here instead, nothing penetrates
but wind and clouds.

instead of walking, we will fly
instead of being grounded
we will search for a pathway to the stars
every step will bring us closer to the sun
every stroke of the arm will sever yet another string
that ties our bodies to dirt
all that we experience then on
will negate all that we have known
let the wind carry us;
leave those wisps of ourselves to trail behind

another night amongst the brightest stars
alift in navy sky
and she who owns the moon's white rays
takes too, with her, my love

another night beneath the clouds
in dance, in silken, fluid flight
bare feet collide on shadowed grass
warm arms embrace amidst cool air

to kiss in tree branches, far above
to touch the universe with extended wings
and hold this girl, who bears my love
in one last caress below the watching sky.

Far away, a bird sings
a song of spring's sweet arrival
High trills, low moans
Is it yearning for love,
or desperate for renewal?
Suddenly, his fingers find mine through
green blades and slide
over the back of my hand
A quiet breath escapes my lips
as we sit on dewy grass
But I do not feel moistness
only a warm kindling
in the pit
of my stomach
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
His amber eyes are glowing,
illuminated by the rays
of the afternoon sun
A cool wind brings the scent
of leaves
and all else that is spring
Brings his arms like a blanket
rubbing away goosebumps
spread on my skin
And somehow the sun
warms my spine enough
to seep in me
a morsel of courage
a slight turn of the face
a nervous murmur
And then I can taste
spring on his lips.

coarse words, angry sentences
disorganized letters, tangled strings
thoughts of hate and ugly things
formed in the back of my head
but too inappropriate to speak
instead became hostile phrases
muttered quietly under sour breath
jealously coloring these contents
a sour bile-green
and fear and sorrow
outlining the rough edges in black
so that my chest and all its corners
are filled with vileness, overlapped
like unwashed laundry piled
inside an unseen metal safe.

it was not ******, but slow
and built on itself over time
a little more sorrow each day
a little more pain to suffocate on
not too much, not so to be obvious

but it seems the soul is more of an abstract thing
that can be revived over time with the right words
and happenings
zombie-like but with much less gore
there are the first traces of joy instead.

The story takes place on a September day
back in that simplistic time of freshman year,
drenched in the sun and sweat
of late summer in the afternoon,
voices calling and adolescent bodies intermingled,
the stench of hot lunch and ****** conversation.
All of us, stuck and contained
in the most undesirable place to be
on an uncomfortably sunny day.

There were seagulls scavenging
and circling overhead above the Quad,
picking at garbage cast aside, scattered along the floor,
or stranded around nearby trash bins,
as if our school wasn't filthy and ghetto enough.

In a bored state, I sat
and watched them from within the cafeteria
occasionally looking over at Russell, Pokemon cards in his hand,
as he conversed with his nerd friends in nonsensical terms and phrases
and as the tediousness of the situation mounted
my patience did just the opposite
so without a word, I picked up my things
and left.

Now, before this sudden turn of events,
I have to mention
that you and me,
we hadn't spoken to each other in a long time,
not since school began,
which sounds like utter blasphemy to me now,
but this is what I remember
and this is what I realized that day
and if it was otherwise, I don't think
seeing you again would have made my breath
catch in my throat
or my heart palpitate excitedly
to the extent that it did.

Do you remember those benches in the Quad,
encircled by small trees and draped in their shade?
Many times after this very day,
I would stand on the other side by the cafeteria
and find myself gazing across the stretch
at where I knew I would probably find you,
distracted by a desire so tremendous
to be where you were.

Perhaps chance had wanted me to stumble upon the place
or luck found in itself the need to grace me with its presence
enough to allow me
to spot my two friends headed toward those benches
as soon as I walked out of the cafeteria doors.
And so I hurried to them
as relief flooded through my system
because I wouldn't have to endure being with Russell
nor have to walk around for the remainder of lunch
friendless and without a companion;
so thank goodness Russell decided to nerd out that day,
thank goodness I had not developed a love for Pokemon
or had even a vague, minuscule knowledge of its terminology.

As I approached those benches for the first time,
nostalgia filled the atmosphere in waves
and it mingled with the draping heat of summer
so that the result was electrifying.
My eyes glanced over all those I had seen so frequently
during our middle school years
but had not seen as of late,
and then I spotted your curly-haired head
and forgot everything--
all the events that had culminated to that moment--
because suddenly, there you were.

I staggered ahead to greet you,
leaving my friends behind without so much
as a glance.
And then all at once, I was swathed
in your quiet murmurs
and magical blend of words.
Smiles and laughter inflated my lungs and
seeped into my thirsty veins
as I felt time wrap upon itself
so that it became one single, solid, whole piece
and I could not believe that,
for about a month or so,
we had not spoken;
that the profound sinfulness of such a thing
never once crossed my mind.

After the bell rang
and we parted to go our separate ways,
I found I needed to see you again,
I definitely had to see you again
because I had not been touched by words
that warmed and tickled my insides
like those that escaped from your lips
in an incredibly long time,
nor had I felt so fresh, so at ease in anyone's presence
as I did in yours.
You filled me with a gentle, sweeping sense
of happiness and joy
that I came to crave intensely as much as I did your being
which is just a more embellished way of saying
that I realized I loved you that day.

Young girl in blue, why must she be so pretty?
With thick copper curls and eyes to match
Still, someone so wicked has forsaken her yet
And so unwillingly does she sell her pure body

In grievous strain, how she sits on *****, stone steps
Head bowed down with chest wide open
Hands gripping at cold, goose-bumped flesh
Bruised from nights spent with a rough customer

And people may curse and stare on London's hostile streets
But still her eyes hold their defiant gaze
So young is she to have such a bitter stare
Does she know how my heart aches for her?

Young Josephine,  girl in blue,
Nearer below, to the ground every hour
And soon, she thinks, she'll let her heart freeze
Numb to feeling already, she might not even hurt
Oh, what a beautiful mess on the streets she'd be

So please, quick, someone come whisk her away!
Save her from the chilly air and save her from the pain
That shatters her so every time a man looks her way
She shudders beneath her pale skin

Oh, people of all ages, here, come and look!
See how she cowers in dark alleyways
How she shrinks and swallows her withered soul whole
So that only she has the key to pent-up sorrow

Strong, so stout, this unfortunate girl
So helpless is she in deep poverty
Dear man and lady, spare your vile thoughts and high virtues
And rescue her from this misery

Take her home, go now, raise her well!
Encase her in love from in and out
and rub her frozen, goose-bumped skin
Happiness, I swear she will bring

I think too much, this I have always known
for to live alone in solitude, one is blessed with thoughts as companions.

And perhaps this is optimal:
my thoughts do not mutter harsh words behind my back or even to my face
but comfort me in soothing tones like strokes
and sing-song verses that hug the walls of my mind pleasantly

My thoughts choose to show me beauty,
instead of the stark rawness of the world outside the frames of my head
they've conversed amongst themselves
of the sleek sheen of wetness on lemon leaves after a morning shower
or when they are most inspired,
of the smooth gradient of sky swathed by sunset
and allow me to watch it all, a front-row ticket to their splendid imaginings

Always, they will sigh contently at art and literature
and then feast wildly in the presence of knowledge
They accumulate bits of information like starving kittens,
so eager are they, I am left breathless

(There certainly are much worse points to them too,
but my thoughts threaten me so, in silence, I'll refrain.)

I've once imagined this scene:
yellow sunlight streaming through a glass window;
and from it hangs green, plaid curtains
and the tablecloth of the dining table is plaid too.
In my hands I hold a cup of coffee, steaming,
and beside me, a fresh croissant laid on a crisp, white napkin.
From my kitchen, I gaze out the window at the tranquil street.

There are no cars--it's a Sunday after all--
but there is a boy comfortably seated,
cross-legged on the grass, on the other side,
and in his lap, he balances a sketchbook on one leg
while his arm rests on the other.

I can't see what he is drawing, but I reason it must be beautiful
because he is focused on it so intently;
I can tell in the way he grips his pencil.

Over time, I think I will fall in love with this boy,
but I will be too afraid to walk onto the other side of the street
so he will draw alone every Sunday and won't know he has an admirer.

Perhaps he doesn't see it
but there is a beauty to him
and I have been lucky enough to catch it in my hands
and claim it for my own
before any of the other girls have.
This beauty burns brilliantly in his smile
and in the way he gently laughs,
how his eyes soften as his lips curve
so that inside me, I am whispering, "Do it again."
There is the low murmuring of his voice,
unheard to others but heard to me,
and its beauty is in the way it tickles my ears
and travels down to the bottoms of my feet,
makes me crave and suspire.
I have seen beauty in the way his eyes twinkle,
whether in light or shade;
and they have, many times, drawn in my awed, steady gaze
as he sits unaware of his charm and allure.
His hair, too, is a messy nest of beauty;
how often have I let my fingers run through it,
its texture and curls that, to me, are perfection,
and are a symbol of the young man that I love.
There is beauty in the lips from which he says, "I love you"
and the arms that caress me in an embrace,
fingers that touch my cheeks
and intertwine themselves when he holds my hand.
How blessed am I that his beauty is also mine.

Her Light was a gentler thing
Moments of lilac calmness and sunshine in one
Soft brushstrokes laid on creamy white canvas
Melted butter on honeyed steamed buns

Quietly, it would come in the hushed stillness of morning
Creep gently and fold over her skin
She let it sweep across her like velvet water
Until her Light was able to cave in

Through bruised holes of mangled skin pores
Past the dark spots her Shadow had made
Via blackened veins and tarred tissue
Life and Vitality ****** from blood where her Shadow was laid

With her Light, came hope unknown
Like a candle burning weakly inside her chest
And although it struggled against the veil of dark
it was there inside her nonetheless

Her Shadow dreaded when her Light visited
It sulked in a pile and curled itself into a speck 
"Get It out, Girl," It would moan to her in pained agony,
"Its presence will make me a wreck."

But the girl, though she did not say it, loved her Light
And so welcomed It into her eagerly
Despite urgent protests from her weakened Shadow
who fed on what darkness was left thirstily 

And gradually, her Shadow could feel its time dwindling
as her Light began to etch itself deep
and the golden path of the Light was strengthened
by the glowing warmth the girl's lover seeped

Thus her Light would find her insides most fitting
near this heat of the girl's sweet lover
Strong enough to wrap her in and envelop her
and warm the icy crevices left by her Shadow's shady cover

Yet her Shadow despised the boy and his kindling warmth
that acted like a bright magnet for her Light
and so devised a malignant plan on its own
when her Light was gone and out of sight

It resolved to inject itself into the boy
and darken his insides as well
Take what life and Light his pure body had stored 
and rid him of his internal heat shell

It lept from out of the girl's skin
and planted itself tightly in his flesh
It festered deep in the ventricles of his heart for several days
traveled through organs as permeable as mesh

And soon his insides turned frigid
as his heat could not withstand the dark
His once-tender frame hardened into a rough stone
His touch, so smooth, now felt like bark

The girl, whose temperament had improved
after her Shadow abandoned her lightened body,
saw in her lover the same glint in his darkened eyes 
as the ones that used to belong to she 

She found he no longer had any warmth to give
Worse, he recoiled from her kind-intentioned touch
Her lover was as loveless as her evil Shadow
which she now hated very much

And how she cried and wept for his poor, helpless soul
As she knew the Shadow may not leave
Until he decided (with a gun) to end the Shadow's stay on his own
and left her alone to grieve

Perhaps this is how the story ends
But in time, maybe it will be
that the shadowed boy still has some Light of his own
and with effort, it will heal his body.

I think he's missing
Or hiding from me
I search for him endlessly
underneath bed frames and tables
closets and cupboards
and behind the folds of my long, cotton curtains.
"Please come out for me," I beg,
"I long to see you,
I long to speak to you,
I long to touch you."

It seems he doesn't hear me
or doesn't want to.
Can't he sense my yearning and desperation?

She took a moment to pause and ponder
one lonesome, dreary night
the consequences of her untimely death
that would end a hidden plight

One that had interlaced itself in her a while ago
that she had forced to silence and lull
but that enlivens itself at times like these
when she is feeling awfully dull

And so the shadow had visited her again that somber night
and in her, it forced her to see
the careful steps to her self-planned death
had she chosen to agree

It asked her, "Do you believe anyone would care?"
and to that she murmured, "Maybe."
In her head appeared images of remorseful Facebook posts
like those sent to a deceased boy in the same class as she

"But the frequency of those posts would decline," it said,
"as the topic of your death no longer became a care.
No one would mourn for your soul anymore,
and no one would shed a tear."

"Your friends will move on with their lives in time,
your family will eventually cope.
Your lover will find another love,
one not filled with forlorn hope."

"So take that thick rope into your hand," it urged,
"or those colorful pills in the bathroom drawer
and if you do it correctly and succeed
perhaps you'll be found dead on the carpet floor."

This shadow, while it still talked like an eager villain
no longer made a sound
She found she could quiet its menacing voice
with faint memories of happiness that she found

Of sunlight after a burst of rainfall
the woodsy scent of a winter breeze
morning grass speckled with dew
long streets in the fall adorned with golden leaves

Of family dinners gathered around the table
witty remarks and laughter shared with friends
quiet moments spent with her dearest, her lover
and his warm clasp around her hands

This shadow looked on in disgust
and bid her a sour farewell
as it shrunk itself in her yet again
and her dismal unease quelled.

he grabbed shards of my skin
bone fragments scattered throughout the grass
leftover scraps of intestines and various other guts
the wiry strands of my veins
my faintly-beating heart

sitting cross-legged along the bank of the river
stringing me back together with superglue and ligaments
warmth and contentment

My dearest,
you are welcome
to make a home underneath my skin
to thread yourself between my tissues
and seep your life into my cells.

My dearest,
you are welcome
to implant the embodiment of your soul
to let it trickle into my bloodstream
and infect the remotest regions of my body.

My dearest,
you are welcome
to furnish my dull insides well
to dishevel my inner organs
and to feed it with your vital fluid.

My dearest,
you are welcome
to make your home underneath my skin
to stitch yourself in permanently
and to live in me indefinitely.

Go on, leap gallantly through the flames
The ring of fire threatens to sear your skin
It taunts you, the faces in the conflagration contorted
Fiery tongues outstretched, broiling cheeks pulled back in mockery
Flaming fingers quivering, laughing at your hesitation
Oh, how very tempted you are to leap through the flames!

In time, Honor outranks common sense
And as you pace in thought, Dignity outranks precaution
And then you fly through the ring, a determined little engine (who thought he could)
to a very toasty, elegant death (but in this case, you miserably failed).

Oh, how I dread this time of day
when the ghosts have crawled back into their crevices
and the immortals that **** blood fall asleep
and the gremlins that eat little children again wait underneath their beds
and I, my poor adolescent soul,
must force myself awake and head for school.

what a facade you hold around your inner self,
how awesomely it masks your true composition!
at what price did you pay for such a splendid veil?

Old skeleton fingers
aged with centuries of rain and frost
crevices deepened by the gnawing of the random bug
whose home he found inside a dug-out grave

bones that have yet to erode
fine lines and textures
yellowed in hue
darkened in shade

skinless hands that gracefully sleep
deep within the earth

I fell in step with a beautiful boy on an undefined path in the woods
Eyes of melted caramel, lips of bitten cherries
A face of dazzlingly white sun rays

His fair composition had caught my eye
Several grown oak trees away
An intensity of gamma rays and morning light
mixed in with a dash of candlelight

As I neared, I became drunk on his sweet fragrance
Of burnt wood and hot chocolate
and lying outside in the midst of a spring day
Tender breezes that smell of rain and cold earth

This boy, how softly he stepped, catalyzed a desire deep within
A compelling to touch, maybe taste his beauty
My white hand reached out, an extension of billowing feathers
With risk, attempted a gentle, gossamer graze on his back
and my face, a blush burning, consumed my whiteness

But this boy, so beautiful, had a bitter back
And soon my white feathers frosted
Ice caked in between my limbs 
Spread with an intensity like wildfire
And my nimble body no longer white
So cold, so heavy, I fell

Outside my skin, I pose as a perfectionist
Inside my frame, I am scars and words unspoken
and desires kept mum
and cravings kept bolted
Bottled-up screams quieted
Sentences entangled with hatred