sandstone hits glass
she wants to talk about our past
the knives,the guns,the pills fill my head
her words ring in my ears like a lost melody
the things i would do to her,
the things i would do for her

she wields her sword and raises her shield,
ready to fight
our enemy is not the one waiting at the city gates
but the one messing with her heads.

we have the same enemies, her and i
they are born in our heads,
they thrive on our thoughts,
they keep us awake at 3 AM with a bottle of wine by our bedsides
because our eyes are too tired to shut themselves,
they make us love ourselves sometimes
only to rip us apart and wear our skin as cloaks.
our enemies are peculiar
they lift the corners of our mouth to form a smile
they make us swallow pills and snort drugs to feel alive.
we don't fight them
we let them win
we let them aim their guns at us
we let them destroy our will to live
we let them follow us to family gatherings and night-outs
we watch them rip our insides out with a smile
we can never get them out of our heads.
you see, we once built a palace inside our heads
we adorned the walls with our favourite pictures and stories
we hung fairy lights by our bedsides
because all the light we couldn't see was fading away.
the demons crawled out from under our beds and got into our heads.

darkness loomed over our palace.
the fairy lights were broken
the pictures shattered
the stories reduced to scribbles
we sharpened our knives,
got guns for hands,
bombs at the entrance
and changed the lamps to grenades
but they didn't die.
they grew stronger.

we tried to burn down our palace,
run away to our haven
but they got us in the end
and no matter how high our swords and shields are raised
they will stay with us
until the very end

the mothering love
of letting go

silently keeping
a corner

warm the nest
ready to welcome

anytime me
the wounded bird

a small body
still crossing oceans

.
                                  ****-up
                     ­         ****-up ****
                             up ****-up co
                           ****-up ****-up
                             ****-up ****-
                             up ****-up co
                             ck-up ****-up
                             ****-up ****-
                             up ****-up co
                             ****-up ****-
                             up ****-up co
                             ****-up ****-
                    ****-up.           ****-up
                ****-up ****   ****-up ****
               ****-up-up ****-up  ****-up
                ****-up ****    -up ****-up
                   ****-up              ****-up

he's the saddest story i ever read,
a walking tragedy written with spilled blood of innocence
on pages of stolen youth.

he holds forgotten chapters of words
that he never got to speak, a novel that holds his painful secrets like a requiem.
he knows death intimately as his first love
and has bruised knuckles and empty hands to show for hardships.

but still, he smiles.
even when the aroma of
perfume lingers and
the ring she never got to wear still shines.

there are moments when i can’t decide if i
want to die                            sooner or later.
and some days it’s like the        first regret,
the first time you hurt someone;   but then
you do it on purpose, revel in a   sickening
way, the manner in which you      discover
that empathy is a             two-edged sword
and   drowning       sounds            less than
gruesome and                more of a    fantasy.

i didn’t know how to hurt you until i hurt so much myself.

i learned slamming doors and  altercations
with the mirror from my mother           and
that’s why my fists are     bruised    and my
insides are   tarnished with      self-loathing.
to “forget” to look both ways before i cross
the street is as much a     bad habit of mine
as the tendency to     bleed   for people who
don’t           deserve         my             wounds.

i never thought i’d make it to my 18th birthday.

the real purpose of changing my pillow cases so often
is not for       cleanliness                but because I figured
my     nightmares        were multiplying on my sheets.
i haven’t had as many lately         but I fear that they’ll
come back, so i keep my                             superstitions.
i cannot figure out a way to tell you how often     sleep
felt like i was                            practicing for my funeral.

if God embodies the     clock work theory, then    i am
the first     rough draft                         of a masterpiece,
the intention was supposed to be                        poetry,
but instead I leave my   love              on ***** windows
and use   stolen    ink to                                 write down
all      of              my                                    bad intentions.

does this confession count if i address my diary to a deity?

if God is an                  artist
He must be          frustrated    
with His                 creations—
screaming in the       echoes
of                  space         time,

“when will she learn that
   breaking every pen will
   only stain her own hands?”

I sit here
and try to figure out
what the next thing I am going to say is
i don’t know if it is the history
or I don’t know if its the signs from the roosevelts
being who they were
making decisions
and I don’t know where all this capitalist conundrum comes from
but I’m obsessed with beauty
and the way it works
I like to study it
and understand my figures
and understand my neighbors
and I am emotionally drained from work
but I am compelled
to continue doing what I do
and there will be things
that come and go
and make measures clear
and work in tandem with the fixtures overhead
and recite lines with the best who were out on a wing
and make love to circus freaks visiting their own visions
and liking the way leo works between films
and destroying art when it is ironic to do so
oh jeeze the way these things work
and they

are

just

broke

and

happy