We create
new histories everyday,
but we also
create
new atrocities everyday.
At least
that’s what you
indirectly told me when
I was stuck in between
the convergence of
the black hole sun.

To be frank,
once in a while I
would expect you
to wonder who actually
I am
and I would also
wait for
you to ask
me things
in order to get
to know me better.
But
you
never
did.
Let alone to remember that we once met years ago.
I guess I expected too much.

(([Lowkey] I honestly want you to wonder, “who’s this mysterious girl-next-door who recently had just moved in?” at least once.))

((Maybe one day you will. Maybe one day you will wonder about me and approach me and ask me stuff. At the time when it’s too late and I don’t care about you anymore.))

The convoluted
conundrum that
I must solve here
is about how
some people want
peace and justice
so bad but they
do the opposite of
what they’re supposed
to do in order
to reach those
two things.
I guess it made me
conclude,
maybe peace
has never really
existed after all.
Peace is probably
just a delusional
misconception
construed by
idealists who
still have glimpses
of hope.
And I am not
one of those
idealists.

I am
that one kid
who has always
wanted to
run away to
somewhere unreachable
by everyone
I know
or to dissolve
all the remaining
memories I
have.

(I’m lying if I say I don’t want you to love me. I’m lying if I say I’m alright this way. I’m lying if I say I’m fine with not running away. I’m lying if I say I don’t want to resurrect into a whole new person and create a whole new world with a whole new surrounding.)

The only time
I thought you
cared was
years ago
when we were still
strangers
(I think we still are)
and we sat
by the creek that time;
you told me
the only thing that
mattered;
the only thing
that I would forever remember;
deep in my
earnest
mind.

“All those hegemonies and authoritative institutions, I think you don’t need them. They’d hurt you even more. You don’t need to go to that communal institution called school, nor to conform to the heinous dogmas of the uncultured swines around you — they’d keep making you feel like a misfit who doesn’t matter. And I don’t want you to feel that way. When those elderly people told you that you’ll be going nowhere if you don’t listen to them; don’t listen to them for they’re off playing God. I want you to
listen to
nothing and
no one
but your
stances.
I’ll look after
you someday
and make sure
you don’t get
hurt
even if
preventing you
from getting hurt
involves
death to
both of us.”

For the love of God,
we were s t r a n g e r s
when you said that to me.

Now you still don’t get it why do I still love you that profoundly
—and why deep down I wish you loved me?

but I'm a **** good worker
at being so unhappy
it takes a lot
to be this naive
I've had to turn my back
on so, so many
**** red flags
and paint the frown
and fill the cup
and empty my mouth
like I empty my stomach
all at once
and walk home alone
and tell my mom it's fine
when I sound bad on the phone
because it's getting bad and I'm alone
and I've had to do so much
to keep my blind optimism
as visionless as ever
I've had to smell my shirt
since it had your scent
pretend you're there
for more than my framework
for more than that
turn my head
when I know you aren't
when I know you're not
when I walk home alone
after we've touched
and I just feel
that I deserve this
to be recognized
as the most hopeless
neurotic,
unconscious
**** good worker

Home is not a place for me
It's not where I have grown
Home is waiting patiently,
somewhere yet unknown

what
hail storm
dwells
inside
your soul
when
the heart
is truly cold

she's been staring at blank pages
tapping her pencil against the desk
shaking her foot
she's been staring at blank pages
lost for inspiration.

she's started to cry
late at night
sometimes in the day
she's got a weight on her chest
she overwhelmed with emotions.

She's been filling up those blank pages
pencil swishing back and forth
paintings
drawings
poems
stories
each tear drop
a new chapter
every sniffle
a stroke of the brush

overjoyed to produce lovely work
dying from the pain
loathing the necessity
that artists
need to be miserable
in some way
or another
to be great

she wakes early to plot the day
makes the bed where he once laid
she works out to stay trim
curls her hair so she's proper and prim
she cleans the living room
the kitchen
the bedroom
the bath
the halls
the windows
the tables
the floor
she washes and folds the laundry
and puts away the dishes with a clatter
overwhelmed with quandary
pretending the latter doesn't matter
only focused on having dinner ready
when he steps through the door steady
and she does it all
yes she does it all
with a frown on her mouth
and a furrow on her brow
yes she's going mad as a hatter
perfect makeup
mixing batter
what's for dinner
new lingerie
makes her look thinner
she's got to please the man
she's got to lick his hand
petrified things will fall apart
if she doesn't play her part
she's losing who she is
afraid to be a Ms.
all day long
she thinks of pleasing him
humming a caged bird's song
for she does this all desperately
desperately desperately
running from the candle *****
her love just doesn't seem enough
doing all she can
to keep this man
pretending she still has an identity
and that she's not just a mechanical thing
that she's more than just
the desperate housewife.

Last time our lips touched-
our bodies entwined-
you felt,
to me,
a stranger.

I sit,
you sleep
hours passed,
I have not the heart
to sleep next to you.

was it me
or you
that woke one morning
and changed the game?
I'm beginning to think
it was both
that said
that felt
'there is no passion here'

I
feel no burden
no guilt
for stolen kisses
and dinner dates
you
simply ignoring
barely notice
I still live
inches away
we
are not speaking
or laughing
or jibing
just existing
where the other
also happens to be existing
time
is ticking on
the alarm will ring
and neither of us
will have anything
to say.