it is cold seeping in my bones
and hot air on a summer's day
it is warm excitement and carefully calculated disinterest:
all at the same time

it is confusion,
joy and resignation,
mixed together in a melting ***
made of the last rays of hope filtering in

I like cracking the spines of books and smelling the mustiness in its pages. I like how the lines run down the leather binding when I bend it backwards. I like how it falls open to a certain page when I flip it open, highlighting my favourite passages.

It's like I shaped this book. This object here, was influenced by me. And if I'm not able to make a big impact in this world than at least I know that I've changed something from the creases left in the covers and wrinkles in the papers.

yesterday, I watched, as you fell apart
bit by bit,
emotions aching in the scars found on my ankles and your wrists
yesterday, I listened, when she told me that she had her mother's freckles,
and she closed her hand around the phantom grip of someone
who had already left
yesterday, I couldn't breathe, while I lay in bed,
thinking of people who didn't deserve all the hurt that they were feeling
yesterday, I was a useless friend
who couldn't be there
for anyone because I
wasn't strong enough

today, you texted me
saying that you're no longer clean
and I broke inside
because I was so afraid that one day
the hospital halls you walked the other day
would become the halls that I would walk
if you let the pain consume you

I asked you to be strong
I asked you to promise me to never
make my nightmare come true
but you couldn't.

i was frozen in fear that i had broken your trust, and that the number of times i said sorry wouldn't be enough even though you said it was okay

and it’s on nights like these when hope seems futile, when the air seems heavy and the weight of everything sits on me like I can’t breathe without imploding. when I walked alone in the dark and the warm yellow glow from the street lamps illuminated my every step and I took solace in the little lizard staring at me from its perch on the wall. my movements become sluggish and all of a sudden I seem to lose patience and passion for everything because there’s absolutely nothing I can do about things that are set for failure, and the night air seems sticky with apprehension and my fingers itch to dig into something. to scratch something out with permanence to see actual, solid results.

and it’s on nights like these when I find my thoughts drifting into darker streets, with every doubt clouding my path. when even friends and happy memories seem more like distant street lamps that manage to cast more shadows than bring light. when I find solace in being anonymous in crowds, bearing the curious stares of people who will never know me. on nights like these, the wind blows hot and cold at the same time, and I stare at regrets carved into skin. and all of a sudden, I find myself adding on to a marred canvas and it’s infinitely more comforting and stuffed full of guilt at the same time.

and it’s on nights like these, when I just crawl into bed quietly and end the day with a whimper.

my nose tastes sour
and my tears feel hot
when will i
stop carving
reassurance
into my
skin?