One moment, you’ll start to realize
how much their touch could melt your skin,

and how their words bled
with empty promises

but could fill your soul,
starving for security, trying to fix the cracks.

And there will be agony,
but you’ll mistake it all for love.

One moment you’ll see yourself in their eyes—
lifeless—buried in tragedies, unable to escape

and there, you’ll stay.
Not in their life, but in their eyes,

burning with catastrophe;
there will be flames, devouring your insides

and you will mistake gasoline for your patience

We are obsessed
with the idea of building homes
out of flesh and blood and veins,

which are those not solid enough
to get through hurricanes,
and tsunami tides that come crashing,

washing us away to the ocean.

I’ve once stumbled upon
a beautiful spot to build mine,
in which I felt secure in its arms

but storms were stronger than the walls
we’ve built, and not once did I stand
a chance to stop the flood.

My home crashed, and got tired of fighting
calamities, no matter how much I tried
to fix it, to rebuild everything.

My home crashed,
my home left.

Now, never build one inside something
that walks, and talks, and utters you promises
and grows a garden inside your soul

Never build yours inside something
too weak to battle against rain.

I write about abandoned homes,
and forgotten souls, and memories
that creep in the darkest corners of my mind;

I write about loneliness,
and broken promises,
and words carved on my skin,

I write about the bloodstains on the snow,
and the remains of a car crash,
and how the wind hums a sad song

I write about the wolf
who cries at night,
howling for the moon’s response,

I write about shattered windows,
about empty halls,
and places with the stench of alcohol and regret

I write about cracks on the walls
and shadows that scare
the hell out of people,

I write about how that boy’s father died,
how his mother left,
and how that girl took her own life.

You see, I only write about tragedies;

don’t make me write about you.

There will come a time when the night air
won’t send chills down my spine
for it will no longer whisper your name.

I will stop telling stories about you,
for the moon has grew tired of hearing them
and weariness is an awful thing to feel.

The stars would appear
brighter than your eyes,
and I would hear lullabies again.

The winds would be warm,
the seas won’t crash waves,
and I will no longer drown.

We have this habit of making homes
out of people who tend
to burn any moment.

And we keep collecting the ashes,
putting them in jars,
hoping to save what little remains.

We made ourselves believe that other people
are remedies; prescribing—injecting ourselves with drugs
that walk and talk and breathe

And I have long since realized that we have seas inside us,
and there are a thousand shipwrecks aching for freedom,
but we hold on to every damaged piece.

I hear voices somewhere inside my head
telling me that you are not worth writing about
but I wrote about you anyway

There was a fire in me and I feel your touch
igniting more flames, striking my heart,
wanting to explode

My thoughts were raging and everything was a blur,
shadows were dancing before me
but you were nowhere to be found

You are here, but you are not real
I craved to taste your words again,
to replace the aftertaste of what was burning

I chewed on the ashes,
searching for a tang of you, stinging, yet sweet
And I remember your promises,

They tasted like whiskey and tears,
like a drug, running through my veins,
and disappearing into an ocean of wounds and blood