every night i get a visit from a loud knock on my bedroom door,
and a screeching voice that echoes through the walls,
with shadows and tracks of wreckage.

i have gotten used to fighting my own demons
but i grew tired after a long while,
my bones were fractured, my spirit, exhausted.

there used to be lullabies playing in the halls
of this place i called home, until i started feeling a knot in my stomach
each time i utter the word. home.

i have erased the memories written on the bricks,
and the sounds the floorboards make,
but they still reek of the ghosts i’ve been trying to escape.

If I were to write about you,

I wouldn’t say how much I like your jokes,
I would rather say how your face lights up a little when you see me laugh.

I wouldn’t say how quiet you are when the sun rises because you’re aware of my presence,
I’d rather say how you respect my need and appreciation for peaceful mornings.

I wouldn’t say how warm your hand feels when you touch mine,
I’d rather say how I see you try to hold back a goofy smile when you gently reach for my hand.

I wouldn’t say how much I treasure all the songs we dance to,
I’d rather say how you always dance with me when I need it and it doesn’t matter that you think you always mess up a few steps because we’d laugh about it and I’d feel a little better.

I wouldn’t say how I like it when you listen to all my stories and say all the right things at the right times,
I’d rather say how much you remember all of them and how much you know that there will always be more.

I wouldn’t say how much I appreciate your genuinely kind words or your straightforward opinions when you tell me what I need to hear,
I’d rather say how much you accept and take note of my words as well.

If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about how you make me feel,
I’d simply write about the way you just are.

If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about the things I like about you
for if I were to write about you,
I would write about...you.

Striped carnation (refusal):
     I have long since discovered that the fires
     in me were never going away.
     The heaviness, from refusal
     to spit the ashes.

Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):
     I thought you put out the fire last night
     but you weren’t there.

Willow herb (pretension):
     How long have you been gone?
     I told myself as many lies as I could handle
     but none of them ever worked.

Scabiosa (unfortunate love):
     We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–
     tell me again what we’ve become:
     trembling hands,
     trying not to spill blood on what was left.

You, my dear, are not the sun.
I will not label you as something
that I need in order to survive;

You are not here to make me grow;
I can build castles inside me on my own--
I do not need you in order to rise.

The moon has always been up there,
trying to watch over our lonely souls
and I hear its response through the night's soothing sighs.

And you are not the moon, no,
you do not deserve such a title.
You are not a star,

You are not as wonderful as the galaxies above
and you most definitely are not the universe,
composed of all things strange and lovely.

You, I repeat, are not the sun.
I will not grant you the permission
to help me live.

And I wish I had known that earlier.

Dear, I haven't told you
the many times I've wished
to capture the stars above

to have something in my hands
that twinkle more than your eyes do

For I was blinded,
and I wanted to forget.

To forget how you lit up every
piece inside of me
and left with an agonizing
heat that started a fire in my lungs

I tried to breathe you out
but your entirety has consumed
whatever monsters I had.

Now, you’ve replaced all of them – the monsters.

There are silent screams running through my veins
with heavy sighs trying to break my bones;

We let out cold whispers and icy breaths
as we tried to look for reasons

to keep our words,
to save us from slicing our own throats

but memories of shrieking and shattering glass
still linger inside me; and I realized things can’t be unseen

I don’t know which is worse—
I tried to abolish the thoughts

but your bloodstained hands still haunt me.

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

I've got burning desires
to rip my heart out
for I can no longer
form phrases that
you'd bother to read

I've scratched a thousand
words before for the way
I wrote them--
unsatisfying

Tell me that my ink and pen
are worth touching the paper,
scribbling my chaotic thoughts

For these words can no longer stand
the fires inside my head

Little girl, little girl,
crying in the middle of the night
as she tries to escape
from what's inside her mind.

Monsters clinging, clutching
her soul, dragging
memories she longed
to forget

And a girl so lost
a long  time ago
that no one searched
for her,

So perhaps
She's lost her mind,
but I think she's
just lost inside

You never
told me
you were
a ghost,
Dear,
creeping into
my mind
at night.