Since when did I transition from gaining keen
awareness of this hazy infatuation boiling
within me then realizing, hardly admitting, that
I'm so deep into a world where everything I
know already exists, prominently so, but your
entire existence seems to be the only thing that matters.

You're not the only thing that matters, I know,
I know, but at this age, at this point in time, every
single star is guiding me to a path directed to you,
and I'll tell myself, who am I to resist such delicious
reverence, who do I assume to be if not but to follow
my heart for once and never mind the logic, the
metaphysics, the rationality—who ******* cares about
consequences when you made me feel as though I
can go against all Gods and the angels are behind me
cheering.

But you're not the only thing that matters, I'll scream, I'll
thrash, I'll tell myself over and over and over again, because
it seems that's what you're whispering inside your head while
you're kissing her to forget the taste of my name.

You're not the only thing that matters, and I had to learn
that the hard way. I was reckless and unwavering,
plunging to a world of complete madness, convinced
that I was crazy enough—crazy for you, to get through.
I lost sight of who I am, and the universe was unforgiving
towards fools who dare to forget.

You're not the only thing that matters. I just wish you're mine.

i held the knife and so
every blood splatters and tear stains and nail marks
are nothing compared to the glaringly big wounds
i stabbed and twisted open, hoping it'll bear out the truth

but it held no significance now
because while i was occupied by the
pain i inflicted on myself, i forgot that
you love to carelessly run around
with sharp scissors in your hands

I'm reverting back to old bad habits of cooping myself inside my room, reading dark themed fictions to match my mood, clenching fists and breathing as shallow as the air surrounding me seems to be, wondering why gravity seems to be heavier on my back against the sheets. I have used up most of my vocabulary to describe this sensation, my battered journal filled with ripped pages and blotted ink can surely attest to that, I'm running out of words, I'm running out of desperation to make better use of my time but there seems to be nothing, no words, no use, and everything is inside the whirlwind of my thoughts, each one slapping me back to reality, fantasy, reality, fantasy, there's nothing real, there's no fairytale here, and I can only rush this out so it may seem like I know what I'm writing and I hope it appears as if the words are just flowing loose like a tranquil river who knows where they are from and where they are going, but I'm nothing like a easy-going stream of water, I'm a hurricane and a volcano and a storm, a full-blown natural disaster trying its best to play it cool, and to be honest I've never been so at loss with what to say and so at loss at what to do

--L.m.

you and i were always just one second window glance away and i avert my eyes too fast and you always pretend you didn't see me. later on you'll tell your friends like I will tell mine that we saw each other, then they'll ask what we talked about and we'll always laugh it off with a wave of a hand we didn't share when our eyes met. At night, we'll toss and we'll turn and that one second glance will play like a broken record inside our heads, stopping us from sleeping, weighing down our stomachs as the heaviness of regret and disappointment settle in. "I wish I was braver," you sigh to yourself. "I wish I said Hi," I whispered against the sheet. Then we'll try to sleep but we won't until the clock blares 4am. We'll wake up groggy, unsettled, wishing that simple, unimportant one second window glance wasn't just a fleeting moment neither of us anticipated would gnaw us inside out. But it does and it's there and the eyes of the other will continue to be engraved inside our memory, sadly, as only a memory.

The problem lies with me
     because it's either I don't know when to stop
     or i choose to let go at the exact moment
                        you hope I'd stay

I hope I learn that I am not as invincible
as I think and that I am not the only one
hurting, God, i keep wondering why the
pain never stops, but did i ever even pause
and look away at my blood-filled hands,
stop feeling disgusted by the mere sight of
        hot, red trails dripping against my skin
        when not even 2 meters beside me is
               the knife that i used to stab, stab,
               stab you in the back?

dear god i am a, i am a
   -- i tried to stop feeling so sorry
      for myself but im drowning and trembling
      still and everything's a ******* mess but
      yet, but yet, yet, i gasped
           you're still there
           with your hand wide open, patient,
           kind, still waiting for me to accept it

           but i pushed you away, called you names,
           making me want to claw my skin with
           the fingers that burned against yours and
           forced me to bruise my lips that called
           you lies
  
  i'm so sorry i am a mess
  when you thought i was the best

maybe im not as useless
as I think I am

I mean, why else
would you use me, right?

I've been told I'm an open book,
   predictable and eye-catching
but there are parts of me that
has once been dirtied by the hands
of my past
      that i can't let go of
      and that it is committed on following me
I fold these pages of me away,
still allowing people to read my story

hiding behind metaphors
and deep, romanticized poems and journals
just so at least you can imagine
     how i feel
     when I'm drinking sadness
     when I'm choked by anxiety
     when I'm strangled by fear
without having to know
the actual story I'm not ready
to share, just yet