just as you don't
have to remind the sun to shine
and the flowers to bloom,
when you ask me to love you,
it already goes without saying


*—L.m.

there are days when my mind insists it's right and i'm foolish enough to trust it, moments when my throat feels itchy and clogged, fingers tangled in anxiousness and eyes bloodshot, nights i forget sleep is a necessity not a choice. I've always tried to fight it, an internal battle between me and my thoughts where none of us are ready to raise the flag but both know are in need of saving. "It's all in the mind," I've heard it plenty of times that I no longer flinch when directed by it. And I do think it's just my mind. But tell me: what exactly have i done that it would want to betray me like this?

I have yet to call myself
my own again

a figure skinny-dipping in
the dark, ready to drown herself with
every chance she gets then pushing
herself out of the water to taste air,
thoughts too toxic for her own good
yet she never hesitates to consume
more and more
she twists herself in whirlwind romances,
covered in glitter, sunshine smiles and songs
she'll laugh, she'll cry, then tomorrow night
she'll say goodbye, as if she's always ready,
always attempting, always striving to go,
but then she'll shiver, she'll shrivel,
haunted by loneliness, fearing isolation,
so she'll stay, knees numb and frozen.
Up until she yet again craves
another midnight swim.

I didn't even felt
your touch nor did
my heart mimic drumbeats
when you've held me down
but i certainly
froze and burned
when you have withdrawn

"You never know what
you've got until it's gone."

You've left
and suddenly I love you

it wasn't writer's block, i decided,
not even my lack of ideas can
steer me away from producing
something, anything
my skill to make sense
of everything through written texts
that even the most discombobulating
thoughts and emotions and anxiety
has almost never failed to be presented
out for me, like my fingers
have their minds of their own

and i'm terrified that if i write
it'll make it jarringly clear
that what i felt
three years ago
are resurfacing again,
just when I finally thought I'm okay

but my god,
my fingers
just can't stop writing

i have already embraced
that sadness lives somewhere
in my heart that often crashes in
to say hello or it'll fade away in broken
beats of "I'll be back soon."
and i've already touched
my dried up skin as it cracked due to apathy,  dehydrated from life and energy,
but i've yet to dare look
at my ghost, the one with
the happy sunshine times
and perfect family and wasted wishes
without fear of miracles dying,
the one who didn't know what it's like
to be one step away from breaking down
and who isn't practicing how to breathe
while standing on the shore,
the one who still stared at stars
instead of looking down at her shoes,
the one who has her head in the clouds
and her thoughts won't write suicide notes

i always say i don't want
to go back to the nightmare-filled past
but i secretly still hope
everything right now is just a dream

aren't we all
in motion sickness
sandwiched between
unforgiving bad decisions
(though good luck charms
are laced around our necks),
a broken compass and
unnecessary luggage
in this journey through
the unaligned paths of stars
where all we seem to do
is heave broken glass
and exhale "i'm okay."

we'll die maneuvering
our way in this crooked,
manic life
and somehow live
to tell the tale
that it's been magical

i believe despite the dirt
in our hands,
we are not here for nothing