Sometimes,
when you pour shaken up soda too quickly,
the foam grows,
goes up and up,
and you’re left staring at the glass
in hopes that it doesn’t fizz over,
only to stop right when it reaches the brim.

There’s times he feels like that,
like there’s something building up in his chest
and at the very tips of his fingers, threatening to make a mess and spill over.

But then the buzz dies down,
him emptying the glass
with a light chest and steady hands.

Until,
with time,
it happens all over again,
like an itch he can never scratch away.

He takes and takes,
keeps it all in
and never says a word.

He's afraid one day
the foam will grow one inch too many,
and the glass will overflow.

For now,
he lets the foam be,
and dreams of the day his glass doesn't fizz over
'cause he took a sip
before it was too late.

Raindrops tap against my window,
a steady rhythm
that lulls me to restlessness,
'cause the rain is my only friend,
and what a pity it would be
to miss what she has to say.

So I lay awake
while I let my friend pour rivers,
soddening the streets
with a swash of release,
and how I wish I could, too,
make a downpour so heavy,
a whirring so liberating,
because tears prove to be
far less effective.

write a poem to the moon,
she is lonely and dark,
tell her you'll miss her
when daylight comes around,
even if you'll play under the sun,
and that you can't wait
to bask in her light,
even if you both know
it's never been hers,
'cause it's all about the illusion
of being loved and loving back,
so write the moon a poem
with the sun in mind.

Sometimes it all feels like I'm listening to a foreigner talk in an unrecognizable language.
Every sentence seems like an entirely too long word, syllables merging together and making me unable to tell where each one begins and ends. I can only make out the bigger picture, the anger behind their tone or the eagerness in their face, but it still means listening intently to what might as well be nonsense.
It’s talking and not being understood. It’s trying to make sense of something I can’t wrap my head around. It’s being a foreigner in my own house.

there's a calendar
on my bedroom wall.
pages gone yellow,
its corners turn to sand
if you pull too hard
or look at it long enough.
there's no sticky notes,
no hurried scrawls,
not since long ago.
i merely cross out the days
with a wavering hand,
the elephant in my chest
easing with each passing day.
there will be new notes,
new scrawls,
new things to come,
days won't be crossed out
no more.
but not just yet,
not for today.
for now,
i let the corners
turn to sand
and draw a cross
with unsteady hands.

you're still the only thing in mind
during my early mornings and late nights,
and i dread the moment i finally get over you,
because i don't quite know who i am
without you constantly in my thoughts

are you sleeping fine?
is your mum alright?
are you happy by his side?
do you think of me every night?

i never meant to use you,
but i also never meant to love you,
and i'm sure you never meant to hurt me,
but we can't live off intentions,
just as i can't live feeling vacant