when i was little,
i cried because i wanted It.

It being the crisp sound of fulfillment
that keeps the black hole in the middle of my body quite.
i wanted, i needed It.
sometimes the black hole
would turn red as lava
and it would feel like a volcano
wanting to erupt
but the thing is,
it doesn't have anything to force out.
and i do not like the feeling.

i woke up today
and my mind was a shade of blue.
i don't quite remember
drinking 10 bottles of anesthesia
to feel this pale.
every crack on the pavement
looks like a long razorblade
that would cut my foot if i step on it.
here comes the habit of right first then left,
counting the leaves of my neighbor's bush,
and the amount of C's i swallow
because everything should be even.
2,4,6,8
only that to relieve the ache
because you are what you eat
and who wants to be odd?

there in my bed,
i wonder if the rain is infused with anesthetics
and the black hole erupting
is the only pain i am feeling.
and i like the feeling.

now im older,
i cried because i do not want It.

Love is a foreign thing for me. It is a language that I am yet to hear and learn but I know that once I get my hands on its words, I will write about your face.

I woke up today with a smile that is triggered by the memory of your smile and hands that drops everything because all it yearns to touch is your skin. Every food becomes unappetizing because I've developed a stomach that rejects edible things and it only wants to be filled by the butterflies that you bring. And last time I wrote, I wrote about wishing my words and lines were aligned but suddenly, I don't know how it may be, but I feel enough. And that is a foreign thing for me.

Love promised to grab me by the hand and travel to France where it will ask me out to dance. It promised to fill my soul with Italy's chaotic tranquility. It promised to fill my mind with Greece's ease. It promised to love me in Germany tirelessly. And it promised to take me to Spain and take away every bit of my pain.

Love may be a foreign thing for me but I feel like I've known your soul since forever.

i don't like myself
the way i look, the way i think
the way i was made,
i don't like it.
i wish i wasn't lazy
so i could make this poem more appealing
i wish i could conjure metaphors
and poetry would come bursting naturally out of me.
i wish i could reach that cupboard
without standing on my toes.
i wish i could be one with my words
and i could write about the way i feel.
i wish i wasn't so dependent
on people's praises
and i wish that statistics wasn't my only form of self-validation.
i'm always waiting for the day
where i'll wake up living the life
i dreamed about last night.
i wish my body was just like theirs
you can say that my body is unique
but i don't care
i don't want unique, i want pretty.
i wish i could pull a poker-face
without being self-conscious of what i look like.
i wish i could walk without
thinking that i was the center of the universe
that all eyes are cameras pointed at me
waiting for me to stumble & fall.
i wish i didn't have to delete
the past attempts of composing this poem again and again.
i wish the voices in my head isn't my lullaby and my alarm clock.
i wish i didn't fear falling down the reject hole
i wish art would radiate outside my skin
i wish i don't beat myself
for every time i restart this poem
and i hope after this last line,
i never have to.

i never knew cold was a color
until i saw your eyes
a pair of globes that once
displayed my home
but now they look like foreign planets
and i dont know you anymore.

we chant that winter is coming
every night in front of the tv
but i was so stupid to realize that that was a subliminal message
for the emptiness that you'll soon offer me.
you said you're with me every step of the way
but why are you taking the opposing path?
you always spilled flowers
out of your mouth
but lately all you ever grow
are mold & bugs
and i just dont know you anymore.

and i'll slip & press
the flowers that you gave me
into the notebook infused with poems you caused
then i'm gonna hold on
to every bit of you
that i still have.

and here we are again
on this page of a book called dreams.
as the moon & the city becomes our lightbulb
and the end of your cigarrette burning
like how time burns when we're together.
on our blood are paint produced by love
and we color these streets with the color of romance.
in that moment we understood
why people call life a jigsaw puzzle
because everything is falling into pieces
and here forms the picture we were always trying to build.
we understood why painters
mix different hues of a color to create a new hue of that color
because a hue that's a little bit different
wouldn't fit into this painting we call "right now."
the words and the world molds into one
and turning the page doesn't make sense.

but we cant help but roll the thought
of a burned out cigarrette being thrown to the ground
once it no longer gives warmth & light.
we cant help but lose the passion
and we'll brush a lighter shade of color
because something is missing & we cant seem to find it.
slowly by slowly puzzle pieces will be misplaced
and we wont understand this picture anymore.
one day, we'll push each other away
unbeknownst to you and me
then we'll be similar poles of a magnet
which will drift apart from each other.

i will be pained
and although i'll wish you'll miss me
but i hate seeing you hurt
so i'll just hurt myself with the mere thought that your mouth wont form my name again
and every memory of us that you'll remember
you'll wish to forget
while i am here holding on to every bit of you that i can grasp.

so whenever someone tells you they wont hurt you
or you'll say your love is greater than your intention of pain,
remember that your heart is a muscle the size of your fist.

months ago i left my home
because it was a tragedy.
the place where i never felt alone
starts to feel so crowded and heavy.

so i wrote my lines into your palm
and you took me everywhere you go.
walking to the middle of east & north,
unsure of where we would end up but we knew we currently stand
and that what truly matters, right?

there were times when i would miss my childhood bed
but you offered me your chest
and suddenly i refused to lay down somewhere other than you.
there were times when i would miss
them and their memories
but you make each moment of my past before you
unworthy of reminiscing for the lack of euphoria they hold.
and there would nights where i would miss being okay
because we are constantly moving
city to city in a world where i don't wanna stand in
but you, for just being you, make me glad to be alive.

and the stars hide at night
for they would always be set aside
because i will always favor your eyes.

but there were also nights
where you'd forget to hide the cracks of your sin.
and the light that escapes your broken lines
shines through the dark night, keeping me away from sleep.
there goes your light
shining from your interior
it was so bright as can be,
it blinded me from reality.
you were a hypnotic drug
that commands my feet to follow
you wherever you go.
i gave you my nights & rhymes
and all you gave me is toxic fumes.

you had me the moment your secondhand smoke entered my body
and you marked me the moment your
toxic-laced smoke clouded my air.

your heart and my heart
are now located at the ends of a line.
like intersecting lines,
we were once perfect at one point
but for some reason,
we had drifted from each other.
all i could stare it is the starry night
but i don't like stars,
i don't know where we are
and i don't know where to go
though, i'm glad as hell i wasn't where i used to be.
there are nights where you'll suddenly throw rocks at my window.
the moment you'll lay your head on my shoulders,
it will always feel like home.
you were home
and just like my previous one,
you are a tragedy.

i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.