spreading myself thin
giving away pieces of me
feels too late to quit
but I can hardly breathe

deep inside
it's antagonizing

I know
I keep doing this **** to myself
can blame no one else
for my faults

I keep on giving
more than what's deserved
an impulsive decision
putting other people first

giving in
to the worst
giving in
giving all for nothing

I'm stronger than you think, you know.

I will bloom despite the snow.

one night, when the stars had burned all their fire
away and the air had turned to thick, strangling
molasses, i became curious about anatomy.
with a handful of pens—dripping ink like
butterflies stabbed through, stopped and static—
i picked apart the ghost-bodies sitting in the corners
of my room. in depression i found my heart, rotted.
in the chambers of anxiety’s unease i found my lungs.
between them both, held in the gaps between their
shaky bones, messily melding their shivering hands and
rattling cave-chests, i found shredded shards of my mind,
so darkened and charred i could hardly make them out to be
my own, remnants of something that once glowed.
the sky weighted down, the blanket of clouds shifting
into trapping echoes of iron and steel, and the desolate,
dust-buried rooms of my skull sung, littered with the
dregs of light—hungry and hollow. the night was quiet,
deeper than all the world’s caves, the roof of stars suddenly
suspended above the reach of the tallest tower. the moon
was absent, hiding from the sight of impromptu autopsy.
like amber, the air trapped the world, froze it in time—
scrambling insects stopped their struggle, gave in to
stillness. missing half my organs, i could not resuscitate
the sun.

Last night the cicadas sang
For us and summertime
Your eyes showed me
The truth in my lies
Your tongue is poetry
It leaves poetry in me

There’s a song that goes like
“I walk this empty street
On the boulevard of broken dreams”
And I always wonder if the singer ever stops feeling lonely
If they ever stop walking their road and go home to rest
And I, I want to go home
Home where, when you enter, you suddenly feel warmed and recharged with life
And I, I want to go home
But I don’t know where home is
Because nothing feels like home, really
And I’m tired or
More like exhausted
But not because I’ve walked too much
Or because I’ve worked a lot, no
I’m exhausted from living really
Holding too much hope when everything ever is lost and hopeless from the beginning
And I just always fail to see it
People say that things will get better
But how would they know, really?
People’ve never been in my shoes
They don’t know my story
Yet they talk as if they do
Even if I try to lay it all outside, there’s always something that cannot really go through
Something that stays unsaid or
Said but fairly misunderstood or
Understood but not quite comprehended or
Comprehended but taken as exaggeration
And people say that it’s not that bad really
They say that time heals everything
But I’ve never found it
The pharmacy that sales “time”
And I can’t inject it into my system
And wait for it to cure me
Sometimes I think that “time” is a magical flower
Like those described in children’s happy books
The flower is so exceptional and rare that three sons sail on a journey to find it
Each on different path, encountering adventures, fighting three-headed dragons, making friends, meeting mermaids
And the boys return home as men
But only the youngest son reveals the most awaited magic
At the end, the flower glows, the father is saved and the men get married to the women with golden hair
The book’s last page is painted with the magical red and gold flower at the center, glowing and sparkling
In the back, long in the distance is the father’s old but lovely house
The elderly man in front is surrounded by his sons who are holding the hands of the most beautiful princesses
And they are all smiling
Because they are at home
And there is no place like home
The book is closed and child is asleep

Sometimes I imagine that “time” is just a concept, created by the human brain
That “time” doesn’t exist and nothing ever moves forward
Like “time” is the illusion, we came up with, to ignore our pain
Maybe with the hope to forget about how misfit we feel
And I wish “time” could help me too
But “time” doesn’t erase scars, cut deep into the skin
Nor does it glue back broken parts, dissolved into the soil
“Time” can’t paint new paths to long lost roads, flooded with cold tears and hot blood
It can’t translate never spoken words, kept hidden underneath the screams of silence
It can’t build up a home with bricks made of depression and wood of fake smiles
“Time” can’t fill the emptiness inside a human’s heart with sharp blades
It can’t treat the numbing with mental disorders
“Time” is no remedy
It does not cure any problems
“Time” leaves them unattended, collecting dust, making us getting used to our pain, really

i wanna be the sun so bad
but this moon spoons
my dark spaces so v good