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 Oct 2013 iris tan swee ling
emma
i remember crying
when my mum's coat
smelled of cigarette smoke
because i didn't want her to die

i remember not getting out of bed
the morning after that one boy
kissed someone else
because i wanted to be her

i remember cutting my skin
when i realised
they all left me
because i needed them

i remember feeling disgusted
when i was the one to smoke
and kiss someone else and leave
all because i was so broken

and you should know i'm sorry
and i hope you don't cry
i hope you get out of bed
i hope your skin is whole
i know you love me and i'm sorry i made it so difficult. remember that one night where you held me and tried to talk me out of destroying myself? yet i walked away, smoked all the cigarettes i was offered in less than 30 minutes, kissed someone else even though you've been in love with me since i was 10 and left you. and after that i realised how messed up my life was, and i changed it completely.  i'm recovering now. i haven't smoked ever since that night, i wouldn't dare to touch my skin with anything sharp, i'm not depressed and i'm not leaving anyone who needs me. you made me realise that i deserved to do better, and i'm sorry if i hurt you in my way of figuring out life. but i'm doing much better now and i'm very thankful to have a silly little boy like you, who can't stop loving me no matter how much **** i get myself into. and i'm very sorry that i can't make my heart feel something it won't, because you deserve for someone to care as much as you cared for me that night. thank you and i'm sorry.
She walks on water as the stars reflect
their shining brightness only lightening
her paradisiacal face and unclothed body
beauty may have it's layers, hers always
more than skin deep in the selfless benevolence she
gives forth in every interaction she herself
engages herself within,

In my years of wandering, I have never found
a soul I feel so compelled toward, frightening even
myself with my augmenting attachment and need
to hear her voice, feel her soul, listen to her heartbeat
to see her smile, and know her stories and tales from
the days that passed between the time we last spoke
my heart skipping beats,

An internal battle brings forth, an ever forging narrative
of realistic practicalities and the contrasting drifting
dream lands, entwined with fantasy and longing,
fears and hearts, left on the line, of a blurring demise
restore my heart, set me free, allow me to love,
let me
be
hers.

© Sia Jane
---

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.
you ******, and i flew
why did you leave without warning
irreparable, i
shut the world out
and so we have not spoken
for three hundred and sixty-five days
how are you,
and how
did we end up like this
i cannot forgive you
yet i cannot forget
the days spent on cloud nine
nor the affliction when I am withdrawn from you
maybe, just maybe
turn back the time
and let me do it all over again
let hatred be lost, let agony be abandoned
and let me do what I should have done
three hundred and sixty-five days ago
re: a friend that I never thought I would lose
you have the privilege
of not having had experienced
the love you'd nurtured
being ripped from your arms
and throat
and chest,
until you became a cavity.
Two hands
Longing for each other's warmth
Searching for one another
In the darkness

Their fingers tremble
Finding comfort in their suffering
They inch a tiny bit closer
Such a simple thing meant so much more

Their hands finally become one
The darkness became weary
Their interlocked bones gave their hearts a place to rest
When pain and fear had turned and left
This is very messy and I am very sad
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