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My skin misses yours
and your scent which smelled of your father’s cheaply Caucasian cigarettes, the only thing I could smell everytime you envelop me with your arms every starry midnight of October. I meant to tell you that you were slightly wrong about me enjoying the cold hard greensward in our neighborhood or of the nights when we drove city by city while listening to a The 1975 song, because the truth, I was more enjoying your company.
But I hate you so much. I hate your tricky innocence, your child-like laugh, your cheaply cut thick hair, your pathetic aspiration to become a well-known contemporary artist on Deviantart and move to another country, and the smell of your sweat—the memory of it.
I also hate the pact we made, that we would only talk of nonsense like how there are so many books in the world but too little time to read them all in a lifetime. Why wasn’t there a time we talked about us two? I tried to decode things like when the night when you told me I was fun to be with and you love seeing my forehead furrowed everytime you mess with me, but it came out a mantrap in the guise of words. I hate you for telling those words.
Yes, my eyes may miss the sight of your warm smile.
But I’d love to not see you again.
Your cold face.
Your reddish cracked thick lips.
Your green hoodie.
I’m slowly falling in love with a boy who I know will never love me back.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
to the moon and back,
you promised a word
that gave butterflies in my stomach.
we formed laughters
through the pit of our tongues.
we talked lines
like of Shakespeare's.
and drew kisses
along the flowers of summer.

to the moon and back,
you promised a word
but you swallowed it whole
like days of winter
that **** every petal,
bald every tree,
and hide the moon.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
you hear his words
like a sugar in your ears.
you feel his promises
like honey beneath your skin.
but little do you know,
lies are on the tip of his lips
like salt
you think of as water,
like raw coffee
that melts in his mouth.
— suddenly you are ashamed of trusting the sugar that turned into salt.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
i used to fear
the space under my bed
how there might be
a monster hungry
for my brain.
now, it's the void
in my brain that i fear
for the monster
already moved in there.
Dave Legalisa May 2019
sometimes are flowers
that grow in variety of colors,
dance among the bees
and bloom among the trees.
but most of the time,
they are gunshots
we often hear from a mouth
of a person who seeks power
over a vulnerable soul.
— be careful with your words
Dave Legalisa May 2019
they frighten me
like weapons.
like fire.
like ice.
they can be anything
you want them to be.
you can spit them out
in a one clap
but they form big
among the beat of a heart.
they can be knives today
but who knows?
maybe tomorrow
they are a gun placed
beside your skull
with a trigger
waiting to be pulled
and a bullet to be shot.
— be careful with your words
Dave Legalisa May 2019
i've only known two colors in my life:
grey, like a cloud that forms after a strong dive of a huge bomb
and red, like the blood that streams after a loud gunshot.
i've been reading novels set during world war ii
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