The overwhelming burden of the lover, unloved
who stood ignorantly before digitus paternae dexterae,
the breath of God, the breath into the first man and life--
--he remains untouched, unmoved.
Deaf to the peal of even the sweetest bell.

He who failed to gently crest the curve of
a woman's sweet breast, the warm hollow of her hip,
the valley of her spine, the cusp of her lips;
with a heavy, innocent hand.
He whose love could crush rib and lung,
not with body, but with clumsy word.
She inhales sharply ******* for air.

A weak man who waits, albeit patiently,
for his worries to resolve themselves--
a dead white headstone, somber and unyielding.
She, the pulsing ember, could not thrive on such rotten wood.

It has been months since I picked up the courage to spill my thoughts
but it's not like I haven't thought about coming back
I keep telling myself that my passion for writing has died
and like every dead things, they were never made to come back to life
I wish I could look back on the words I dedicated if I hadn't erase them
the truth is I have never regret all the things I wrote about you
but like every dead things, they were meant to come back and haunt.

What's unbearable was the incoherency that my mind fell into
over time, I stopped feeling altogether
I wasn't crazy, I wasn't sad, I wasn't angry either
sometimes I remember the earlier days and felt better
sometimes I think about the good memories and felt hopeless
the truth is I have never been this scared in a long time
and the fear swallowed me whole.

Trust me when I say the only thing I'm good at is lying
I went on for months denying what was stirring in my chest
I went on even longer thinking that I was absolutely fine
I learnt that you never really know how good you are until you're not
and the only thing I'm good at is crumbling to my feet
the truth is I have never had to hold my own bandages
but in the end, it's the only thing holding me.

I thought about all the other things I've loved before you
but everything I do reminds me of how hollow I am
I go through everyday wishing I was a ghost that would trail your every shadow
maybe it would be more fair if you felt the emptiness I've become
but even then I knew it's hard to haunt when you don't even care
the truth is I have never thought we would end up like this;
I forgot we weren't a fairytale.

I want to tell you not to make my mistake.
I want to tell you not to build walls. You pick up brick by brick, hiding yourself in the structure you've created. You feel safe until you realize you are left alone, trapped in the cage you built to be a home, standing in darkness and suffocating among walls that won't reach out to help you.
I want to tell you I understand.
I want to tell you that I often draw up blueprints for my home. When the world gets too close to me, I sketch tall ceilings above strong walls. I plan elaborate architecture. I sketch large windows that allow for sun-drenched rooms and put details on tall towers until I have a magnificent mansion, knowing all along that it's just a clever disguise for the cage I must never let myself enter. Once you go in, it's very hard to break down the walls.
I want to tell you to give up your bricks.
I want to tell you that you will feel better when you let them go. When things are hard, your hands will twitch until you grab your drafting pen, you'll still set out sheets of paper and start thinking about your walls, but you'll feel better knowing you're only making plans. I know the bricks are heavy, but you don't have to move them alone. I want to tell you to ask for help.
I want to tell you to let Him carry them away.
I want to tell you to let them go.
I want to tell you to stop pretending.
I want to tell you everything will be okay.
I hope you can hear me through your walls.
I don't think you can.

How ironic it is
That we mutilate this earth
With the very substances
That bind it.

And how humorous we are
That we think
We can save ourselves
From us.

Though you are cold,
(and I try my best to warm you)
your arms are where I melt.

the ghost of you left bruises
down my spine and on my left hip
and I wake up feeling the pain from
the emptiness in my bed

smiling, you signed your name
in sharpie on my skin
but that ink can never be permanent
and neither were you

your smile sunk its teeth into my brain
and I can’t get them out
I think about you in that way all the time,
as hard, little pieces of the bigger picture,
embedded in different parts of my memory
that appear when they please

I feel your arms around me before sleep hits me
I see your smile when you tell me good news
I hear your aching heart beating when you’re upset

these are the things embedded in my brain like teeth
the smile you buried in my memories

I’m ******* terrified

every piece of you I find in my life is just a small remnant of you
but every piece of you embedded in my skin, my hair, my personality
leaves a hole when you take it away

you’re quickly replacing my framework,
filling my bones with your mannerisms and laughter and niceties
and breathing life into me so that just that smile can warm every inch of me

but what happens when you’re gone?
what happens when your laughter leaves and bitterness breaks in and rips holes in the whole person you made me?
when sorrow pours into the gaps, do I suddenly sink and drown under its weight?
does it attack what’s left of me?
do I crumble until I am two inches tall, the person I was before you built me up?

there are pieces of you embedded in my memories that will leave holes when they’re gone
I try not to think of all the ways I will try and fail to replace them
even stitches leave scars

I am ******* terrified