When I was born,
they had to cut my mother.
I guess it says a lot about me.
I don't quite fit in.

somewhere along the sunsets
i have lost my motivation.
and the lines written
on the palm of my hands have faded
from holding unto warm coffee cups
and false hopes.
i never really liked the taste of coffee.
but it's the only thing that reminds me
of this tiny beating thing inside my chest.
the horizon has seen too many sunsets.
too many things that surrendered to star littered darkness.
yet here i am, with a tiny flicker of hope.
this would have to make do.

I wish for the emptiness,insecurities, and hatred to leave.
And leave nothing but their footprints,
their sound and their silence.
A little reminder that they were once here.
Like some of my friends.
I wish to thank them soon for leaving.
Because apparently,
I only have a few room in my heart-
for one thing or another.
And it could no longer be
for things
that doesnt wish to stay.

How do i end this?
How do you get out from something
that rattles your ribs almost every night,
and render your thoughts useless on the bathroom floor?
How far can one fall from grace?
How deep do cuts run?
How do you crawl out of something
that you've carried alone for so long
it almost feels like a second skin?
How many nights should I still spend
on writing letters that burn my hands?
How do you forget ?


- how do you go on?

Tell everyone everywhere,
The things i used to think at night,
The shallow and the hollow,
Rest deep inside my mind,

The longer I dwell, the harder I stare,
The abyss becomes a puddle,
My mind which used to be an ocean,
Can now never reach the shore.