what would be the last thing
you hear, you smell, you see?
you would probably not notice.
is it too cold? or a bit warm? or too hot?
or the window less open than yesterday?
will you see the mess of your tiny room
occupied by forgotten tasks or hobbies,
the 1000-piece puzzle left in the box,
remember that? trying to solve everything
on the floor, room not enough space,  no?
you would probably not notice
the door locked, maybe unlocked, would it matter?
phone uncharged, again, would it matter?
you might smell a familiarity in the air
of course, you're inside your room; you've been here
you lied here, again and again -
above everything you own, would you remember
the last thing, will it matter
when you're on the last turn, on your last blink-
would your remember the last thing?
you would probably not notice.
I would probably not.

so sad today

i can't stop it.
an addiction. i'm an addict.
no self discipline, no control
my hands, my fingers keep returning
and returning on
my chapped lips

it began last week. cold day,
caught a cold. breathing through my mouth.
sick and dry
dry lips.
there's an itch on my finger, i began to touch
my chapped lips

i thought it was a one time thing,
something reversible, something stoppable.
i was wrong, i was dumb, i was so wrong.
when my fingers stopped retaliating the blood,
it, the addiction, turned my teeth onto warriors
on the scrimmage on
my chapped lips

one night, i stopped
in the morning it was worse.
a wound hasn't healed, and another
on top of it. skin and flesh, on a rotating schedule
i'm scared but i don't stop. i'm scared
but my body just turned its back on
my chapped lips.

nothing has changed. blood and wound
scar and then wound,
i haven't stopped. and now i'm not scared.
i thought, i'm good at healing.
so, my chapped lips

will stay. scars may come,
but it's just my lips.
nothing good
has ever touched
my chapped lips.

breathing, still breathing,
in and out,in and out, in and -------
out
cliffhanging loud beats
one, two, one,
       two, one
   and two
pulsating pace, closing time
cold fingers, toes, neck
dried pale kisser
buried irises, fluttering lids
in and
           out, in and -------
out
one, two, one, one and two
knocked out, shut down
paralyzed, stunned, running out
blood, there's blood
somewhere, everywhere, all around
open skin, trembling wrist
blood, there's blood
in and
             out, in and out, in and ------
out
one, two, one,
                 two, one and two
lights out, lights back on,
phone ringing, door slamming
sirens coming
mother, screaming
diluted sounds, distant thoughts
in and out,
                      in and out, in and ------


still alive, still alive
             still                alive          
still -
i smile

i consume the continuous days without nighttime
and greater shadows afflict mine. towards the edge
a body without mass they had no power
to gravitate towards the ground. In my throat
there's a soundless scream and an abyss of burials
no one attended. and in case the mindless tongues,
the senseless sensates, and the human brainiacs, cared
the sky would be my dance floor, and the atmosphere would still
drive me breathing it in. a mismatch of socks,
a counterclockwise swing, a cold cup of coffee,
a bullet sans its gun, and a gun with the imaginary trigger -
i am no good. i am no good.

I have got this  idea,
a stupid wish, a nonsensical desire
of being in a car accident.
Hear me, I want you to.

I prefer to be in the backseat,
seat belt on, and a frequent mannerism
of looking down, in front
on the driver's dashboard. I do that,
I always want to know the speed
and how fast the others outside this space
of metal and cushion. I don't want to be the driver,
knowing myself, I would not get myself into one.
I am a safe *****, that is all.
Then, here goes nothing -
I want the car to crash. I still haven't made my mind
on where or what are we going to crash.
Maybe a wall. Maybe another car. Maybe a post.
I want it to be something solid, but not alive.
Trees are the exceptions. I want the car
to kiss that solid thing, head on.

I don't want the pain that may come along,
I don't want to call it a near death experience,
I want that instant where -
everything seems unreal
or too real my head would not be able to
understand. I want that portion of time
where I decide do I close my eyes or not,
that moment that I will have my life question itself.
And I don't wish death I don't wish to live, either.
Just that moment, where I could think
how instantaneous life can be.
I want that tick of the clock
the clashing of realities and dimensions..

I want that moment,
I need to feel that moment of being just between death and life
where everything doesn't matter anymore, but I still know
they exist.

I have this stupid idea,
nothing so important, nothing so surreal
but to wish this
is the demand I am willing
to pursue.

I long for the time,
when you are not “you”,
or “she” or “he”, or any
of the words I write. Not a hint,
not sign of you being “you”,
in each line “you” appears, it will not be you.
And I have found a new definition
of “she” or “he”, not even
the shadows of my words
would tell you that it’s “you”.

And in that day that it’ll come,
I’ll look back at this piece
of prayer, that my “you”,
will not be *you