i cut myself today
once, twice, thrice,

and i wonder why
it felt so good

i wonder why
it felt
so
*relieving.

i passed a bridge today.

there was a lake below, green and sparkling and tempting; promising peace and solitude.

the bridge was red and long, and i was stomping my feet;
trying so hard
*not to jump.

Dreams are meant to be chased, you say, and I am there. Four hundreds sixty two kilometers away from everything that screams comfort for both of us, and I am there. Four hundreds sixty two kilometers, the turning point where the car hits the road, doesn't care how loud I scream inside, begging the universe to bring you back to me, to bring me back to you, to eliminate the four hundreds sixty two kilometers from our way.

And I cry, you cry, and we both don't know how to stop.

In that very moment I stare at the horizon that would be different from mine. That horizon is yours, and I'll go back to the place where the horizon used to be ours. And I will never stare at the same constellation, I will never have the same stormy rain we used to run through together, I will never have the same field where we lay back our head, stick it to each other. I will find your shadow plastering on the horizon, I will hear your voice resonates in every corner of the street I turn myself into;

But you won't see me, you won't hear me,

Because I have lost you, between four hundreds sixty two kilometers, between a slight time difference, I have lost you, I lost you: forever.

when i made this promise, the silver linings are surfacing;

or so i thought.

then things happened, harsh words came time and time again
between careless tongue and restless mind and regret
that came a little too late.

and that's how the heart gets hurt.

so here they are, twinkling in my hand like cold stars--hello again,

--it was a nice three months and i thought i would never have to
hurt you again.

here is for another promise i broke.

                           - for every inch of skin i have slashed in attempt to
                                                             ­                        *make myself pay.

to my future children, if ever i have them;

if ever i grow you up, i hope you'd let me listen to your playlist
so i'd know what you are feeling, and what kind of songs that soothes you,
for i know letting your feeling out by words is as hard as writing on the water

if ever i grow you up, i hope you'd let me know what book you read recently;
so i'd know what kind of world you wish to escape,
for i might have the chance to make it nearer,

if ever i grow you up, please, please, i beg you;
to not cry alone in the corner of your room, knowing no one cares
and wishing the cold wall to swallow you down
or for someone to come and stab you in the back so that all your pain would gone,

if ever i grow you up, my dear,
i hope you'd come to me to cry, or at least;
i hope you let me in into your room,
i hope you wouldn't be someone who's ashamed of your tears
because it's not shameful, sweetheart, it's a proof that you're a human,
and there's nothing wrong with that.

if ever i grow you up, i hope you're going
to be someone who is not afraid of birthdays and new years,
and if you're afraid of dark and crowds;
know that it's okay to accept that, to be afraid of them;
because everyone is afraid at something.

if ever i grow you up, i hope you know i will never
ask you to be someone you think you can't be;
because i want you to be happy, so be it, be anything you want;
a bee keeper, kindergarten teacher, florist;
happiness is not that simple to be found, and sometimes
trying to fulfill everyone expectation will not get you anywhere.

and i hope, if ever you think you are not enough,
know that you're always enough, sweetheart;

you are my kid and that's more than enough.

three years,

and you thought only people

could leave.

there's this girl, her name is felicia,
and she is not afraid to love with all she might,
to fall over and over again,
to get hurt and to be misunderstood,
to be pushed away by the circumstances she is not aware.
i tell her she is stupid, wasting her time, and that she deserves better;
but still the only time she cries is because he cries.

there's this guy, his name is derio,
tells me he knows nothing about love, or how to win a girl heart,
but i witness him giving his drink to her,
pats her back after their group presentation,
shows me what he writes and how i notice he engraves
every single thing about her in words,
how he makes a playlist contains songs about her
and how she makes him feel.

there's this girl, her name is nadya,
her love is the love that is so pure and innocent,
that even when he is miles away she tells me she senses his presence.
she draws him paintings, consist of pastel colors, and i ask her why;
she says it brings calmness to every storm.
i will look up at her history chat, being a protective friend that i am;
and i notice how fast she responds,
showering him with the attention he never have.

there's this guy, his name is andre,
and the way he talks about her, i assure you,
even the star constellations will envy the spark in his eyes.
his wallpaper is green, and i joke a lot about it;
how it shows that he is a capitalist, how it looks like he just puke on it,
but he shrugs it all off; tells me it is her favorite color.

there's this girl, her name is clara,
never going anywhere without a book in her hand,
sometimes she will surprise me with midnight chats
contains her crying over a fictional character and how unfair the ending is,
she has this web-page where she writes the unsent letters
to every character she is in love with.
she has a personal blog where she makes each of them
another story, another ending.

there's this guy, his name is elliot,
a head division of an event i am contributed in,
and between the meetings that goes almost overnight,
he insists to walk her to the train station even if she never ask to.
he tells me it is not because he think she is weak and can't protect herself,
he says it is because she is precious.

and then there is me;
a witness,
a learner,
a note-taker,
of all kind of love they show,
of all kind of love they grow,
for sometimes it is easy to love
but hard to remember
how beautiful and endearing it is.

because we are
living poetry,
breathing words
walking the street of songs
feeling the essence of life
in between our fingers,
at the tip of our tongue,
at the top of our lungs.

tell them about our first meeting and how you told me i had you at hello. tell them that you saw the wall surrounding me and how I foolishly let you in. tell them about the meetings between traffic lights and wrapped sandwiches. tell them about how I held onto you like I’ve never seen hope before. tell them i used to call you home. tell them you were once every story in my head.

tell them how you were always my first when i was only your second best. tell them how you broke me when i thought i couldn't be more broken than i already was. tell them how I believed you and how you deceived me. tell them about how you told me your favorite colour was white, and how I thought how lovely it was, never realized that it was also the color of your lie when you promised me you will stay.

tell them, you old, sick joke, that for once I thought you loved me.

tell them, and they will know that these rummaging, angry, raging, words are all about you. they will know I pour every scar you’ve left into these words, these last words I pull for you. they will know you were both the hero and the villain. they will know I was a damsel in distress who saved herself. they will know I survived. I always will.

I see a strange girl, who looks like me,
But even if we pass by each other on the street,
Shoulder to shoulder,
I will not recognize her anyways.

I see a strange girl
They said it’s my reflection
But how come her presence doesn’t ring a bell?

I see a strange girl
Stated as me
Yet she is all the opposite of me

Are you me or am I you?

i watched her suffer when the first one was going to a medical school,
knew she would spent years ahead in hell trying to defend her,

i watched her suffer when the second was going to college
and she couldn't afford a proper addition course to make her feel more confident,

i watched her suffer when the third was going to follow the others,
and she was slamming herself bones by bones to make sure she had all the sources,

i watched her suffer and suffer and suffer
for everyone but herself,
and if that doesn't enough to break me in every way possible,
i don't know what else will do.

tell me i matter
tell me i deserve things
tell me i'm fine
tell me it's going to an end
tell me i'll be fixed
tell me i'll be saved
tell me even if i jump off the bridge,
shattered to pieces;
i'll still be able to find.

I used to call her in my worst nights.
And she would come, said she had a cure.
The cure of sorrow, she claimed.

I’d always laughed over it, still she did it anyway.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
Though it was silly, still I did it anyway;
I hold out my hand.

She’d grab my hand and say these,
In the tune that flows like a lullaby;

It is not a crime to welcome a hand,
To receive one’s help.
And it is not a sin to hold out your hand,
To ask for one’s help.

And every single time I would fall asleep,
Into a deep sleep with no dream,
For my dream was so close,
So close I could feel it between my fingers.

my kind of guy is quiet, sort of,
my kind of guy wears long-sleeve striped shirt,
my kind of guy has voice so warm and encouraging it makes me feel brave,
my kind of guy listens to ed sheeran and sam smith and knows i love kelly clarkson,
my kind of guy wears black shoes on daily basis like a charm,
my kind of guy gives me a bottle of water when i was dehydrated without i even realized,
my kind of guy saves the hardest thing for himself,
my kind of guy sacrifices his own freedom for a friend,
my kind of guy is ambitiously calming,
my kind of guy babbles non-sense and laughs at his own jokes,
my kind of guy receives a scholarship and is an internal field coordinator at student council,
my kind of guy loves to listen to people like it's the bestest thing to do,
my kind of guy has the kindest eyes and smile so endearing, the kind of smile that doesn't take away your breath but grows the even bigger smile on your face,


my kind of guy is him,
my kind of guy is the kind of guy
i don't deserve.

embrace your scars,
wear them proudly like bracelets on your wrist,
kiss them like a lover,
they are just like you;
they want to be wanted, to be seen
by you.

let them know you are not ashamed of them
let them speaks your worst nights and thoughts,
your scarred past,
your helplessness,
for you.

and when they ask you what was i in your life tell them i was the sun. tell them i gave life to your mornings and you could not live without me yet you turned your face away because my light was too strong.

she was just a usual college girl at a glance,
look closer and you will see how her eyes dead
her lips dry with wounds all over and they are still red

one day she took a writing class because
she had nowhere to go

there was this one time the white-haired guy
with fatherly smile who called himself a professor,
raised one of the students' work and complimented
the suicide ending of the main character

he read it and she thought how it was true,

but then everyone started writing about
depression and self-loathing and
cutting yourself
biting your lips
clawing your cheeks
and ended with someone's hanging or choking in pills

she asked one of them who had written so,

'have you ever stood over a bridge
and your legs just felt like they were
going to betray you and every ounce of faith
you ever had in everything you thought you believed in?'

when she saw the strange look pointed at her,


she knew she was talking to a wrong person.

You could've just killed me,
But you decided it wasn't enough to suffered me;
So you let me live.

someday,
somewhere,
someway;

you will find the girl
who loves herself enough
to love you even more.

What do I want to write? What is it that’s not abstract about me? How to explain what I want to explain, what I want to tell, without confusing whoever reads it? I want to keep it vague, I want to keep it unnoticed, I want to keep it just the way I want it written. You make the theme too heavy to read, they said, keep it simple.

But how do I do that? These are my words, these are the reflection of what I am, what I’ve been through, what I learnt, what makes me, me; and it’s never simple. It’s always the overlaps of pain and wounds I fail to heal, the glimpses of happiness I desperately trying to hold onto before it crashes to dust and I’m trying to defend what I’ve left. It’s always the grief to which I wake up every 3 a.m, always the same red spots I find plastering on the ceilings, it’s always the promises I or they broke, the dreams I never have the chance to weave, the will that never gleams, the hope I have forsaken.

It’s always confusing. It’s always spinning, unclear, abstract, and always I am there, in the middle, tumbling between everything that is unsure, unexplainable, and other ‘uns’ I can never list.