a boy with seven hearts

they gave him seven hearts
the first for dreaming
the second for running
the third for crawling
the fourth for laughing
the fifth for crying
the sixth for loving
the seventh for fighting

in each heart waged a war
the sound of blowing horns not very far
in each heart grew a tree
taller than the depth of the sea

in one boy sang seven hearts
they sang a song that lasted til night
a song that took away all the fright
the fear that spun around like a kite

in two hands he grasped one heart and asked
“what do you do?”
it said “i fight for one important thing
and, boy, that thing is you.”

in one palm he held a small heart and whispered
“what can you do?”
the heart replied, “i may be small but my dreams are big
and that’s what makes me you.”

each heart was crafted differently
each one had a unique design
but together they were stronger
and together they could shine

it’s a dream, too good to be true; i comb her hair with my fingers
i bid my eyes to stay shut and in my ear i hear nothing but her whispers
confused but content, i sigh into her bare shoulder
and find myself carried away into the deepest kind of slumber

she is here—my love—and her love borders on tangible
the dips and bumps of her body under my fingers: palpable
she pushes but she doesn’t shove, she pulls but she isn’t careless
yet her gaze and her words, they are everything but selfless

i count the stars til i run out, then i trace with a finger the freckles on her face
in her sleep—not mine, i checked—she is nothing but softness and grace
her heartbeat against mine might be too good to be true
but this is not a dream and my reality is, "you"

and i'm a sad heart
in a stout body
with a thirsty mind
longing for reprieve
my bones are weary

like crystals my teardrops
shatter into a million fractals
there is no space for wholeness
no room for one piece
i am a sad heart
in the shape of a shipwreck

he moves, like a dream
—memories that resurface from murky depths,
scenes cut out from rolls of film, flickering.

he moves, like a song
—glittering stars that descend from the heavens,
the sound of water hitting the rocks, never-ending.

he moves, like a wish
—prayers from you to me, from me to you, from us to God,
deep and shallow breaths in the interstice of smiles, promising.

he moves, like a warrior
—ink that never runs out til its story has been told,
cries that can be heard from deep inside, reverberating.

he moves, and he moves
—and he stops,
chilling.

he moves.

i'm collecting the times i wake up
already feeling my knees buckle
from the shame, the nerves, the stares.

i'm hoarding the clocks that i've stared at
throughout my adolescence
when the nights were long and my blood looked redder.

i'm keeping the tickets i used to escape
the rumble and the jumble inside the house
back then when the walls were thin and my skin was thinner.

i'm checking the numbers, the drawers, the walls
again and again and again
just to see if anything is about to break again.

today i carry myself not too gracefully
but with the air that says i am doing it gingerly
i hold the tender bones of my body close
in hopes that they stay and not fall to the floor

it's been forever since i met with my doctor
and let her inspect my bones that do sometimes
threaten to break, brittle
but i make sure she knows that my brittle bones
have become stronger, even though each step
has to be taken little by little

the bones in my chest--they constrict and they expand
the bones in my head--they either weight too little or too much
the bones in my legs--they take time to obey to movement
the bones in me--they work together to form this person

this person that carries her tender bones
that is me, i am her
this person that bends but rarely breaks
that is me, i am her
this person that forgets where she left her bones
she is not me, that person is gone

tattoo this on my body,
make the litany permanent:
i am sad today, and i am depressed. to get out of bed is a chore. i can't do what is asked of me, despite the voices that cheer me on.

scrub this off my body,
until my skin is a sensitive red:
i am depressed today, and i am sad. the rain was too heavy and some of it fell into my head. there is an ocean inside of me whose waves never stop roaring. the noise is unbearable.

paint this on my body,
a canvas of life:
i am alive today, and i am living. and the sun still shines and my heart still beats. a world of pain meets a world of color, and i realize the red in war can also mean the red in love.

imprint this on my body,
a reminder that says:
i can always depend on poetry
to make sense out of what can't.

with the stretch of his arms
he created the world
breathed life into it, a melody produced
no songs existed before
he walked, danced across the land and seas
and caressed the skies
they called him King
and prayed to him through and through
sorrow and joys, dreams and storms
a lover lost, memories gained

with the nod of his head
he flew above them
tore the skies apart, fingers pointed at
the sun, daring, duelling
smiting its rays of boastful light
there can only be one sun, he said
there can only be one him, he asserted
there can only be One, he cried
he fought like a champion, the winner
who rises while falling

with the raise of his fist
he shouted a name
no one knew whose it was, no one
dared to seek the truth
"King, oh King, we call thy name"
"I am here, I call your name"
there went the Light, a heat
permeating, invading, but like a whisper
cared and loved, silenced
the troubles in their hearts

a heart of gold
he revealed his name
a name so sweet
a name so strong
his name was Yuzuru

like a dream resurfacing
from the layers of my memory
you come back to me
bathed in glory
your eyes telling a thousand stories

your wings
once they were broken
today they have unfurled
silky to the touch, it is almost sudden
how they glimmer without being risen

your majesty
it takes the air out of my lungs
i almost collapse into nothing
but soon find myself in your wings, tucked
the stars in your eyes, songs to be sung

the world cowers
as it does not deserve you
nor can it ever repay what you have given
us mortal humans, we wish to reach you
but we fail to see the things that make you

i listen fondly to the rain softly hitting autumn leaves
i heave a sigh like i'm heaving the world
Atlas is at a loss for words

ivory spills down my throat
like raindrops on a windy night
i am being fed by the gods who stole my sight

deep in my stomach Hades stirs anxiety
around and around, a cumbersome weather
feeds the wolves inside the kettle

to just be, gives me peace
like watching birds communicate
on a branch through the kitchen window
watching waves hit the rocks
white foam painting the dark blue sea
there is peace out there, and in me

happiness is fleeting, yet it is
also there to stay
it becomes my friend, day and night
exits the scene
when there is trouble, but instead
of "goodbye", it's "see you later"

if happiness were a friend
i'd text them all day, greeting
"hi how've you been?" "are you up for lunch?"
"dinner?" "what have you been up to
lately?" but some days i settle down, knowing
that they'll come by when needed

to just know, gives me peace
there is power, soft and steady
but oh so there, in knowing
that happiness will always return
to me, to everyone, always
coming back home

i hold you in my arms
and it hurts because
you are the sun

and you hold my heart in yours
and it hurts me because
you squeeze it so tight

my lover, my dear,
my loveliest song,
you are the lullaby i long for
when i can't sleep at night

but you hold me
unlike i hold you
and you hold me
too harshly

you are my lullaby
and i am a strum
of an electric guitar
evoking a singular emotion

that you can't somehow keep

deep inside it festers,
climbing up my ribs, moving across muscle,
wrapping around my vessels.
i’m not an elderly man,
but i am a withering soul
known for flipping itself inside-out,
all flesh and blood tumbling onto the floor.
there, outside, it festers,
a ball of greed and hatred.
i am looking at it with tired eyes
as it glares back. it always glares back.

i’ve shrunk back into my shell
camouflaged against the image
of tears streaking down cheeks,
early childhood not only a fond memory
but also a burden to carry.

i’ve descended into this hell
unknowingly, naive and blind.
my feet are bound to the icy floor,
my hands attracted to the flames.
there is no gray area when it comes to pain.

but i know too well the taste of nothing,
numbness that triumphs over a rosy garden of thorns.
my wounds are closed and the scars have faded
but the ghosts hover there, waiting and waiting,
searching for an opening to slip into.

deep inside it festers,
outside it sulks.
i am its host, its pitiful prisoner.
it knows me from my head to my
toes.

he is the moon that shines down on me when i'm lost in the labyrinth of a cornfield at one in the morning

and he is the sun that peeks behind the clouds after a misty afternoon spent studying at the local library

he is the sand that shifts under the sea in the wake of a creature rising up from a good afternoon slumber

and he is the sky that envelopes the world in a palette of colors that reminds us of the passage of time and time again

he is a house built on love and passion with pillars that shake but never break as the earth falters and cries

and he is the horizon that paints my perspective a burning flame the intensity of a wildfire nobody in the vicinity foretold

he is the breeze that greets me on the balcony as i laugh with strangers that assure me i am doing just fine

and he is the moment of being half-asleep when i mumble my words in response to my mother who kisses my cheek

he is the lexicon of forbidden words that i store behind the door at the back of my heart which beats once in a while

and he is the silence that infiltrates the damp mood but also gives me a draft on which i ink the first beats of a song

the silence was never there.

thick, thin, a continuous disturbance—
created by one of us in a fragile ice skate dance
you sigh and the air swallows it
while i am left to watch if i do the same
or break

thick, thin, a feverish disturbance—
almost as fast as lightning, a broken trance
has me hurling hurtful words, an argument that cannot win
you point out the flaw in my ways

thick, thin, descriptive of skin—
your steps i will not to follow, a path
i do not want to take
a calm exterior is what i fake
to keep the composure i've powdered on

thick, thin, a relationship between suns—
stars that never go out
flares that never end
heat that never really shushes
in the silence of space

thick, thin, a wire we walk on—
tired and aching, we balance
we balance, angrily, fists in *****
sadness washes over us in rain drops
on a tightrope that never ends

i
had dreams

i have you, in my dreams
i spin around and there you go
behind my eyelids, a featherlike reverie
a secret open to the world

the softness of your lips
the dauntless glint in your eyes
the fire that roars from down your throat
me, a witness to these, and yet

i know nothing but glimpses
vast glimpses, but still
the purr in your voice, a lullaby
my dwindling thoughts, “good night”

i’ll never know
you’ll never know
here with me, a pillow to soften the blow
around me, a blanket to call home

moonlight, a sliver of comfort
in this world before slumber
you are there, i am here
these thoughts shall never meet you

tonight, my dreams will give me
you

the mirror stares at the wholeness of me--cellulite creating waves over waves, bumps and hills over the decisiveness of my bones. everywhere, a mirror, a chance to reflect and magnify. here i am, my reflection says, hands waving at me, smile wavering slightly. here i am; look closely. more, the person says. look harder. and there i see it--the person in the person. the hands wrapped around my hands, not hovering there but trapping mine. over the halo of my hair is another head, one sneering down at my reflection, probably thinking its way into this world, are you still alive?

there is room for doubt, never any room for certainty. when i step under the showerhead, grab the loofah and wash, i imagine the tearing of skin against claws. secrets fall over in rivulets of darkened fat, the sick yellow of it all screaming at me in the unrelenting water. there has got to be time for release, however nauseously painful. as the ****** result streams down the drain, i wring my hair dry and reach for the towel, only to accidentally glance at the mirror again.

are you still alive? an answer spoken through a different mouth: more or less.

the crescents under her eyes—
they cry to me, screaming in high-pitched voices,
"my child, my child, don't look at me."

in my head the stars paint a vivid picture of a weeping woman, with long hair and a willowy figure, biting at her lip. blood oozes out. i am spun back into the now.

the finger she points at me—
it redirects itself, checks, rechecks, and points back to herself, deadpanning,
"my child, my child, it's all my fault."

in my mouth sheds snakes the color of a neon green. underneath this glossy, perfect facade i am crumbling into shards and commas and em dashes. how can she be so cold? and yet so sorrowful?

the voice that echoes inside her—
it climbs into my lap and tries to strangle me.
but i'm much stronger, a shriek that has learned how to deflect, and i rise and shout,
"woman, woman, i am not your child."

in my dreams i conquer.

the rain clothes me
saves me from tomorrow
rinses me from the sins of yesterday
keeps me cold in the tears of today

the rain pierces me
digs into my wounds
then leaves with the ghost of a typhoon
i regret calling it too soon

the rain sings to me
dances on the roof
from the windowsill it says to me,
“hello my old friend”

the rain wants me
to sleep in its embrace
but i don’t want to wake up
in a dry coffin

there is nothing but pain and pity.

in the alleyways of my mind, i walk with an umbrella in my right hand.
the rain falls from the sky in teardrops with the force of God's sorrow.
we are nearing supper, the local bakeries and parlors shutting down, lights flickering off at God's finger snap.
it amazes me that i can jump over puddles and yet still drown in my own despair.
i can barely see a glimpse of the moon, but i know it watches me, watches the kids in the playground dance to the thunder.
like me, it keeps quiet, as if there is so much to think about. that's not exactly wrong.

but in the dark alleyways of my mind, there is not much to think about.
there is only a girl fighting the winds and the skies with an umbrella. there is nothing but pain and pity.
God watches me like i'm his child, but i only know two guardians—
pain,
pity.

my heart bleeds
but it doesn't hurt
it only hurts at two am
when no one can hear my cries

my heart soars
up into my throat
beating, pounding, against muscle
and flesh that reddens in the heat

my heart hurts
at two am
it doesn't cry like a baby in a crib
it cries like a lady rinsing at the sink

my heart sinks
when it has nowhere else to go
it knows no other direction
but down, south, down, south

my heart trembles
like a building shaking in the aftershocks
dust falling into the mouths
of shrieking corpses

you are the color of the sun
a perfectly roasted marshmallow
my hands reach for your cheeks, round apples
but there is no softness here; there is nothing

you are the rhythm in my feet
the song that keeps me alive
my heart sings for you, my own lullaby
but there is no melody here; there is nothing

you are the open window by the sea
the breeze that softly hits my face
my love hurts for you, my afternoon reverie
but there is no love here; there is nothing

God. is She real?
if She is, then what of it?
frankly i do not know
who i am talking to it
but i hear that God is a myriad
of things, yet at the same time
She is not really anything
frankly i do not know ****
only that there must be a
God, a God for peace, a God
for the weary, a God for the lost,
a God for the old, a God
for the young, and a God
for all the opposites, the disparities
and similarities

maybe She can see me
writing this poem, curious and wandering
into territory both familiar
and unknown. maybe She
knows me
more than i know myself, or
maybe She wants me to
know her like i want to know myself.
maybe God is a He, or a They
or none of the above. i just know
i find comfort
in the warmth of the same ***
but also
maybe God is
what's beyond warmth and ***

but perhaps God has a warmth
that is entirely just Theirs
and They are waiting
for me to discover it
perhaps God has a world
that is not far from home
and He is waiting
for me to uncover it

the thing about poetry
is that it's loose like sand.
it slips between fingers
and finds its way everywhere
like the words that seem to ebb
and flow into and out of me,
like the sea of which the sand
shares companionship. you
can't quite contain all that
matter. all that matters you
can't quite contain. the thing

about poetry is that it makes me
feel, even when feeling feels empty
or wrong or redundant or gross and
it really does make me think
that you can't contain and define
all that is there to be said about
poetry. poems are significant
in that they can be insignificant
and again, loose and ubiquitous
like sand. small particles, so tiny
and numerous they matter so much.

and the thing about me is
that i am small but not
ubiquitous. i am not god who
is omnipresent. i am not sand
who sticks its nose into every
single thing and leaves a memory
of sea and space. i am tiny
and forgettable. but in this poem
i see myself, my reflection of which
leaves me until i reach out and it says,
"you are poetry itself."

I want to be
the roaring sun
an angry star
a ferocious need, to blaze a path
forward and beyond, dreams
exposed to light and heat
the days no longer
a haze in the night, misty
from a fresh downpour

But I also crave
a soothing touch, a gentle reprieve
a song quietly sung as I
rise and rise and rise
my face bright but kind
my face in yours
my face which is
yours -- like how the stars
belong to the sky

it steps on the whites of my bones
makes them creak in the later hours of night
oh i wish i could sweep it away
into a chest i could keep locked for eternity
as the owls hoot out on branches
i plug my ears with music meant for dancing
and tuck myself into bed
where it again tries to get ahold of me
hold me in its grasp
enough pressure for it to be felt and recognized
but not enough to break me
not enough for me to cry out in pain
just enough to confuse me
why are you here?
what do you want?
maybe it wants nothing
just my company
maybe loneliness itself
gets lonely sometimes
and so here i am pondering
whether i should embrace loneliness
back

there's a heart that beats
underneath my coat, a single heart with
countless beats, a song that lulls and arouses and interrupts--
interrupts the thrumming of the rain against the windowshield, presses pause on a movie that's gone too bland

there's a heart that beats
and eats
away at my coat, and i sleep away the pain and i awake from it, too, yet later it interrupts--
interrupts the predictability of life and breathes in and bleeds out a staccato of Life, a life that is brand
new

it's too early to be
thinking so much, feeling
like my thoughts need to be
herded around. and i am
singling out some of them
who've been misbehaving
and i am shouting at them,
screaming, "it is too early
to be a black sheep."

it's 4:32 am, and i am awake.
what for? i ask myself. ah, i needed
a bathroom break, like i always
need a break in life. but to be
frank, life has been great and
life has been good and i am
hoping i too am good
and will someday be
great.

but the thing is, my thoughts
are often precariously swinging
from danger to safety, and
it can be such a sight
to behold, my heart
in my throat, my mind
yelling at me to get it
together. get them
together. my thoughts--

they spin
uncontrollably, like a top
that falls to the ground and cracks
a bit, tiny fragile pieces
swept under the rug.
and my life has never been
better. my thoughts have never been
cleaner, despite the need
to be collected all the time.