six months pass, my mind is on the sun and
you are the moon. there must have been a
solar eclipse event i wasn't prepared for,
because that's a sign the world is ending,
and god help me, my world is falling apart.

six months pass, and it's snowing in the
middle of july. that was foreshadowing
of the storm i would come to experience,
so i watched from inside as the snow piled
up, burying me under layers of her icy stare.

six months pass, and i have learned to see past
this dystopia you have given me a hand in
building. next time, drop bombs, not hearts.

- kra

when i look at you, i see varieties of magenta:
i see blood-stained bedsheets, martial laws,
lack of leverage, pale skin with blue veins
popping out in a coquettish manner, flames
spewing out from lava, fault lines, the first
chakra located at the base of the spine, a
constant threat of losing choke hold on the
utopia i've built from scratch, horror movie
shrieks, regret, so much regret, panic attacks,
faces red with tears streaming like waterfalls,
and the ultra violence one of the seven deadly
sins bring: wrath. what i don't admit is that,
even when i look at the thing i fear the most
in the eyes, i see the passion, sensitivity, and
love that have shriveled up and died from time.

- kra

first impressions are always a joke. even lucifer
had fooled everyone at some point. that's why,
don't forget that even the wolves are trained to
act like lambs, where fangs are concealed with
candy-coated charismatic words. the fluidity of
their tongues carry deceit. their bruised hands
may look like burdens they've had to carry, but
everyone has their share of demons. they have
experienced the transition from innocence to
corruption, faced it with gnashing teeth. these
self-proclaimed heroes are nothing but drawings.
seasons change, so does the heroes. like the
quote goes, you either die a hero, or live long
enough to see yourself become the villain.

with this message, i will proceed to betray
everyone i ever loved. i am in perfect
symmetry with my eradication.

- kra

i am hopelessly enchanted with the ghosts
hiding in the attic, the dilapidated dust-mite
covered picture frames, and the plastic worn dolls
wearing their frilly dresses. the things that are
endlessly fascinating that wash me offshore, i
battle currents to find them. i am humbling,
yet i have a strong lack of courage. the words
i want to say become dust mites, float away
into the air, and meet another mouth distant
from mine. the attic becomes an abandoned
studio, where the beautiful things lie alone.
my hands yearn to meet with the ghosts.

- kra

there are ghosts in the last home i lived in.
there is war, bloodshed, tears stained like
red wine on white rugs burned into the
blueprints of the architecture of this home.
children's laughter rings through this hall
way, but these walls know only stories of
my fingerprints leaving deep impressions
on the people who still live in that home.
this laughter is starting to sound almost
menacing, accusatory, a sound i'm starting
to dread. everyone acknowledges the ghost,
but they tend to avoid talking about it’s
presence. those windows know nothing
but rainy days, stormy nights, blinding
sunny days, and the sound of my voice.
if they're lucky, the people who live in
that house can hear my voice, even if
they're forgetting how it sounds.

i'm forgetting how nice it sounds to be
acknowledged, not as an impression of
an apparition burned into the walls.

- kra

every ***** and deadbolt securely fastened in
my chest was unlatched, unscrewed, unfastened,
like a brassiere, yet it was also captivated by you.
for so long, i was simply a crane building towers
around me but you saw more use in me. turns
out, that use was also used to manipulate my
inner chords. no matter how long it took me to
write the musical notes, the harmony i once knew
was becoming weaker and weaker. at the time, i
should have known there was only static noise.
there was only brick walls and towers, only screws
and deadbolts securely fastened to your chest, only
a harmony i can't find the right notes to hit.

- kra

this house is a cage for the deceitful lovers
and a loony bin for the normal. to call this
a shelter, protecting and comfortable, is
laughable. this house was made out of
all skin and no bone. the notion of losing
yourself to these white lies, to see yourself
put on a face unfamiliar, is a tragedy. i found
skeletons in the closets and blood coming out
of the bathroom sink faucets. i found black
widows underneath mattresses, scorpions hiding
between folds of the covers i sleep on. to feel
the opposite of reassuring in what plays itself
to be a warm house, is terrifying. i plan on
turning white, becoming the very lies so they
become true. the destiny of my lies built a
house of sand, and i’m being slowly swallowed
whole by the sands. i hide behind eight masks,
all to cover up my seven deadly sins. there is
unrest in this house. a monster lives here, i see
the blood everywhere i look and the scratch marks.
why does the monster only attack me and leave
more unnecessary scars? why does he make a
home in this house, put on my face, and walks
around like the floorboards aren’t the same quick
sand that dragged him into its grasp?

- kra