I remember they once told me that
music is the best time capsule

It's where people keep their secrets and feelings;
of their insecurities, their mistakes, their sadness, their first cut,
and even the wounds and bruises that invisible to the eye

It's where people let their wildest dreams alive;
of the one they can never reach, the one that will never come back, the one that got away without proper farewell

It's where people store their most sacred memories;
of their first kisses, their first love, their first dance, their first bucket of roses, their first heartbreak

So they were right after all,

Music is dangerous, yet addicting; it can either tear you apart or put the pieces back altogether, it depends on what kind of ghosts living inside the interlude

Thus, be careful who you listen the music with
some melody is louder than the others

**

Today I played the music box you gave me on my seventeenth birthday
How odd it is to realize that music sometimes can be a time machine, how every strings and clinks bring me back to you—towards you

when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.

she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues

Look at me
My skin
Has dealt with a lot


                         I have lived through
                         Tumors and attacks
                         Cuts and bruises from me
                         Bruises from him


My poor skin
In the end
This damage is
All for naught
Because


                            *"Scars are only **** on guys..."

i pull away in the nick of time
right before he captures his lips with mine
he grabs my shoulders
my meekness making him bolder
and as i struggle he pulls me in closer
as if this changes the fact that this is part of an older
struggle for dominance
but aware of an audience
i shrug out of his violent embrace
as his angry fingers try to erase
my fear of his anger
my fear that he will linger
in this ferocious dispute
of me trying to escape you
bruises bloom as you glide your hand down my arm
as you make everyone forget with your charm
bruises bloom in my heart
as your words tear me apart
bruises bloom in my mind
as you blind
the ones that could mend
the bruises you tend
like a garden of blue green
roses

gently
so gently
you pulled the
threads loose,
set me free

but the relief lasted
barely a moment -
you tied me to
you, chained me,
and even after
you decided
you didn't want me
anymore

you left me
with the shackles
and the bruises
and the empty bed
and the sheets
that still smell
like you.