Let's get one thing clear: When people say "You're all I've ever wanted", they're lying.

I want many things. I want a pizza. I want to get an A for a paper I hardly studied for. I want a room with wooden floors. I want a house facing the sea. I want to walk into Forever 21 and take home anything I like. I want to travel around the world. I want to be better at sports. I want my ulcer gone immediately. I want longer eyelashes. I want to finish an entire season of a tv show without anyone bothering me. I want more followers on Twitter. I want to be friends with my favorite Youtuber. I want a pair of twin boys. I want Hogwarts to be real. I want to be good at archery like Katniss-freaking-Everdeen, cause it's so ******* cool. I want a new phone. I want to sleep late watching chick flicks without having to worry about sleep deprivation. I want three hamsters. I want superpowers. I want to fly.

But you see, here's the catch: What I want most, is you.

I signed the papers
   to give my organs away
         after I die
              to let you know that
                   even after I'm gone
                         you can still find me  
                              inside of others.

She was always counting her blessings.

When starved for misbehaving:
'I was wrong. I should have listened to Mama. At least I took a full lunch in school today. If I sleep early I would not feel hungry.'

When bullied for being the most quiet girl in class:
'Maybe I should talk more. Maybe I should look at people in the eyes when I do so. I was wrong. It's okay. At least they will leave me alone for now.'

When scolded for not doing her housework well:
'I was wrong. I could have done better. I should not have taken a break. At least I still have Mama to yell at me. Anne has none.'

When hit for playing the radio too loudly:
'Dadda was in a bad mood. I should never have turned it on. I was wrong. At least the radio is still around so I can secretly listen to it in my room.'

When slapped for her grades dropping:
'I should have extended my studying hours from seven to nine hours a day. I was not good enough. I was wrong. At least I still have another three months till the next test.'

When ***** by drunk father:
'I do not understand what happened. It was all just pain and darkness. Dadda said I am not allowed to tell anyone anything. But it's okay. At least he promised me more pocket money for school.'

(This post is dedicated to all my followers who still stuck with me after my long hiatus. I'm running low on inspiration these days. I am not a good writer but I'm working towards being one. I hope this post more or less compensates for my long absence.)

A LETTER TO MY LOVER'S FUTURE WIFE

     First things first, he is not my lover. He never has been and probably never will be. But he is very dear to me, and I do not think that I will be forgetting him anytime soon, and thus I considered him my lover. I hope you are okay with that. After all, my thoughts will in no way affect your life. I am writing this letter to congratulate you. You are able to trace the veins on his hands; his pair of hands which I was not privileged enough to touch. Run your fingers over his and remember how soft it is. Only then would it be fair to him because his hands are amazingly sculptured. Remember how they look like, remember how they feel like, even long after he's gone. I would also like to congratulate you for having the chance to see him every day. You see, he has the kind of face you don't get tired of staring at. I hope you notice that. I didn't know faces work that way when you're in love.

     That being said, I would like to pass on several guidelines to you. Guidelines on how to look after this boy. At the time of this letter, we are both eighteen. Young, raw, and still halfway through college. Okay, how do I put this in a nice way. He is light-hearted. Free-spirited. He does what he wants, as long as he is happy. He skips classes often here, I'm not going to deny that. Make sure he doesn't do the same for his work. Force him out of bed and make him go to his ****** job unless he's too sick to sit up. He has a family to feed and children to raise now. Help me shape him into a responsible man. I trust you enough to do this. Also, let him buy his cereals. He will still probably eat it in the morning when he's in a rush, in the evening while he's waiting for you to prepare dinner, and at night when he's too lazy to make supper but too hungry to go to bed after two movies. He makes the most disgusting-tasting oats. I tried it once and it tasted like *****. Trust me, there is nothing you can do about it because he's convinced that it tastes good. Perhaps his tongue has been surgically engineered when he was a fetus. I don't know. Either way, love him for that. But don't let him be the one who makes cereals for the children. Poor, poor children. One more thing, be ready to let his lips touch the mouth of your drinking bottle if he asks for water. He doesn't know how to pour liquid from a bottle without wetting himself. He's an idiot like that.

     Oh, and the air purifier in your room? Clean it once in a while. Make sure the machine works well. He's allergic to dust and I don't know the effects it has on him. And his body can't tolerate coldness that much, so compromise with him and agree on an intermediate temperature, please? Personally, I don't like it too cold either but I do not matter in this context.

     Anyway, I have to go to bed now. It's 1:27AM and I have a class in the morning. I might write another letter to you in the future, I might not. After all, both of us share an extraordinary bond. You are currently in love with someone I used to love. You must have seen the same things I saw in him, probably even more. Maybe I could actually get along with you well, if I could make myself stop wondering what I am lacking every time I look at you.

Since you took me to the ocean before,
Maybe this is one metaphor you might get.

Your words were like broken pieces of seashells.
They left cuts all over me.
And you are salt water,
You kept coming back,
To burn my wounds,
One tide after another,
One wave after another.
Periodic, unstoppable, predictable.
Like a natural phenomenon,
You can't seem to stop once you've started.
You had to make sure,
You've done enough destruction,
Before you would leave.

I can, however, walk away from the beach.
I can even leave the seashells behind.
I don't need them anyway.

I used to love oceans.
A little more before it started to hurt me.

What made you think that,
Just because you have strong hands,
Which look like they were sculptured by God himself,
You can touch the most sacred parts of my body,
Then leave me,
And leave my skin burning and yearning for more?

What made you think that,
You can look into my eyes,
And shakingly hold my face in your bandaged palms,
And whisper lies to me on your hospital bed,
Telling me that everything will be okay,
That you would fight for me,
Then months later give up?

What made you think that,
I was joking when I said,
I would get married to you,
And have our favorite songs play at our wedding,
Once we get our lives figured out?

What made you think that,
I would ever let you die,
Unacknowledged,
As a victim of drunk driving,
With that murderer still unarrested?

What made you think that,
I will ever be fine,
Seeing everyone else going on with their lives,
Hardly unimpacted,
When my life after you feels like,
A two-dimensional black and white documentary?

What made you think that,
I have celebrated enough birthdays with you?

you're scared. you're scared of a lot of things. you're scared of people seeing through you. "oh my god, you're gay?" you're scared of going to sleep and waking up to the news that your sick mother took her last breath while you were having nightmares about her dying. that's funny. having nightmares and waking up to the exact same nightmare coming true. you're also scared of falling out of love. but you're not scared of your lover leaving you, no, because pain, that you're accustomed to, but guilt? not really.

you're scared. you're scared of running out of time. everywhere you look, people are doing better than you. they have scholarships, they're going places. you're still here, and you're scared that you'll always be here. what would they say when they get back? "poor fellow can't afford further education. how do you get a job?"

you're scared. your hands are shaking. people are trying hard to be your friend, but you know you can't be a good one. you've lost a couple of them. you say the wrong things once in a while but as far as you're concerned, once in a while is enough. boom. disaster. everything which comes out of your mouth is like a ticking bomb, waiting for someone to find a fault in it and figure out that you're not actually as nice as you pretend to be.

you're scared. you feel like you're keeping secrets, but you can't seem to entangle your own thoughts to know what they are. you feel anxious around people you see as being far superior than you are, so you end up hating them. you also feel anxious around people you can see yourself in, so you end up hating them too. they sit next to you at a table and your heart beats fast, your palms turn sweaty, you just want to get out of here. why do you not like these people? is it because they're different from you? is it because you want to be them?

you're scared. you're scared of revealing your sins, of being burned at the stake, or in terms of the 21st century, shunned by the society. you're scared of looking at the rorshach ink blot. you're scared of describing what you see to your psychiatrist. you imagine your psychiatrist thinking, '*******, this patient is ****** up.' you imagine avoiding eye contact with everyone in your pool of contacts, and you're afraid that pool might slowly **** your family in too. you're not diagnosed with anxiety, but you might as well be.

The first verse is the sound of your groans from the kitchen during your failed attempts at making lasagna.

The second verse is the sound of your laughter while you're watching your favorite comedy movie for the fifth time.

The first chorus is the sound of the creaking floorboards as you walk towards me and join me in bed.

The third verse is the sound of your heavy breathing after we made love.

The fourth verse is the sound of you typing on your computer; all focused with a creased forehead, and occasional lip-bites.

The second chorus is the sound of you trying to explain to your four-year-old niece where babies come from.

The last verse is the sound of you saying 'I love you' on our first Christmas morning together.

Dear Charles,

I am writing this to tell you one thing and one thing only:
A war is about to begin soon, and once it has, both you and I know that only one side can win. This means that the losing side loses everything.
Unfortunately for you, I do not share your faith in humanity. And I absolutely have no pity for them. They are a bunch of idiots who fear what they do not understand and try to get rid of it before figuring out what they are actually dealing with. Humans see us as a disease, Charles. They fear us because we have far more potential than them and that we are above them in terms of power. Believe me, I didn't want to fight against humanity either, but I am not able to just sit and watch while another fellow mutant die because of them. We are initially not a threat, but now they have turned us into one. And we are certainly not experimental subjects, but they have turned us into those too. From the moment I noticed these signs around me I knew I had to save myself before it's my turn, even if it means eradicating everyone else.

I do not wish to do this, Charles, but one day you will learn that some matters can only be solved using the hard way. As much as you hate to admit it, diplomacy is not able to smooth everything out. I am sure that your friend Hank knows this well more than we do. I am not the enemy here, Charles. I am only trying to save myself and also my own kind. Our own kind.

I have left with several of our fellow mutants. You might be able to track them down with Cerebro but not me. However, just in case you do, please don't bother coming for me. I have set my mind and you know that the only way to change it is for you to get into my mind and take over it, which you won't. I will be carrying out plans you will certainly disapprove of. But then again, Charles, we are two very different people. As far as I can remember, we have never agreed on a single thing before, which surprises me that we even became acquaintances in the first place.

I hope I will never see you again, Charles. But if we do, I hope we will be fighting alongside each other, not standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Take care of Raven for me. I trust you better at handling her than I do.

Your old friend,
Erik

I was born in the middle of a war.
My mother died giving birth to me.
Aunt Khalfa said my father was killed in another war;
Not the war I was born during.
When I was five,
The only form of knowledge I knew,
Was to count using my fingers.
My siblings hated me.
They said I caused mother's death.
I guess I did.
We never had more than two slices of bread,
And a browning pear to eat daily.
I was lucky I was big enough,
To fill my own pail,
With the water from the well.
Some other kids in the neighbourhood weren't.
Like me, they didn't have Mom and Dad.
But at least I had Aunt Khalfa.
For these kids,
Most of the time,
It never ends well.
They are born tiny with bloated tummies,
They are always hungry,
They grow taller and skinnier,
Eventually you see them lying by the side,
With flies hovering over they decaying corpses.

Your carpet is still coughing,
From the last time you smashed your ashtray to the floor;
The fibres were kind enough to catch the ash particles for you.
That was the seventh breakdown in six months.
You never got over your smoking habits;
The same way you will never get over accidents.

Some people seem perfect until you get to know them and start noticing their flaws.

Some people seem flawed until you get to know them and start discovering a thousand and one things you can love about them.

So, dear you, I wish I'm the second type of person to you, because I know I have nothing much to offer you at first sight. I'm probably a 5/10 to you, a 4/10 on bad-hair days, and a 6/10 with make-up on. I won't rate you, because I don't know how to. You have a generally moderate face, but I love your arms and your hands and your fingers and ******* it, you have no idea how much I wanted to touch them. They're delicate and they look like they're made to wear to finest watches.

And P/S: You always have the ability to pick out the finest watches.

Falling in love is realizing that your hands have other uses besides lifting the boulder of expectations on your shoulders put there by your parents because you're finally good enough for someone.

Falling in love is realizing that your hands have other uses besides opening the door to the house you no longer consider home, not after they've thrown away the mix tapes you made when you were thirteen because "it's *******, music is *******, it doesn't make you money".

Falling in love is realizing that your hands are so unfamiliar with the real world because they haven't touched anything soft in years; they've been clenched for as long as they remember.

Falling in love is your hands learning that there are many different types of fabrics, and that cotton is his favourite because that's what he's usually wearing when you were ******* him and him ******* you.

Falling in love is realizing that arms are also important, especially when the one you love the most breaks down and there is nothing you could do besides to keep him so close to you, so tight, till his breathing slows.

Falling in love is realizing that yes, your hands have extensions called fingers, and yes, they are delicate, and yes, they fit well with his, and yes, the fourth finger is where the ring goes.

Killing myself isn't going to fix my existence. Killing myself isn't going to change the memories people had of me. I'm too miserable to sleep. I am writing this in a hotel room.

If humans had wings,
I would fly off mountain tops.

My heart is hollow
and my mouth is dry

from all the Sorry's
I have said

and should have said.