There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom.
It has been there for weeks.
Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind.
More than someone.
Someones.
No one has bothered its carcass.
Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping.
Someone would notice an infant sleeping.
An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom.
Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.

The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored.
Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out?
Am I light against the dark?
Or dark against the light?
Will I be remembered?
As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made.
Am I the dead beetle?
Will I be the dead beetle?
My life has not been bold.
One may only presume the same of the beetle.
There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out.
I merely exist.
No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away.
As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.

There is a saying that everyone dies twice.
First when you leave the mortal realm.
The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living.
What if you never live and are paid no mind.
Can you really die then?
What if I am not even the beetle?
What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society?
At least the beetle gets a poem.

Quiet
Quiet like baby asleep

Quiet
Quiet like a broken hearted done with crying

Quiet
Quiet like a clock with no energy to move on

Quiet
Quiet like the grave in which we will lie one day

So it is as we sleep

We learn most nights how to lie in there

No arguments

No talk

Just quiet

Like a shooting star

you were there and then were gone.

Searching for your heart.

I am hungry
Tired
Nicotine addicted
Smell of cigarettes take over my room
I am starving and I should keep on going
Punish myself for all I did
For all you did to me
I cannot sleep
I cannot eat for comfort
I need to smoke most of the time away
My heart is beating too fast
Or no at all

do not let yourself fall in love with someone who is similar to me. for someone like myself will kiss you at all of the most beautiful places in the world, just like art galleries, beaches, and sanctuaries, because then you will never be able to visit such places again without having the taste of blood lingering in your lips.

do not let yourself fall in love with someone who is similar to me. if it takes remembering your name among the lonesome souls, i would forget my own if it means remembering yours. i will make you believe that storms are peaceful and that suffering is a pleasure. you will be swept away by the yearning in craving over something that is consistently reaching but never ready to hold you.

do not let yourself fall in love with someone who is similar to me. with someone who are reminiscent like me, i will wreck your home and hurl apologies at you, which will break apart on the floor and hurt you when you walk on them. i will come to fret about having loved you so passionately. i will always be regretful that i gave it my all without stopping to consider that i was becoming increasingly hurting so bad and exhausted. i will always be sorry that i let myself be fooled by the illusion of your love.

do not let yourself fall in love with someone that obviously acts like me—loves like me for the reason that they are all ghosts from the pieces you broke in me. keeping your safe distance from someone like me is not something you should consider doing. people like me are time bombs; when my mission is complete, i will spatter sorrow all over your walls in violent hues that would let you regret your door had never known my name. i'll never master the art of being gentle. despite the weight of our shared history, i would not be flushed away by the chapter of our repressed memories. you will never be free of the shadows you left behind. and the ghosts will forever haunt you.

humans will always find a way to end things and leave.
we always do.

and when i am gone, you will fully understand
the reason why storms are named after humans.

Through mist of mind the thoughts again come lurking out of haze,
a time once given to a true love, giving rise to many blessed days.
Before a heart was torn and severed from my body's very soul,
a time where all of me was contented and felt complete and whole.

Seeming so long ago the memory yet not distant or younger past,
fates promise of true happiness, seemingly written in the di as cast.
Soft words yet still haunt me, once again tears run from my eyes,
as mind recalls the horror moment when heart learned all was lies.

Forever scared and left as broken, shards of who I was before,
no trust in love or hope, so never being able to be something more.
I cannot forsake the memories nor can I choose to hold them back,
for they always start at true love felt before launching a fatal attack.

The memory of that love I lost and the echo of mind "was it real?",
a soul will not let go that there was truth in how "true love" did feel.
So to keep the joy of love once known and how it should be still,
I have need for the memories that invade to hurt me at their will.

the power of a broken heart
fills my cup
and my fingers tremble
and shake when i lift the tear stained glass
i want to be alone
drunk on my sorrows
finally having the right to do so
after so long
of hiding in plain sight.