I consider existence an opportunity:
Think of the trillions upon trillions of would be humans denied life.
How is that I, a person so nondescript, could be afforded this opportunity?
How am I able to exist when so many others can't?

How is that I exist in this millisecond within the hour?
A millisecond between the stars and the monarchs.
Who would I be if I didn't exist right here?

Fleeting. That's how I would describe this.
I may live to be ninety or I may live just one more day.
It all feels the same.
But will I?

I'm just clamoring for one more day.
But why do I clamor?
Why do I clamor for another day of complacency?

I enjoy this opportunity that I have yet to truly fulfill.
It's a matter of when, and not if.
Who will I be when the reaper comes knocking at my door?
Will I be who I am now?
If so, what a waste of a precious opportunity.
Will I be something better?
Could I be?

you have cheated me—
and now i am going to skin you alive .
.

forgotten ,
i am desperate to be swallowed whole
as you look right through me
like a window,

in greens and grays...
i could be rotting,
d y i n g .
.

and i know you would still not see
me whole .
.
.

so ,
am i just a walking corpse
to you ?

my face
merely
unrecognizable flesh?

eyes like little pearls ,
the sky is pink and i can’t even cry ...
and still you are standing
t a l l .
            .
              .

but even invisible,
i know i can still hold a knife and
i can still know
rage.

and you can still pretend that i don’t exist ,
praying
that i never try to **** you.
.

break a toilet
mirror
and
look at it.

indifferent.

our love doesn’t exist.
but i can tell you about our love.

our love is like gold dust in a miner’s pan,
soft and glimmering, sparkes lost in the world,
thrown haphazardly across the sky.

our love is warm like a summer evening and gentle like the cool breeze you feel when you
fly on playground swings.

our love is that pent-up feeling before a rainstorm,
charged air and a sense of something to come.

our love is like the rainstorm,
soft and loud and enriching.
it’s in the air i breathe, and i’d breathe it all the time.

our love is like blueberries in a red wagon
-aesthetic, cold and sweet.
i taste every time i encounter you.

our love is the curious look on girl’s face,
awkward and longing to know,
to accept this feeling.

the feeling that doesn’t exist.

As she looks through the years,
She can't stop her tears;
When everyone talked about her luck,
She didn't knew where she'd stuck;
None can be aware how she feels,
Neither she'd found something that heals;
She cared about hearts of everyone,
While they forgot, she too have one;
Everything's falling apart,
Now she owns a burning heart;
When each thing went wrong,
She decided to stay strong;
Trying to live with little hope,
Finding ways for to trouble to cope;
Yes she will live,
With an other motive.

your feelings for me are twisted and unlisted
yet you're the person who keeps crossing my mind
I can't say that I never resisted
to keep our strings from being intertwined
but I know
the version of you that I knew so well
is no longer my precious freak show
you aren't my favorite thing for show-and-tell
anymore

I exist in his lower lip,
and upper teeth.

I exist in the way he used to say my name,
twisted and voluptuous.

I exist in the shade of his black curtains,
the last breathe of his cigarette,
and the slow sip of his drink.

I exist in the backseat of his car,
3 a.m sharp on his wrist watch,
and every knock on my bedroom door.

I exist in the sake of our past,
in every attempt of forgetting him without losing myself,
but I do not exist in his memory.