Am I too young to miss the past
Am I too old to enjoy the rain
Too young to notice the change
Too old to be immature

Or maybe too young to think when to blink
in fear I’ll miss the bliss if I stop to think

Or maybe age isn’t real
Just there to control when we do what
When we should be embarrassed to cry,
or when to start to live our lives,
and with a blink of an eye
you’re caught barely alive,
wore out from existence of time

i'm like when 2 am ferociousness met with 5 am alarm
smudged off the **** nuance off the corner of my lips in the dark

back home, drained, phone lighting up except it's not who i missed
make changes, perfect the scars — wipe out the traces that exist
feels like a music video, no cameras anywhere in sight
but i feel them watching, and with every reflex i hope to hide

multiple versions like blind spots behind the walls
were the masks always as potent as planned for them was?

surreal sometimes, watching it slip
i pull the cloak over, can't let it flip
for even a second, for it carries my whole identity
if they truly saw — saw truly for who i am
i don't think they'd even recognize me
faking pills, anti-calamides, the entirety of my existence
look at pictures on my walls, to lose grip over any remaining hesitance

it's in stages
when it happens
undoing my skin, zipping it down and stepping out to breathe
during the nights when it gets as real as it can
i look at my wardrobe, it's filled with masks
who should i be for the day? choosing is a dire task
one that i must achieve, tally all the previous repeats
and it's never the same — midway through, i have to tear myself apart to hold my coop

signs, watch for them
like ants leaving behind a trail to follow
dropping crumbs even tho all they wish to do is swallow
can't carry it all, no matter how much they can borrow
there's moments when it flickers
everything bare just for a second and the world seems to hold
as if waiting, hide it away — telling me — hide yourself whole
this is your chance, run, or settle down
wait, or burn yourself out
extinguishing a flame is impossible when you give the oxygen
give it all to aggravate
in the end, how dare u cry for all the mess it made?
can't kiss the flame, why get close to it in the first place?

there's rainbow fumes slipping through the blacks
the radio playing the album's sixth track
the board up says take right
but there's a figure standing right midway
vision turning bright red, it flashes white
x-rays me through, i can't see the eyes
but they tell me a tale i've long since held
been rotting in the prison for so long
even the wind seems to snap

your eyes speak
like butterflies held in watery imagery
like that one store open 24/7 for the hungry
resembling a payphone hanging off its cord
the voice echoing, "knock knock knock"
you loom in between the dimensions
almost floating, with dragonflies in your palms
stretched out towards me
there's a puddle of rainwater on the ground
a gas burner bright blue and white in the faded background
the screens flash with errors and figures
they walk past, like fishes swimming in an aquarium
the neons slip through the eyes
irises fading into a silvery crash
thousands of people drift by
barely a hundred holding hands
distance separates, time forgives
forgetting is like looking deep into the liminal
knowing there's no ending to this beginning

the streets aren't all too familiar
the buildings carry lives that speak
their windows tell stories — a dozen different endings
the sunshine falls a certain way
creating grey memories across the streets
do shadows overlap each other?
multiple questions — the answers to which lie in the mist

i could scan your eyes
find the me's that exist, see if u see me the way i do
check for pictures in your wallet, in your camera
in your feed, in your head — on your body, on you
but knowing i can't describe it all
describe them for you, i can't seem to stand tall
i'm afraid for you, seeing you walk out
is perhaps the best chance i can take
but a miserly one at that, it's a coward's mistake

should i count them out?
on fingers, i'd say just three
there's more — but facets to multiple sympathies
the major ones though, i call them the protectors

one exists — borderline deceitful
never aiming to hurt, keeping peace closed off
in a loophole, almost
living in boundaries
closed off, hiding in plain sight
having created doors, windows nailed shut
speaking in controversies
it preaches to protect the soul

there's another —
the publicised centre
lives empathetically
provides requests, hearing pleading
walking epiphanies
the bored, tired, sleepy version
meeting eye to eye
smile for smile
never faking, but never loosening the knots either
tie the loose ends just right

the remaining, the original
is a psychological art house
chaotic, musing, no doubt in the dark clouds
writing warfare of the minds
speaking soft, almost gullible
closest, truest, no boundaries like the previous
she lives as she breathes
grief filled in the soul
with a happy-to-go personality
i believe she's the one
except she hides beneath all that is dust
drifting through the mess she's become
it's calming, silent, wrecking havoc amidst
stench of sugar, candied crushes and humor
psychic tutorials, rafting rows of water
she lives in nightmares,
daydreams — almost as if there were none

It was never that bad —
until it was.
Until I tested my luck
and didn’t pass the spoon.

I wasn’t the “good girl”
I had to be.
And it cost me — heavily.
You say I made you.
I knew the rules.
I broke them.
That's how you want me to think, right?

But I know the truth.
You’re a polar bear
to the unaware.
With your crisp white coat.

But even they slip —
leave blood on that coat.

You forgot to check my phone.
I have a video
of you preying on the weak.

But I won’t show anyone.
I won’t fight.

That’s the difference —
between me and the prey.
The prey doesn’t feel bad
for the hunter.
The prey asks for help.

And I?
I stay.

Your coat stays white.

Just hoping you leave me
alone to fight.

The words claw themselves
through miles of skin
and bone.
It is a path carved
of blood and tissue,
a journey made
in the silences
between sentences.

Gagging, coughing
up my thoughts
until I am a mess
of misspoken words
and unfiltered thoughts.
It is a sickness,
and the journey’s end
is a death sentence.

There is a spider in the corner of my room,
and I’m deathly scared of spiders.
But I won’t **** her,
because aren’t spiders deathly afraid of humans too?
They should.
We ****** them, choke them, torture them to death.
We scream and break their eardrums at the mere sight of them,
we insult them.

I would.
If I was a spider, I’d be deathly scared of humans.
But no spiders **** humans and all humans **** spiders.
(Still, spiders are the monsters in every tale)
Why do we try to make everything we’re afraid of
disappear?,
instead of learning to cope
with the fear.

There is a spider in the corner of my room,
and I’m deathly scared of spiders,
but I won’t **** her.

She didn’t choose to be born that way.

It was in a context of words only bound when spoken into existence. Then it became law.
Then it became the Word of Gods.
It became verses to memorize.
To live by.
A thing they coined as “the Narrative.”
Nazareth on steroids.
The birthplace of Saviors judicated in full force.
Henceforth, the Family Bible was conceived;
which was later put through much arbitration to become law.