some people are just old puzzle pieces that no longer fit in these jigsaw puzzles — my palms.
i run high on its comfort — i am no longer the dead air between my riddled words — i am the rust growing in the tips of my steel bed — such lackadaisical sight, it is nothing like cigarettes ashes falling on azalea flowers — it's of no cinematic appeal.
i am a storm in a state of catharsis; feel the last bits of softness break away from my skin. i have outgrown my body and its desperate need to mimick the prettiest poems.
i still bleed, and it looks nowhere like sunsets; i don't have to look like one — feel like one. die like one.
i am all these things. i am everything but the puzzle of who i was — like a mess of relics, blurring altogether into one hazy memory.
these fragile bones come together into something whole something breathing. something human.
and i am no longer a puzzle that breaks at the feel of careless hands. i run high on this comfort. i run high on this clarity.
i am drunk with the thought of them breaking, resembling quartz veins down in the mines.
unzip my arms, this is an enclosure — it is safe from all-seeing eyes.
unzip my skin — i am bag of sorrows and bones waiting to be unpacked in a new rental room. the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh and i sit in the middle of it all: a slashed, opened mail spilling shadows — like a ghost inside a house. a parasite inside a host.
unzip my body:
i am strikingly all things anti-thetical — old dark ugly haunted — a herald of infestation — here:
the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh, the sunset is warm — comforting. the world spins in a blur. and i sit quietly, in apprehension, stuck in the middle of it all.
my sadness is a vagabond that cannot make up its mind. sometimes, it wanders to the farthest places and brings back a box of strange heartaches. other times, it begs to be felt, and i let it in — like an estranged lover coming back in sultry, august nights only to leave in the morning. and i become everything but me. sometimes, i can hear its breath, lingering in the sunless lines of poetry. other times, it kisses my most familiar scars. i yield, hoping for my skin to stop bruising so **** easily where gentle kisses fall. my sadness is a vagabond and i am yet to draw the blinds. i am yet to shut my windows and lock the door. one day, these ribs won't be prison bars — they will be for keeping out unwelcome, uncertain wanderers. they will be on my side of the battle.
and i will wake up, safe, without an estranged lover lingering on the doorstep — without its scent lingering on my skin.
i will wake up — me. me. me. grounded. not a tabernacle to be carried off. not a skin for sorrows to wear.
some things, too soft for my careless hands — nectarine kisses and sunlit skin. the quiet highs of being held, like dahlias dying after a month. vervain wrists dipped in a borrowed prose. your heart — and mine; my love, some things, too soft to not break in my hands.
my face is an open casket; hear it recite obituaries and watch the mourners cheer and throw wild roses at my feet; it's where the rot has started spreading — like whispers. like applause. rising, until my skin resembles raw obsidians until i am no more.
watch me hang from the ropes — in hypnotic grace, like suspended light flying, swaying. a circus freak. a certain state of decay. watch me fall: a weightless, motionless thing in the shadows.
yet the curtains fall and mourners leave one by one — their wrists, stamped with lilac ink.
a vigil. a funeral.
a freak show and its curtain call.
lay a cloth on this open casket. i do not want to be seen anymore.
slice my tongue until the pieces resemble flower petals — until poems tremble on my very lips. on summer afternoons, they will look like the dried amaranths on your bedside table — in a city apartment you left. slice my tongue until the pieces resemble smoky quartz. it will sit quietly — each side showing the wild and quiet ways of aching. slice my tongue until it heals its wounds — until the sunset casts what's left of its light, and maybe my state of decay will finally look beautiful.
i will hold a gun to my throat myself, yet somehow, it is less violent than the casual words of a god.
mad girls don't cry wolf; they die. they disappear, like cobwebs in a darkened corner. in the shadows, watch me dangle with a slip knot of fuchsias.
in the shadows, watch me dig this body up, until there is a layer of skin and black lips and lithium quartz and clichéd promises you haven't touched. after all, archaeology is just an excuse to look straight at my remains.
in the shadows, let my skin cave in; i will take everything down — every misery, every deception, every corruption, and every light. i will ***** out the ******* sun if it kills me, leaves me cold as bygone walls.
yet somehow, it is less violent
than to be loved by a god, until he doesn't. to be loved by a god, but it isn't.
all the weight of the night sits on my shoulders, like a ****** of crows pecking on a graying bruise — i cave under; my entire skin — it falls apart, in grace, from the constant touch, like liquid mercury; such an anomaly, such an irony, such words mused, lying there in a trance-like state under all the weight of the night. i wish it takes with it my sorrows the second it lifts itself.
yet, i remain.
soon, the dawn will creep and break, eventually, from holding me up in vain.