they say don’t let the emotions gain control over your body.
But that is *******.
Actually — let it.

Let yourself fully feel every little bit of emotion
you always tried to hide so stubbornly.

And use it.
Gain energy from it.
And use it to heal
yourself.

Lightning lives
between your fingers,
flashing silver inside
a handful of night

suturing blood
with exigence
through a needle’s eye,

with one hand kissed
by a shower of shrapnel
and the other twisted
in an infinite thread

tunneling light with
sublime precision.

Your needle
closes each gap open
with the cloth of Love
being woven

and each gap closed
holds me in this
lancinating tension,

as I slumber deep  
in the currents of
your halcyon arms,

this world remains
tender and unbroken.

She was mine.
Not a car, not a pet,
Not something to own—
She had a life of her own.

But—
My eyes are mine,
My heart is mine,
For they are a part of me.
Without them,
I am incomplete.

"Take a break everyday,
Grieve what burdens you", they said
I chose my tea time
One hour in the evening, everyday
But I do not know why
It never seems to end
When one ends,
The other starts
The sun rises, the sun sets
Day ends, a new day starts
But I have a tea break
That just never ends

The further
I moved away
from my traumata
the closer I see
them running towards me

It’s like a parasitic
relationship
I let them happen
I let them stay
thinking that
if I bought them
a jersey
with
“norm” stitched on it
I would fall for
their play

there's a night where I look up at the ceiling
the same way I do every night
and won't see pity in the
love that is left over.
I'll take it as what it is.
I'll stop trying to choke it out of me,
like it doesn't belong with me.
As if my love doesn't make me who I am.
I'll stop taking your lack of reciprocation
as a declaration of war
to prove to you I'm worth being seen.
I won't mistake convenience as connection
attention as affection.
I won't rebuild my heart with solid pieces.
I'll still love in colors and respect.
when that night comes I'll still love you.
I'll always love you, but not in ways that flood my eyes
or in ways that can physically make me feel my heart shatter.
I'm not afraid of loving you from a distance anymore.
I'm not afraid of the version of myself
that has moved forward from you.

It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gap, heal their rifts - those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to give shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm - through and through.

But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore.
How tight is its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?

These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.

For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal - and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel - as I carve their seats in shapes of departure. These skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.

My past was but a dream - ready to slide and crumble like a leaf.
My weariness is universal. My knowledge, heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.

Let me feed those roots anew.