they said that my collarbones
was a fascinating sight,
my bones looks as if they're dying to escape
like how words fall from my mouth.
so i avoided things that could fill me
and satisfied myself with the feeling of hollow.
maybe the one can effortlessly lift me
as we kiss in the pouring rain
and i would never have to squeeze lemons
into a fabric again.
my bones will form a sharp edge
preventing people from hurting me again
and someday, i will feel safe.

although there would be nights
of scratching my skins and biting my lips
until i can taste again - a sense i havent used in days.
there would be pain from the center
i will cry but they will stay.
because people only likes to touch beautiful & frail things.
the more ethereal you look,
the more they'll handle you with care
and thats the saddest truth i learned.

i will continue to make myself look like a stick
so maybe people will stick with me.

there is a hole in my tooth
but there is bigger one in my soul.
i will lay my head against my pillow again
longing, pleading that every breathing
wouldn't expand the hole within me.
every joke i have to ***** out of me
every laugh i have to hurt my ribs to execute
every smile i have to crack my skin to present
because they are only there when you're happy.
my academics will yell at me for marking it so slow
but how can i listen to the lectures
when the voices inside my head are louder than my teacher?
each moment of my life
i am accompanied with a screaming will to live, asking for its life
and i will realize that i'm the only one who is killing it.
it is difficult to help yourself
when your own murderer is you.
i will hate every moment
when i have to be alone
because alone means silence
and i can hear them more
i tug my hair hoping that with every pulled follicle
will vanish the ghost that lives in me.
it is hard to feel okay with people
when it is programmed in your brain
that every person has their bad side
and you are its trigger.
my world has completely turned black & white
no grey, no hue, nothing in between.
and here comes another day of
right first before left,
closing your stomach before it inflates,
joining the hateful voices in your head
i am my own murderer
and i will not cry until i drown myself in the ocean of my own pain.

and here we are again
on this page of a book called dreams.
as the moon & the city becomes our lightbulb
and the end of your cigarrette burning
like how time burns when we're together.
on our blood are paint produced by love
and we color these streets with the color of romance.
in that moment we understood
why people call life a jigsaw puzzle
because everything is falling into pieces
and here forms the picture we were always trying to build.
we understood why painters
mix different hues of a color to create a new hue of that color
because a hue that's a little bit different
wouldn't fit into this painting we call "right now."
the words and the world molds into one
and turning the page doesn't make sense.

but we cant help but roll the thought
of a burned out cigarrette being thrown to the ground
once it no longer gives warmth & light.
we cant help but lose the passion
and we'll brush a lighter shade of color
because something is missing & we cant seem to find it.
slowly by slowly puzzle pieces will be misplaced
and we wont understand this picture anymore.
one day, we'll push each other away
unbeknownst to you and me
then we'll be similar poles of a magnet
which will drift apart from each other.

i will be pained
and although i'll wish you'll miss me
but i hate seeing you hurt
so i'll just hurt myself with the mere thought that your mouth wont form my name again
and every memory of us that you'll remember
you'll wish to forget
while i am here holding on to every bit of you that i can grasp.

so whenever someone tells you they wont hurt you
or you'll say your love is greater than your intention of pain,
remember that your heart is a muscle the size of your fist.

let's escape the world for a while,
leave all our worries behind,
cause you're the only thing that makes me smile.
we can plan our adventures if we must,
or wander different paths until dusk,
just take my hand and we'll run away,
to a place where we will spend the rest of our days.

months ago i left my home
because it was a tragedy.
the place where i never felt alone
starts to feel so crowded and heavy.

so i wrote my lines into your palm
and you took me everywhere you go.
walking to the middle of east & north,
unsure of where we would end up but we knew we currently stand
and that what truly matters, right?

there were times when i would miss my childhood bed
but you offered me your chest
and suddenly i refused to lay down somewhere other than you.
there were times when i would miss
them and their memories
but you make each moment of my past before you
unworthy of reminiscing for the lack of euphoria they hold.
and there would nights where i would miss being okay
because we are constantly moving
city to city in a world where i don't wanna stand in
but you, for just being you, make me glad to be alive.

and the stars hide at night
for they would always be set aside
because i will always favor your eyes.

but there were also nights
where you'd forget to hide the cracks of your sin.
and the light that escapes your broken lines
shines through the dark night, keeping me away from sleep.
there goes your light
shining from your interior
it was so bright as can be,
it blinded me from reality.
you were a hypnotic drug
that commands my feet to follow
you wherever you go.
i gave you my nights & rhymes
and all you gave me is toxic fumes.

you had me the moment your secondhand smoke entered my body
and you marked me the moment your
toxic-laced smoke clouded my air.

your heart and my heart
are now located at the ends of a line.
like intersecting lines,
we were once perfect at one point
but for some reason,
we had drifted from each other.
all i could stare it is the starry night
but i don't like stars,
i don't know where we are
and i don't know where to go
though, i'm glad as hell i wasn't where i used to be.
there are nights where you'll suddenly throw rocks at my window.
the moment you'll lay your head on my shoulders,
it will always feel like home.
you were home
and just like my previous one,
you are a tragedy.

i am not good with words
i was never good at literature
never good at fathoming
my thoughts, cries, and pleads into lines and rhymes
always on the look out
for words that i can never understand
and metaphors that dont match
but i'll use them anyway because i thought they'll look nice.
i was never good at poetry,
always forgetting to water
the flowers on my tongue
so they just wither away
and the soil of my literature
will run dry as the pen on my table.
i was never good at using words
as an outlet of my shriveling thoughts
i
never
knew
when
to
hit
the
enter
key
i was never good at this.
but your ears were always closed
and your eyes were always open,
on the look out for your next lover
so here i am.
a girl with poetry for lips and paint fir blood.
here it is.
my poetry,
in all of its pain & glory.

how kind is the planet
that it continues to
rotate around its orbit,
giving us both warm and cold
despite the bombs we explode
in its scalp?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to sprout
leaves and fruits
to fulfill our empty, needing stomachs
yet we cut of its green hair
and cover the brown & green with grey?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to force away
humongous space rocks from colliding with us
regardless of the hatred
that walks around it's crust?
one day the planet will get so tired
of pushing space rocks
like how tired we get from
pushing our own kind away
and one day, our memories
will turn to dust that will
float in the deep, unmeasurable universe.
but the ashes of earth
will find it's way back into our bones.