blinking sunsets creases,
dewy in concepts of me.
to you,
i was perfect.

sweet creation,
swaddled in salmon silk.
your one,
your only.

nestled in your armpit,
hushly hummed stories.
beautiful worlds,
golden mornings.

when did it all go wrong?

i've broken your heart.
i'm sorry that
i'm bad at apologies.
i get that from you.

wet face,
*****,
red throats
empty stares.

hospital lighting,
missing liquor,
endless consumption.
sadness you've never known,
until me.

our silver clouds
still glow at night.
for you,
i will win this war
against myself.

i will become someone
you're proud to know.
your baby still loves you,
and always will.

Four clocks on the wall,
telling me that I’m running out of time.
There’s only me in this ghost-town,
keeper of the hands,
and I have to reset each clock
before it develops a mind
of its own.

The problem arises in that I
am flawed, and slow,
and by the time I have reset
the fourth clock,
the first is taunting me
to run back and start it all over
again.

And what’s worse?
I can no longer tell
whether I have been at this
for hours, days, months, even.
My Hell-shackles are the very thing
I am trying to push back.
I could call it a prison
of my own creation,
but I wouldn’t want to plagiarise God.

I’m having a lot of waking dreams,
like I’m hypnotised. Sometimes,
I hear voices telling me what to do
in catastrophising extremes. Set
back the clocks, or you will die one day.
Set back the clocks. Set back the clocks.
Set back the c—

My thoughts come to me differently.
They find me in the form of riddles
And the form of prose.
Both of which I must pull apart
And study each piece separately
Before I can finally be sure of their meaning.
As if I am 16 again,
Sitting in my high school English class
Debating the meaning of a newly introduced piece of literature,
The only student in the room
Who truly cared
If the author colored the curtain blue
Due to an emotional turmoil he faced
Or simply because he fancied the color.
Because studying the work of literature greats
Who have long since passed from this world
Offers me the smallest sliver of hope
That I might be able decode my own turmoils
And be able to truly face them
Instead of running and hiding
When my mind once again becomes a whirlwind of unintelligible monstrosities
Made of my deeply hidden fears
And hopes that I can’t bear to look at in the light of day.

pouring all the water in the glass, till the glass starts spilling out everywhere
this happens every time she drinks from it
she's fully aware of it, but allows it to keep spilling
wetting her shirt, the floor, and the table
drops on her skin racing to the floor, trying to beat gravity

meanwhile they were in front, watching all of it
wondering why she isn't doing anything to stop it
second-hand embarrassment is what they felt
for the fact that she can't simply drink a glass of water without spilling it all
"what a mess" they thought

nobody wanted to be around that girl
"stupid" and "strange" are words that were used to describe her
because at such an older age, how can she not drink a glass of water?
how can she not control herself?
how does she not think about how uncomfortable it is for others to watch?

she knew what was happening, but continued to let it happen
she watched as everyone judged her, but still kept on going
is it inconsideration or self sabotage?
she wanted to see if they would see past that
but in the end, she realized that was what she was defined as