It's certainly not a fond habit of mine,
But there comes an inevitable time
To redefine the value of every borderline.

Pick apart the pretty pieces
And unfold all their concealing creases;

Can the paling be restored with mere polish?

Our decorous veneer has run dry,
So I'll bid you one final frivolous goodbye.

Albeit I must sincerely confess:
They were never the best,
Ergo it hurt less.

when the year bled into new,
and the cold seeped into our fingers,
and he did not wish me well,
or tell me of his going days,
that is when i knew that we were no more.

when sparks lit up the sky, singing glory,
and i received nothing from him,
no words of resolution or hopeful prayers he had wished, that is when i knew there was no us.

when i lay in my bed, sleeping through the days,
and i found no purpose in my life,
and all i did was weep, calling out for comfort,
that is when i knew it was done.

when he did not speak to me for a month straight,
when he decided it fit to leave me,
to abandon me when he said he'd never,
that is when i knew that there was
nothing there anymore.

when he spent his days conversing with
what he deemed better company,
and left those he loved to their own suffering,
that is when i knew that i did not want him anymore.

when i refused to even think of him,
when i hid my aching under bitterness, anger, hatred,
when i cried at night about what he had done,
that is when i knew i needed to move on.

after all, the year has bled into new,
and new years are all about new things,
why not rid myself of all things pointing back
to the misery he's caused me, including him?
happy new year, darling, you won't be apart of it.

s.e

Daydreams that exist only inside of my head have been laid to rest in the corners of my mind.
Lately, I’ve been looking at the raindrops sliding down my car window and wondering what that feels like to be water. I watched the approaching headlights light up the raindrops like twinkle lights, and my body began to ache for my childhood innocence, for the ability to believe in Santa Claus and his reindeer, in the tooth fairy, in the Easter bunny, and in the idea that I was always going to feel that happy.
Lately, I’ve been watching everyone around me live, and I’ve been wondering what that feels like. My heart feels like a retired opera singer performing to the empty auditorium of my chest that she once conquered. I see my purpose as a single, insignificant star in the sky that I can never seem to find. My bed sheets have become a second layer of skin, and turning the **** of my bedroom door has become one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Lately, I’ve been reading back on my old journals, comparing entries that are a year apart side by side. “This time last year,” I say to myself.
This time last year, I told myself that things will change. The only thing that changed is that I have made a jail cell out of a dorm instead of my home. I am a year older, but I still feel as anxious, exhausted, and defeated as I used to.
Lately, I’ve been daydreaming that I love myself, about being happy, about not feeling out of place, about being where I want to be.
“This time next year,” I tell myself, “This time next year.”
This is the one mistake that I can never seem to learn from.

by: MissPine

Just as I thought in this time of year,
Astonished by the new day, I fear.
Nothing I could do, smile nor cry.
Unusual it is, seems that smile I'll try.
An endless vast scenery is where I am at.
Rigidly I calm as I cover my face with a hat.
Yearn for joy, I desire, for one day, I will be.

it's the year of the horse...
more wealth, better health, less remorse.

i'm counting down the days til i die,
but leaving myself to wonder why.

is keeping you close what i need?
or are you hindering my paths to succeed?

I.
I thought you were the one.
I imagined us flying to Manila, meeting the entire family,
you proposing on the pristine sands of Boracay or
in the small village where you used to play with spiders.
I thought of possible baby names pronounced beautifully
in both of our families' native tongues.

II.
We grew together, abandoned defenses until you were my only confidant.
I still haven’t recovered from the way you used that against me:
Sealing my confessions into bullets in a magazine and making sure
I was centered in the crosshairs of the scope,
a different kind of target practice.

III.
You were my special kind of poison, the kind that slipped through my veins
unnoticed until it corrupted my cardiac muscle and collapsed my lungs.
I ate away at myself until I was small enough not to threaten you,
and even that wasn’t enough.
I finally got the courage to leave you, but I formed a thick cocoon
around my chrysalis of secrets to protect myself from you
and the next.

IV.
It’s been two years and I still have you, your mother,
and every Carlsbad or Mira Mesa area code blocked.
You realized you could invade my voicemail so you rang in 2019,
screaming whiskey-soaked wishes for a better year for us both.
I honestly believe you want that, in your own way.
I wish you the best too, but
I have outgrown you.

On a misty city morning
still resolved to early rising
I came upon a heap of corpses

They were child sacrifices
made to satisfy the fancy
of Christian capitalist and pagan
and a jolly old fat man
who lives at the North Pole

They might have been

growing tall
in a field or on a hill
drinking sunlight
breathing love songs
in answer to caress of wind

But the silent pines
didn't seem to mind
their broken bodies one last gift
filling my chest with fragrant air
and longings
for fields and hills
on a misty city morning