You deserve someone who can look pain in the eye — an insignia of heartbreak with your name written all over it; your trembling sighs — like rust, lingering over their rosegold lips, and still, not forget that they love you.

I always write about love
and think I'm into it
And think of its twist and turn,
It wasn't that easy to love and
To be loved.
Each day we're swooning by
The comfort of the Sun,
I could not remember the last time
The light had left me;
No one would ever take a glance
on their dark times.

I know, I am complete--  living on a guarantee that
The stars will hold on into the night,
Each night where you will hear the
Swan's lullaby
And in morning, you will embrace
The thoughts of last night's catastrophe.

The ocean is always deeper than what we can see. Maybe to hold a place for sorrows. No matter, bind me. Hold me down with a stone carved with the words to a funeral song. Sink me into the water until my skin resembles it — a deep, dark place for sorrows. A deep, dark place for a grave.

The ocean is always deeper than what naked eyes can see.

How much more breaking do I have to do until my heart numbs itself? I am sick of this routine — my chest sewing itself just to be ripped apart once more. I wish I can leave it be — an open wound for the flies. And yet, how many more wounds are there until there is no healing scar left to tear? I am sick of this routine. Tonight, I wish my heart would just tear itself into a handful of benumbed pieces. And tomorrow would stare at me — an aftermath of a storm. A heaving curiosity. A girl, lying in pieces and with no heart left to break.

A friend asked me
“What do fish do all day?”
and I replied
“Find a way to survive,
eat and keep moving
and hope that when it comes
time to die
death finds you
in the least painful way it can,
exactly what humans do,
but without knowing
the painful truth
that their life didn’t mean much
in the first place”

In all ways, I have lined up my scars and written them insincere apologies; each word — a mockery and a transgression carelessly thrown in the night. I have allowed dread to settle deeply between my collar bones: an arrow buried between antlers until it unsettles and chokes. I have sewn sadness into my skin, like a dainty, silk sundress; worn it to church and to the funeral mass of a little girl I had to ****. She'll never know how much I mourned her, how on some nights, I still do. In all ways, I have looked at my skin, my fingers, and calves, and tailbone and saw a body that's never known gentleness or summertime souls or the gentle falling of the rain.

So after all of that, how, then, can I hold my heart now, without ever breaking it?


Tell me — how long can I hold my heart without ever breaking it?

there is no clear transition,
not one i noticed anyway
triggers caused at eighteen are not the same
as the triggers at twenty four
I don’t know if that’s better

when will I get over the need to make something of myself?

what i want is only a collection
of what reflects back to me
as i find my purpose in being alive.
you can only do so much with the resources
you are born into

I do not have enough to be free

The desire to love
and be loved
is hard wired
in every human being

No matter, how hard you try
You just can't
Pull the plug
Or pretend
You don't care...

Don't you see

The moon can't stop
pulling the tides
even it is
A Dead Sea...

It sounds like cliche
But you
Make me
Fall for you
Everyday