You know what bothers me a bit?
Everytime I recall a memory,
Casually, in my train of thought,
It almost always ends with-
“That was a hard time in my life.”
Even in recollections full of kind
That’s almost always
The following thought in my mind.
And damned if I can find a period of time
That hasn’t been, that wasn’t.
But it doesn’t matter what was…
Or does it?
Yes… yes, it does.
Satan himself is an angel compared to you.
No one could save her, she was already gone.
She had died inside a long time before.
She was so good at faking, she fooled herself into believing she was happy.
They tried to save the body, not the girl
All the alcohol in the world couldn't numb the pain I feel tonight.
It's not your fault for leaving, it's my fault for trusting you to stay.
Don't call me your angel when you almost made me one.
And nobody could foresee the you, you turned out to be..
You thought you could spread your legs
to the first stranger who spoke your name,
but even then you were so ashamed of your skin,
the marks and scars of the body you were born in
that you eloped.
You never came back.
You asked what you had to do to be loved.
To be wanted.
It was all you've wanted.
The first boy whom you confessed to smiled, amused,
and asked, so?
It's the question you've been trying to answer all your life.
Your first kiss was at eighteen, ugly and untouched.
He only wanted your body,
but you've forced yourself to think otherwise.
It is so sad to live in your own body,
to watch him watch her,
watch her link her arm around you and starts
telling you about her problems
oh, you had them too.
but you were just a listener,
with ears always, always open.
you felt like a mute. your mouth filled with sand.
Do they know how much you love yourself?
You had to.
You were trying, but no. You were not enough.
At night he is always there, in your bed.
Your brother, i mean. Whispering how much he loves you.
But in the morning he is gone
and you have not seen him ever since.
This does not make sense.
No, no more questions.
Nothing will ever make sense.
Today, you texted a boy who used to love you,
and when he didn't text,
you nodded to yourself.
it's alright. you expected this. be calm. don't panic.
your friends call you the queen of sarcasm, of loudness.
Some asked why you were always so depressed.
Depressed. Empty. Sad. Vulnerable.
It's all you've ever been since the day
you saw the front door close behind your father.
Since the day you left your own country.
But your days no longer revolve around your mother's sadness, or your father's violence.
And you are too old now. No more lighting candles. No more days of fresh hotel sheets and smells of sunscreen.
In December, a boy confessed he liked you.
You didn't want to choose him because you were lonely.
And when you wanted to choose him
because you were lonely, he was not there.
You thought if he comes, you would give him all your love.
All the yellow light you've been hiding in your heart.
You wanted simplicity. Love and his eyes.
Stop, this is getting too long.
I am a rambler that takes his job seriously
Nestled under the bridge away from light
So that those who cross fear my words
Omniscient among the belief I am alone
Married minds think the rambler crazy
No one dare tell me, unable to join me
Isolated instances have come and gone
A story the rambler holds in secret
Curable only by hiding it in his rambles
A disillusioned nightmare knocking at my door,
gaining on me,
skidding through the floor;
fragility is fractured,
hallucinations are a hoax,
and it's certain that clouds,
not blood clots, were meant to float,
so when the mirror curves,
like a dagger for the conscience,
every nerve frays like an abandoned fabric,
torn, shredded, limp and unseenly,
even night terrors are afraid of scathing reality.
Funny how when I write diary entries,
they're nothing but cryptic,
just in case someone else manages to read it,
because my fear consumes me,
and Roosevelt was right,
as the only thing to fear
is what keeps me up at night.
People underestimate words on a page,
but it dictates every single way
we move and interact
each day and how the world
and I sit here wondering what's wrong,
why can't I see
some words have used me
their appeal, too strong,
and I couldn't tell them
how wrong it'd be to follow
every move they make
leaving me stranded
by my own mistakes.
It's hard to claw at the truth
when it hides, evades,
and no matter what you want
it just won't stay,
maybe it's supposed to be
impossible to find
cause I haven't taken the time
to stop reflecting
on such derelict
themes and open my eyes
to what's new to seize,
it means something
when you've closed yourself off
and every sound
seems like another damn wall
it's hard to know when
you're always told stop
instead of go.