I brought back a string of pearls
from the cemetery of vows.
It camouflaged a black dot;
size of the berry seeds.
I felt like a magnet to its deceiving hue.

As I move it over my wrist,
the dot sticks to my transparent veins.
Streams of blood absorbed the maleficent mellow,
furnishing me to be the new home.

A spider crawls under my toes in lust,
intoxicated by the warmth of my veins.
Do not waste a drop, I cried,
guiding it to drain me out of blood.

Today is my day.
A test to impress the Master.
To prove my dark is worthy,
skilled enough to be a successor.

The dead settled in me; one by one.
They hunted for life in every corner,
raided the deepest pit.
My black was satisfying.
They dressed me in the cloak of death.
I laughed at my desperate attempt to be the new Master.

The final round,
A fight with the Master himself.

He strikes a hole through me,
the void was known yet distant.
I want the throne,
I slash him in two by the cut of my heart.

Do storms ever feel lighter?

And I hope you miss her so much; I hope the warm glow of her skin, and the aimless walks, and the sound of her laughter, and the blackberry kisses dipping on your tailbone were all worth it — spoiling what I'd hoped was pure.

Delicate.

Home.

And I hope it's hauntingly beautiful — the way she looked at you like you were all the sunsets I've left behind. I hope you would run out of breath everytime she smiled against your neck. I hope the mere way she said she loved you unsettled your knees. And I hope it hurts — the mere thought of her not saying it — no longer saying it. And I hope you at least loved her so much, for those stolen times that you were together; I hope it was beautiful. Magical. And I hope it felt like coming home. Otherwise, you broke my heart for what wasn't even worth it. You broke my heart for nothing.

Where do I start in letting you go?

It's not in the ruminations. All they'll long for are simpler, purer times, back when loving me was everything you ever knew — back when sighing your name didn't hurt. Now it's a whisper, settling on the ground long after the woodsmoke has stopped lingering. Now, it's just a memory settling deep in an open wound.

And love, where do I start in letting you go? My hands are still bruised from writing poems, when you already were handing me crumpled paper roses — all etched with endings I was afraid to write. The moment you kissed her lips, did you already let me go? Now here on my shoulder rests the weight — the mess of it all. Tell me, what do I do with these words, falling helplessly on my lap? What do I do with all this hurting? What do I do with all this love?

And where do I start in letting you go, when my shaking hands still refuse to confront your absence? When my throat still refuses to abandon all yearning — a wounded huntress that still screams for the moon. And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after your skin had been tainted by her lips, ghosting gently — forming into the sweetest of smiles.

And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after you had drowned August's promises against her hair when you'd deepen your kiss — after you had surrendered September's 4 a.m.s, November's love letters, December's midnight rains, January's stove-lit dances, February's moonlit walks, March's Irish teas and solitude, and April's quiet peace — all of it, spoiled, in the name of her kiss. Now all of it — in ruins, lying, waiting patiently for a can of worms, burrowing their way into everything I held dear.

Rome didn't burn down in a day. I wish I would. I wish we would; what's left in ruins won't ever hurt.

And so love,
where do I start in letting you go?




// "Tell me all the ways of letting you go."