it wasn’t until that very night,
my wounds and scars finally learned
how to sit in comfort,
pressed against your skin
like dry, cold petals
and just watching the chaosity
from the melancholic stars,
passing through the dead of night
to such euphonious melody
has swept our hearts completely
to settle for more of nights like this

-a.

we picked out certain ill truths
that we could never speak enough of
we looked for better ways
to undo what we are not
we sort of became
the sick, godawful version of ourselves amidst
all other demons that,
more often than not
the same trigger they try to pull from us
made our waking constantly seems
a little dead

-a.

they say,
“you were put on this planet to feel
every feeling you could”,
so please stay,
the past has probably taken
the finest or bitter part of your becoming
the present
could still be your next closet full of enemies,
triggering past your shadows
but the future, God,
even the future begs nobody
to question the look of heaven

so, inhale this gift, they call life
and strike those
who dare disturb your universe
with absolute nerves,
fully drawing all their weapons in
then create them into your favorite kind of warfare

-a.

my flawed lips,
a little wounded
thus,
these words settle
in ink

-a.

we all clearly seem
so good at punishing ourselves,
creating new burdens
and then
adding such odd truths into our vessels
we eventually forget
how and wonder
if it’ll turn out to be a much harder fight
or not

above all else,
where do we even stand over these
unforgiving ground
in this goddamned society,
what seems
to be the urgency of such bitter disputes
between us against the world?

-a.

maybe
when He was writing our love story
and halfway,
a little something triggered his gut and mind
in a sort of way,
the soft hush falls in between
both sides of the moon,
as we try to write our part
of all that we’ve fed to our souls,

maybe He figured,
our wounds and messes
were what made the stars rise as much,
yet enough
for us to still be able to look up and see love
the same way we always did

thus, He stood and watched,
unstirringly
still spilling those ink away
to our next life

-a.

we are all filled
with a little death inside
but that’s not what makes some of us hungry
for some kind of healing
you see,
the war in our bodies
has dug more than enough craters
that illustrates poorly on our skin
and we’d rather write it all in blood
since coaxing
feels a little almost threatening
to our souls

-a.

you once told me,
“I don’t deserve to feel such sadness,”
but you see,
I can never rise to that level
between
the remembering
and unremembering of it
since
it’s often been nested into a home

yet,
right before I became unaware
of how the stars came up twice as bright than usual,
is where
I actually found love in it as well

at least,
for a little while,
I know what it feels like to be loved back

-a.

apparently,
we all have to do our bit
to stop feeling a little less foreign
so whenever
the devil takes a piece of your memory,
let loose
of all the fuck ups
you kept saving for later
especially tonight,
I think the storm’s looking
a little too tempestuous

-a.

well,
if you’d like me to be honest,
and I could try to play God
even for a day,
I’d grind all their judgments to dust
since apparently,
noticing how we'd
wake up to battle wounds and scars
seems like a faint, pleasing sight

I’d make damn sure
we’re settling the score right
and
they’ll be biting their own bullets back

-a.