~ hologram

you hologramed
into my bedroom last night,
not the version they see,
but the one I met
in the quiet
between performances.

the no-performance you.
the one who didn’t need
an audience
to be real.

my brain short-circuited
at the sight.
grief glitching into desire.
fury looping into longing.
because I’ve been angry.
at the gods,
at myself,
but mostly
at you.
at the cowardice.
yours.
my own.

not just the cowardice
to surrender,
but to escape.

you called it clean.
you called it kind.
but your silence bled so loud
I tasted the iron
on my own tongue.

you said,
we both know what this is.
we do.
not in the beginning.
but somewhere along
the slow descent,
when we crossed a line
we pretended not to see.

you never named it.
neither did I.
not in my writing,
not in whispers,
not even in the bathwater
where my thoughts go to drown.

because naming it
would mean letting it live.
and if it lives,
what am I supposed to do
with some thing
that can’t?

but not naming it
doesn’t make it vanish.
it just carves itself
into my ribs
without consent.

and still,
I hate myself.
for feeling it.
for feeding it.
and I hate you
so much more
for knowing
and choosing
not to.

and if you ever want to
shatter what’s left,
just say
you’ll always wonder.
because I do.
and I wander
with it.

I’m drained
My strength lessen
Too tired to continue
I want to give up

    But my heart won’t stop beating for my deepest desires
    My eyes won’t stop seeing me as the future of fashion and searching for more
     My legs won’t stop walking or crawling
     Even my pen won’t writing

I’m tired
My heart
My eyes
My legs and my pens won’t stop telling me I can’t stop until my dreams come true

hotly simmering in my veins,
just beneath the surface.
i'll have it any other way.

making small talk,
i'm acting as if i'm not adraid.
but i'm oh-so sick of
the talking, dancing around, ghosting.
rinse n' repeat,
i'm gonna keep this away.

but i want it,
but any other way.
'cause it's so nauseating
chatting, smiling, being a little flirt,
then curling up in bed.

and it is still simmering hotly, in my veins.

i'm on edge,
this i must confess.
i want, no i need to hold her face
i need the stars aligned today,
the cosmos leads my fate
and i need her in this place.

'cause it's blue and gray in here,
but she's my sunflower
could order the sun to face her,
such greatness...

and i would kneel for her, would stand by her,
would leave the rest away.

so i'll have it any other way...

Sitting in my room,
time drags, slow and heavy.
Is this what it means to mature?
Sitting, studying, working—
or does the weight of it make me feel grown?

I feel tired,
yet the hours demand more.
Working, working...
this night stretches long,
a weary silence pressing in.

Barking sounds stir me—
had I drifted off?
Is this what it means to mature?

I am tired of the tiredness itself
which is even to tired to consume me,
so that I could go through the digestive system of tiredness
and come out again,
at least those parts of me,
that the bowels of tiredness can't digest.

a blue
hue
disperses
pain
in
my
veins
i
see
my
pale
reflection
in
purple
dewdrops
i
don't
know
why
impassive
moments­
are
icy
fogs
i
was
tired
of being
tired
from the
onset
of depression
i
am
fed
up with
my
ennui