Sure, it may be like death;
this agonizing, vicious pain.
But you can decide to end it in two particular ways;
either you allow the torment to destroy you merciless,
or shape you into a person deadlier than before.

There is a probability where you might succumb to madness,
but that is something inevitable.
Does it matter?
Madness favors you by casting a shadow over your own vulnerability.

Something more than you can ever ask for.

— Y.H.

delirium,
gentle fervor.

The sound of your voice,
Ignites a fire within me.
Gorgeous, dancing flames,
Replace the darkness inside my body,
With light.

Suddenly, I wince with pain.
The light falters,
As the realization hits:
My innards are being scorched.

At first, the flames displayed such beauty,
And blindingly dazzled.
I took no notice of the slow burning,
Charring my innocence.

Silencing you,
Was the only way to put out the fire,
And slowly begin to heal.

Robbing you of your voice,
Means eliminating your existence,
To me.

He speaks to me of courage and strength, of warriors and great men,
I speak to him of the courage and strength that it takes to show his vulnerabilities, of warriors that fight for peace, of men who use their greatness for equality.
He wakes in the morning ready to take on the world, his armer shinning and strong, his walls of protection surrounding him.
I urge him to stay in bed, just a little longer, so that when he rises, his armer stays in his dreams and his walls exist only in his nightmares,
He pain is in the past, in the fears of the future, both non existent in this moment, and yet this moment is not his.
I whisper to him, to let it go, let it be, to be present.
He hears me, he understands, yet without feeling there is no truth to understanding, and knowing will never be his,
I let him be, this fight is his.
He knows I am there and I know that he will be brave enough.

I.
the silence after a fight threatens me to ask if you're okay. but i know you aren't, so i don't ask anymore. though i want to hold you and tell you that if i could have your hurt in my hand and throw it across the sky, i would make it rain.

II.
there are heights we go through to hurt each other, the effort is much appreciated after we fall from them. but imagine what we could do if we started climbing our expectations.

III.
things we know by heart soon become things we know by bruises and a sting on the back in the morning. try as we might, there is now a history here and as we ignore it, there will only be more to follow. it scares us both to the point that we have to sleep on the floor on opposite sides of the bed. in different rooms. across different cities.

IV.
there was a four letter word and it began with you, maybe there were three words and eight letters. but i wouldn't want to give you that satisfaction anymore, wouldn't i?

V.
we won't help ourselves when it comes to someone new. our favorite past times are now replaced by looking for reasons why we don't deserve other people. and for every reason, a flower in our hand. for every flower, a eulogy. though i am not as strong as to speak to your remains, i will appreciate you in graveyards with gardens in my hand.

VI.
i could not keep my teeth together when you speak to me through dead air. you give my mind only white noise to filter into miscommunication. ears only drum your words as impulses you won't remember. i won't either. we are locked in liminal silence, there is no key nor a lock. there are only rough translations of our understanding on past intentions, so we do not speak. we wave  farewells. this is the best we do when we try to act decently towards each other.

VII.
i question my own mouth. there is no denying that it is a gun and all i do is shoot. i know not all of my words will hit you and i am just another game of russian roulette. and we both know what's at stake. i try my best at taking aim against my own bets. but how can i, when the target is more lethal than the trigger?

VIII.
there was a silence after the fight that threatened me to ask you to leave. no further reasons. i hope you know the sun finally rose on my side of the bed. i just wish you had taken the rain with you.

IX.
every bullet in this poem is loaded into my mouth. i will save them for when you kiss me and when you do, i might put the safety on. i don't think i can shoot.