it finds itself
so exhausted
it struggles
to differentiate
between
its dreams,
its nightmares,
and the reality
Sun brings along
as she awakens
each morning.

Sometimes I wonder
if I'm even living at all --
is this view of the river
caressing its bending banks
just a consequence of perception,
or is there an underlying meaning
highlighting life's realism,
tangible proof confirming
our collective fear,
that we are nothing
but a miniscule deviation
in the fabric of this life.

Views of a highway
tarped in a blanket
of rolling vehicles
fade into a portrait
of a sharp river's curve,
a creeping tide
marching alongside
the green density,
tiny bungalows stacked high,
hidden deep in the foliage
licking the water's edge.

Twenty-three years
of blood coursing through
has led me to this moment;
two full seasons of inner turmoil
compounded with the ferocities
of self-preservation, of self-healing,
surmounting to an inescapable reward,
one of recognition for the atrocities
woven through embroidered experiences.

This collection is a mirror
reflecting the very words
that attempted to restrict
themselves in the depths
of my haunted mind;
a journey of trial and error,
a rediscovery of the mechanics
of my persona, of the ways
I find myself surpassing
each obstacle standing in my way.

Stringing words together
to create a tangible obituary
mourning the losses never believed
I could transcend; I release
the demons dictating my life
as a puppet, accept the past
for what it will always be,
welcome myself with ease,
treat myself with kindness,
allow myself to heal, to live,
to thrive, to grieve those
undeserving of remembrance,
a valor of undisputed disloyalty,
one of generational trauma
bestowed upon those
kind enough to try.

This is my transition
to a new era welcoming
me with outstretched arms.

Even when rays of sunlight
bask down on the currents
rippling through verdant ravines,
a lofty heaviness persists
despite the sanguine summer haze.
Strolls in the sunrise
and midnight ponderings
are no match for the humidity
of the day; clothes cling to skin,
dampening not from heat,
but from the moisture
that falls as mist
in the dead of night.

You are the humidity
of summertime existence;
invisible to the eye, yet
ever-so-present, a constant
reminder of the obscurities
concealed from perception.

Obsidian ink courses through my veins,
antiquated insults tattooing my tissue,
repressed memories parasitizing my skin;
these open wounds have festered for too long,
rotten pus oozing from within. Emotional apathy
is something I yearn for, the desire to simply forget
the love I once convinced myself I held for you.

Several attempts have been made
to erase the blemishes on my persona;
anxiety, self-consciousness, suicidal tendencies
have adorned the walls of my healing,
a journey I've embarked on with no light
to lead the way. I've tried and failed,
prided and embarrassed myself,  
built identities I wished I had,
convincing myself they were endemic to me.

I've traversed the landscapes of undulating hills
dotting the horizon of nostalgic optimism,
isolated myself away from civilization,
lost the friends who prevented my downfall,
forgotten the names of those who wished to save me
from my own destructive tendencies, eventual crumbling.

I've thrown a blanket over my tumbling life,
donned a mask of confident supremacy
as to not humiliate myself for yet another time.
I've viewed myself as a pathetic usurper
of the throne of worthiness, too weak
to wear the crown of deserved exuberance,
unaware of the weight my trauma exuded
onto the entirety of my faltering body and mind.

A ritual of morning nausea riddles my routine,
throbbing headaches stapled into my cerebrum,
****** shakes and dripping tears from the words
of others who remind me so starkly of you. I've laid
hands on others who wish to view me as you did,
flashes of vibrant red obscuring the clarity of my view,
a vacant disguise devoid of authenticity,
displaced by a sense of dysphoric delusion.

I wish to redact the love I almost died for,
a valiant knight falling in the line of battle,
unaware of the forgotten valor soon to follow.
As I awake to the next day, I hold onto a new
sense of gratitude, one that has never seemed
to arise in my lightest of days. It is difficult
for me to search in the future, uncertain whether
my two feet will be implanted into the dirt
at any given time. I have lived in a torturous
temptation of the anger I harbor deep within.

Purple inflammation underneath my eyes
has become a fundamental aspect of my
everyday appearance; exhaustion plagues
my daily experiences, and I can feel
myself slowly losing life at the hands
of you – yes, I do resent you.

I do. I do. I do.

This page, stained with the blood
of every dream you disemboweled,
crumbles underneath the weight
each word carries from the past;
my brain is home to a nest of hornets,
eager to pounce on perceived threats
often falsified in the face of distress.

I should release the restraints of the past,
drop the reins of the reign you once held
over the facets of my life, every nook
storing my deepest fears from the light
of day, the ones I hoped would never
turn true, only to find them arisen
as prophetical visions of our destiny.

This torture has endured for too long,
and the forgiveness I find myself
searching for continues to evade
my mindful cognizance. I’ve tried
to accept the faults parried onto me,
yet closure’s absence acts as an obstacle
preventing me from pardoning your sins.

This is the death of what I’ve held for too long,
a eulogy for the remnants of our shredded portrait,
its parchment slowly decomposing, pieces wafting
away in the breeze of the bay, reminiscent of memories
rusted with double-edged silence, slices of past lives
stitched together with the woven thread of trauma.
Page upon page stapled together, tangible reminders
of declassified documents detailing the secrets of us;
stylistic differences in poetical works may inhibit
the comprehension of such dense material, yet the
manuscript of my emptiness can only be conveyed
through such solidity. I approach the day when
my commentary begins to dissipate, fading into
a personification of demonstrative apathy. I wave
goodbye to the eagles, release my grip on Andrews
and our bench propped against our lake’s shoreline,
close my eyes and envision the pink skies of Manhattan
without your silhouette blocking the view, taste the ramen
spilt onto the grasses of Central Park, inhale the aroma
of midnight amateurs huddled over a pan of pasta. Yes,
this is the death of what I’ve held for too long.

She is a single mother
who falters at the rise
of the moon; insomnia
dictates her daily ritual,
a plethora of anxieties
dripping down her cheeks
as beads of worrisome tears.

She's watched her son grow
alongside her own maturation,
teenage dreams mitigated by
the emergence of a new blessing,
one she never expected would come.

She is a warrior in the face of struggle,
her determination overpowering
the very odds stacked against her;
her refusal to submit reflects the reverence
attached to her newfound responsibilities,
a simplistic acknowledgement that she is
more than she would have ever guessed.

She reigns in a world of capitalistic greed,
self-sacrificing her needs for those of the eyes
looking into hers each night; although each
abhorrent remark penetrates her skin,
her ability to withstand the torture elicits
a sense of unconditional love only reserved
for those holding a dim candle in the darkest
of nights -- she is a fighter, a dreamer, a mother.

I told your mother
that I loved her new hair,
gazed into eyes of cousins
I thought I'd long forgotten,
chuckling at their surprise
to see me once again.
I furrowed my eyebrows
when my parents welcomed
yours with open arms, an
obscure and intrusive thought
battling with long-held affirmations,
juxtaposing with the winds of solace
wafting brazenly in the fog of my mind.  

I'm left in a state of puzzlement,
localizing the loose ends
tucked inside desolate memories,
those remaining from no closure
and awaiting death from exposure
to newfound sights and scenes,
novel experiences with no pretense
or authoritative ownership from you.

I fear the power of elongated naps,
allowing myself the privilege
to memorialize the dreams
conjured from emotions repressed;
it is here where I am most vulnerable,
receptive to the blind-sided attacks
I mistakenly delegated elsewhere,
somewhere I believed would stay hidden,
away from the realities devoid of closure.

It is closure that I most wish I had;
the absence of this finality remains pervasive,
and I am unsure if complete healing
can ever be attained. Perhaps I will forever
be splintered from the wounds of my past,
calloused patches on my skin
reminiscent of names I dream of forgetting.