i suppose i could reflect on the times where i would not leave my bed, even if my muscles got sore. perhaps that could be the reason i never stood on a scale. yesterday's bruises are far too familiar. for some reason, they feel as sharp as today's and tomorrow's. despite what they say, i don't think it ever really goes away. you could say i chose this for myself. it's all a matter of perspective, right? somehow external becomes internal regarding my excuses. perhaps it's all of the bitter coffee and burnt spaghetti noodles. i should stop talking about the things that make me anxious. i always had to cover my mouth when i laughed and maybe that's why i have rotten stained teeth. there was always that wonder about why you would feed me all of those lollipops for breakfast. i guess that means something. the room always smelled of earwax and caramel pumpkin. the significance being clear. for a second, i forgot of all the other people in the room and maybe it's because for the first time, my pocketbook is no longer a pillowcase.

it was only fifth grade
when your friends told me
you only liked me because you felt sorry for me.
i don’t know why
but i still can’t meet anyone new.
i never grew up
and because of that
all i ever hear is the echoing of
your commiserating anthem
in the faces of new human beings.
my mind will be responsible for destroying me
and for some reason
your song is still stuck in my head.
it was only fifth grade
but still i felt love in your side hugs
and innocent eyes.
the love like a child with a lollipop.
i thought, “what a person”
and i thanked god for our after school conversations
about the horrid school lunches
and playground games.
i can still feel the shaking of my voice
like thunder
when i asked you if you really liked me.
they say there’s nothing like
a soft lip and a shaky heart,
but is that even if it rattles
like an earthquake?
i waited while you counted
one mississippi
two mississippi
three mississippi
four,
and still i was left
with wood chips between my toes.
it was only fifth grade
but ever since then
all i ever thought is that
people were just being nice to me.
the boy with velvet lips
who told me my heart was like cotton candy
was just being nice.
as well as the one
with honey glazed fingertips
that said he loved the gap between my teeth.
but these words were empty to me.
it was only fifth grade
but i can still remember
my voice breaking
and feeling shattered and bruised and dashed
and every other synonym
that you could possibly think of.
it was only fifth grade
and you were always nice to me
and i loved that about you.
but out of your pity
came a curse
that makes them all
just like you.

a day's tale
will tell a day
of the fire
you have learned
to combust
your innermost puzzles.
the gasoline
is on your clothes
and against
your surface.
they told you so
every wistful evening
when you would
brew your tea
and light the incense.
the room would smell
of lemon
and reek of
your abstinence.
mysteries of your introspection
were set alight.
you were always
descending from
your nightmares
and running from
your demons.
no wonder the flames
devoured all your
vitality.

an empty void
set within my chest
and a dog tag with
your name engraved on it
tucked in between.
yet it could not even
stop the suffocating breaths
from swarming out of my lungs.
i often wonder
why is it the souls
with the blinding smiles
and the hearts of the saints
that are turned away.
perhaps it is that
my pride is much too immense
to acknowledge where i went wrong.
they say associations are foolish
yet here i am
with only an empty void
and an eleven year old dog tag
to chase the associations
that made me the lesser.
yes, my pride is immense
although my pride in you
equates to the universes.
classmates will all
follow desires
set at the age of six.
meanwhile
my desires are often
crossed and x'd out
and another rotates in
as if it were a revolving door
set in new york city.
sometimes i wonder
if just i am the only one
with an empty void in my chest
and a piece of metal
to chase the hurt,
or if the feeling is mutual.

a blank slate
not even eroded by the toxic waste
pumping within my lungs and
cleansed across the record.
somewhat of an archetype
of a shattered specimen,
much like my illusions
that were made into dust
and spread as if they were my own ashes.
you are the warrior
and i'm just the battlefield,
deteriorating and decaying
just beneath your boot.
i am nothing more
than the back side of your penny.
you are a barbarian
gargling for a tad more than just
my one cent.
clawing through my skin
like the abominable creature you are,
possessing my soul
as you would rather do a dime.
a blank slate
is a room not created for recovery
instead it is hashed away
where it infuses into my ribs
penetrating every single breath.
a blank slate
much less relieved and ruptured
than the vacancy
that scatters within my gut.

they always told me about how i would cling onto your leg wherever you would go,
attached as if we were conjoined.
she always told me i got my dimples from you,
i get complimented on them a lot.
eleven years in the making
yet it somehow feels like it was just yesterday
reminiscing
i could never forget it
and of course 1992 pearl jam does not make the pain less wounding.
you would have known.
all the time.
i always imagine how things would be now
if history had been erased and re written.
it hurts all the time
i always get this stabbing sensation in my chest,
it's the memories.
it's the pain.
eleven years in the making,
and i wish i still could hear your voice.
the time could go backwards
the memories could rewind
but eleven years would still be eleven years
the other way around.