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.

i refuse to be your ball and chain
i refuse to be the thorn in your side
i refuse to be your excess baggage
i am not the one
who made you this way
stiff of bitter and coldness
burning with hatred
and oozing of destructive words
like the blood that is
leaving my wounds
there is no such thing as split
only take with you
no such thing as worry
only neglect
the world affected you
what happened to the one
whose words were
as kind as a mother bird
feeding her baby
as gentle as the music
that spreads around my soul
i am not the one
who made you this way
it is the guilt
that is caressing your pulse
and grazing your veins
it is the abandonment
that makes you mad
mad in your head and your mind
and your pride and your reality
the reality that
pierces through your gut
like an ax through a tree
it ruins you
you are empty
you are nothing
you feel dead
you've checked out of your misery
you have pushed up your daisies
you are resting
in your coffin of
suppressed weakness
you are a dead flower
colorless and fractured
you are a disfigured butterfly
with punctured wings
i am not the one
who made you this way

am i?

you've captured my eye
grasping onto my heart
like a dog with a bone
it's vigorous
but familiar
i became attached
in the matter of milliseconds
like a baby
gets attached to it's mama
i could not let go
i wonder when i will stop feeling you
in my mind
and in my heart
and in my nose
and in my toes
it's vigorous
but tender
it's delicate
but firm
another could not possibly
cause my heart to swell up
like a crescendo
upon the piano keys
i like it
it's vigorous
but with a soft rhythm

i hate being tickled
there's something so repulsive about the motion of fingers
committing a disturbance all over my body
that it sends me into a whirlpool of agonizing stress
so why is it that the sound of your voice
and the familiarity of your grin
tickles me in a way that is so unutterable
that all of my senses seem to disappear
whenever you are in my presence
i hate being tickled
but i love the feeling of your voice
vibrating against my chest
in the same way
a pendulum moves rhythmically
back and forth
i hate being tickled
but i adore the way your tender hands
twist and bind all over my body
making us as one similar to a pretzel
maybe,
i don't hate being tickled so much

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.

i held onto nothing for so long
every single second wasted
mourning the person
i wanted you to be
formulating imaginary scenarios
of us
but there is no us
only a me and only a you
acceptance is key
acceptance of the nothingness that is us
this made up memoir
has come to an end
i am digging a grave
and burying it six feet under
i held onto nothing for so long
naïve and blind
unaware of the indifference
i was a bird in the snow
i was lost
lost in the love that was not to be
i held onto nothing for so long

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.

i get this feeling a lot
and somehow i can't breathe
it's as if someone is wringing out my chest
preventing each breath to escape
it's exhausting
i get this feeling a lot
and suddenly my entire world is in a whirlpool
i am lost and i can't find my way around
i am dizzy and nauseous
i get this feeling a lot
and for some reason my breaths are getting shorter
my head is getting so heavy it feels as if i am carrying a boulder upon my shoulders
every single person i have ever met is yelling my name
they are yelling at me but i can't respond to them all at once
they are getting angry now
my stomach is turning each and every way just like a tornado
my hands have suddenly become an earthquake
my heart a landslide
and my mind a cyclone
i get this feeling a lot

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.

wear watches without a battery
because the days can’t tick if the arms don’t move
nothing really has to move
in fact, it was all just a figment of our imagination

on this day i got out of bed
and i saw a dead person
i shut my eyes because it wasn’t real
none of this was ever real

tell me how to stop forcing myself to feel something
tell me why i must pretend to make it mean something

tell me about how the number thirteen always meant something special
tell me about how the number thirteen made you feel something

how do i tell Him that i don’t believe in him
but that i believe in you
how do i tell you that i don’t remember the sound of your voice

from he was a good man
to he was Probably a good man
you aren’t a god
He isn’t even a god
who is the real god here?
how unfortunate it must be
living in two worlds at once

i’ll let grandma know about my conversations with god

blink hospital room
blink grandma’s screaming
blink pray and everything will be okay
blink

i don’t remember the first day

blink burgundy rug
blink mama’s screaming
blink first grade teacher
blink standing over your grave
blink

i don’t remember the last day

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.

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.

she coughed and her ribs formed a semi-circle. it was escaping whether you wanted it to or not. she didn't. shaded specks made it harder for her to see. glasses broken. fingernails in her eye sockets. her senses disappeared. all you could do was pretend, what you were best at. what she expected. say goodnight or her chest will bring her down. infuse your hands into her stomach until you can feel her spine digesting. the best way to feel. embrace the coldness. but don't hold on too tight or else it'll feel warm again. like red. the epitome of her temptations. she dreamt of them. it didn't blind her like the sun and the nails, but she felt it in her earlobes. it made her dizzy. thank your god for all the times her fingertips turned blue. more controlling than her. thank your god for not planting it on the tip of her nose. or for better yet, she would inhale it. we knew the outcome. the golden trees found their way up into your abdomen. they fixated their branches until you felt them prickling at your throat, where the pain was the most familiar. the most comfortable. don't ask her to let go of it.