I shivered with
pleasured sadness
when she said,
"It's okay, I kinda
guessed." I couldn't
bring myself to open
her message but I
knew what she had sent.

3 months on, the
message is waiting
for me to react on.

Sleep on, forget me.

I know you can't bear
the thought of me
still of existing after
we stopped talking.

I hope your tear
ducts become dry,
because, if you do
cry, then you won't
have any left to
use over me.

But
wishful thinking
can make a person
crazy. I know.

I see her everywhere. In
my soup, hiding beneath
the spoon. In the TV, with
the actress who looks like
her. In my dreams, in
district 13 with a swapped
nationality. I got so scared in
my dream; you were touching
my shoulder and I wondered if
you remembered my texts but
you'd chosen to forgive.

Sometimes I want to send
her a message saying how
I'm sorry for everything I've
caused her and how, clichéd or
not, it's not her, not you,
but me who ruined it.

Do you dream of a life with
me? In those 4 and 1/2 years,
I'd never even seen you before,
but was I the subject of your
fantasies, unbeknownst to me?
Maybe I've caused you pain,
but I could not see a future with
you, just as I was blind to a
past with you. Ignorant.
I can't help but think
I've caused some eternal death
of your love, but at least you
had the guts to talk to me.
I wouldn't have, but, then again,
I didn't notice you. I didn't like you.
At all. Never.

So, to conclude the eulogy for
our chimeric heart, it was not you, but
me that had to ruin something
for the hopes of a peaceful future.
I'd I hadn't, where would I
be now? Six feet deep, I hope.
But then you'd think it's your fault
and I can't let you win like that.

I lay on my side in bed
with my hand pressed under
my ribs.

My heart beating reveals to me
my life could be taken in
the width of a breath or
the snap of an eye.

I don’t like that so many
things could happen and that
I wouldn’t know because I’d
be gone. All I think I’ve built,
gone; just like that.

I’m not afraid of death
but I am when it comes to me.

My body feels so burnt
from you and it. Two heats
ago, wildflower wildfires got
me through those arguments,
and I thank Lana every time I
listen to those flowers again.
I still have dreams of my
maternal saying she'll leave
by the end of the month, like rent,
and then I wake up, dripping tears
like an intravenous drip downwards.
One cry, one breath, and I smile like
she'd never leave. But the dreams
keep happening, except they may
now be real life, rather than imagination.

I want to leave deep in
my mind, but something
is holding me back. The
spring is holding me back.
It is stopping me from
moving on. Childhood is all
I know, and I don’t want to part.

I want to leave, bright and
clear, as clear as the spring.
As clear as my contrast to
William, with the winter. The
winter is the dying. And the
only difference between us
is I have unfortunately just begun.

Bursting at the seams
like a too full jar
of hatred maybe
for me or maybe
for you?

The orange is so sweet,
sweet it aches my teeth.
I don’t want orange from you,
I want red, and maybe black.

It annoys me that I have
succumbed to you
all these years

I should stand up,
but what if there’s
a weight on my lap
in the shape of you?
What do I do then?