I'm a quiet woman.
A dangerous one at that.
Give me love, and it's dangerous
for a woman like me.

I don't burn men;
I don't provoke women.
I don't mount weights on my shoulders,
I don't move castles just for myself.

I'm a quiet woman.
A dangerous one,
that once you give me love,
I will swallow lit matches
into my gas-filled lungs
and breathe fire
to my terrible world
to burn, burn, burn
and rub ash on my skin,
hoping it will fix my aching heart.

Hope peace for a dangerous woman like me.
Hope nothing else will fall apart.

There are monsters that live to ****
Some whose rolls they cannot fill
But faces do not look the same
Just like monsters with different names

But don’t confuse a hero with a sword
Swords are weapons they can only afford
And don’t confuse monsters with blood
They’re only people deprived of love

So don’t laugh when you don’t know their pain
Don’t talk or they’ll think you’re insane
You live for people you want to protect
And there are people who live to see you dead.

I cried again, at the thought of her
in between all the drifting stars.
I cried again, at the thought of her
in between my throbbing scars.

I asked my papa, when it'd leave
when my pain would finally stop,
but he shook his head in reprieve,
and from his mouth came a cough,

"It never leaves, only dulls,
never hardens, but never is the same;
you're my daughter, my only daughter,
you and I, we share a pain."

Mama, I cried, at the thought of her,
especially on the day when I left;
I came back into your loving arms,
and from my mouth, I finally wept.

For days, foliage sat by my porch
which I've been waiting to sweep.
But the wind always seems to know what I want.
It always does the work for me.
I've planned on sitting on the couch with you
but you don't seem to sit there anymore,
only the wind does. Only my own air.

I've been accustomed to making two coffees in the morning.
But your full coffee cup always sits there until it's cold
and I always take too much to drink, that I just throw away yours.
It's a waste that even I am accustomed to bringing two plates with me to dinner when no on sits on the other seat beside me.
It is still the air that sits there.

I feel so lonely, that I talk to myself about the things that have happened; of things that never did,
just to hear you respond.
To tell me it was all a lie.
And you never answer me. Only the air does.
Only the wind blows me away.

For days, foliage sat by my porch
which I've been waiting to sweep.
But the wind has been always there,
where you should've been.
And I laugh, because it's unnatural now.
To be conforming to something that isn't even there.

The words are not the same anymore,
wrapped in meanings that are concepts far
beyond my eyes, that fall upon my lips,
empty and bitter and fading.

My poems are like foreign aspects of my life now,
disappearing under my finger tips without further
notice, kneaded into the paper under my palms
and leaving me slowly, dreadfully, painfully.

Who am I now, that my voice has waned?
That the moon on my tongue no longer revolves,
with the earth and the sun, left trap in a desolate darkness
filled with brighter supernovas, and wanton galaxies.

Who am I now?
That the thread of my being has frayed,
and slipped, and weaved, through the contours of the universe,
as I slip easily through the cracks without being chased;
without being noticed (and I regret and regret, and regret, because I wish that they had).

Who are we, now that I'm gone,
and that you've gone with another? That you've followed
in their footsteps, left me, with one foot entering my grave?
With a rough necklace dangling across my collar? With silver lining your eyes, and with an exuberance that comes with letting go?

What are we now, that my poems no longer hold the essence of me,
as it remains to long for you? What are we, that we no longer hold what was once dear for us? What are we now, that the physical form of who I am remains to fade alongside your death? What are we, when all that remains of our past selves are gone?

Who are you?

I believed that love existed
in many different forms.
Like letters with tear stains,
and texts lighting up a dorm.

That love is like water,
that it can be someone in your arms,
that it can slip through your fingers,
without your phone ringing in alarm.

And I believe that love does exist,
if you perceive it to be true.
Even if you don’t see it there,
it is right next to you.

Let your knife
Pierce between my ribs
Fall in my embrace
To let you sleep
It’s so different
From how it used to be
So different
From how it seems


As your hand
Slips right through the cracks
Squeeze my heart
Shut until your grip slacks
Save me from
The hurtful words
Save me from
How it used to hurt

So when we’re done here now
Just shut me out
Let my corpse fall down
Until you won’t look back
Leave me to
Bleed it out
Leave me to
Die right now
Leave me so
I can sleep safe
And sound

He told me he liked things special.
Liked things different.
To be on the edge.

So I set myself on fire,
painted myself with the colours of flames,
lit myself with gasoline and gave him a blazing fire.

And when he got too close to the flames,
he told me I tore him apart.
That I was the reason he strayed away.
Why he had a reason to be safe
from the danger he made me into,
and fell into the arms
of a girl who he hadn't asked to change instead.

you've filled every thought in my head
that you follow me back from home into bed.
I worry about who I'll be when I'm dead,
when all that I am is just of you instead.

I've seen the same roads,
those that lead nowhere
or cut into an end here,
reaching the edge of a mountain,
or to the lip of the sea,
or fading off into dust
and growing darker into
grainy asphalt—
that somehow hurts.

The roads straighten and curve,
and stretch and narrow,
and bend and break,
and crack just as it is filled
in between the seems.
They intertwine,
and meet in the middle,
and lead off somewhere,
like the t-boning of a barelling car,
going 40 on a 25.

The saddest roads are always short,
yet seeming endless in a moment
of brief contact.
The same speed,
the same view, and the same
edge by the sea, passing like
two stray boats at night.
The loneliest roads are parallel;
equal in distance, that can never touch. Side by side in meeting,
and always apart when leaving.

The loneliest roads taper off,
and stare at emptiness.
Paralell roads never meet,
and will always stay the same.

The loneliest roads between us
are just a few feet apart—
always infinite miles away.

I feel like I can do nothing on the face of the earth
as they fight on the other side of these walls
as my tears fall into the green pillow I hug to my chest
as their shouts echo their way into my room as a witness
as his cries fill my ears with pain and hopelessness
as I put a fist to my mouth to strangle my cries
as I try to silence their voices with my mind
as he hits him again with his knuckles or his belt
as they misunderstand and accuse for no reason
and I tumble down an empty hole that feels like no light
can pirece this cavernous, vast darkness I’ve fallen into.

And then I hear him beside me, putting pitiful tissues
on his scratched arm, tear stained lashes and tousled hair
bearing the testament of a spirit’s spite and anger.
And I wipe my tears away, and I open my mouth to tell you,
but I cannot say it aloud, for they might come for me.
But I promise anyway, “One day, I’ll make them pay.
One Day.”

Why is it, that when I am with you, I feel like nothing?
Why is it that I feel bare to the flame that you resonate?
Like tongues of fire that  lapped at my flesh and burnt me red and painted me black, like ashes of firewood and embers of dying flames, illuminating the dark.

Why do you hurt me so?
Tell me, for I am not complaining.
I'm letting your hurt me, because if there is a reason, I'll gladly accept it. If you have a reason for lighting a flame on chest, free me and we can both fly away like windeswept flowers wilting in the fall; snow raining down on naked branches and frozen shrubberies.

Burn me, for I have been the one to light you.

With you, I feel like I have a meaning.

Burn me, so you can grow brighter.

i do still care over what they think;
what the demons seem to say
and what my friends seem to say,
and it pains me to even say,
that I do still care.

because when i turn to myself for comfort,
Even I’m not there.

You know, it rains in September.
It also rains in October.
On November.
During December.

It always rains, and rains,
and the sky is crying, because I may
be naming months, but it feels like years to me,
sitting here without you.

His finely-tailored suit
contrasts the callouses of his hands.
His combed dark hair
hides the darkness in his eyes.
His steps the shadows of the underbrush
does not decide whether he is there or not.
His unnerving silence
speaks of the battle of an ongoing conversation.

However of a dichotomy he might be,
he is the same man.
The same kind.
Same impostor.
Same boy
with the same lies.
For we are all the same,
with tailored suits,
when we have something to hide.

The sour of the metal spoon
clings to the roof of my mouth.
My eyes water, lips pucker,
as my hands tremble underneath
the low light of the humid room.

The movement of time grates on
my frozen nerves, thrumming
within heated flesh. Death sits across
from where I am, as I feast upon the
offering that life gives.

The food is cold. It is ash in my mouth.
For I have stuck to the same food for so long, I have found, I am not content
with the serving I have chosen. But Death waits patiently, in his alcove
of mystery.

It is time, and I know.

I dine with death, with spoon and fork in hand, and this is the food I have chosen.

This is the life I have lived. My choice that I ponder, and we concede. It doesn't matter what food we eat, with what we eat, and how we eat it. But by the end, I know.

I have chosen something terrible, and Death will hold me by the hand alone, as we leave, side by side, to the door outside.

Hey, I'm sorry
For not telling  you beforehand
I'm sorry
If I somehow make a mistake
I'm sorry
If I somehow hurt you again
I'm sorry
If I keep on loving you

But, you don't have to forgive me.

Small ticks whisper from the ***** of my fingers
Words echo into my head
My chest feels as heavy as a padlock
Now, black circles have replaced red

There's an emptiness in between
not from where I pass you by in our frames
It is somewhere that lies in your eyes
where there are other faces I cannot name

I am confused, afraid
I'm scared of your touch
Your voice is a noise so far
But without it is even too much

So I didn't want to hurt myself
I didn't want to push you away
But I'm afraid we're too much lost
In where we all wanted to stay

You can't take a piece of me
a part of me
under your detriment and your touch

You shouldn't touch me when
I am in self-destruct

But I can't blame you
for stealing what was part

of  shattered pieces
of an unglued heart.

Comes his waking breath
against my pinched face
in the early morning hour
of our lofty, soft embrace.
He pulls the sheets like the tide
of a sad twinkling moon,
making sure to hold me warm,
so that I won't leave so soon.

In the course of the world's creation,
I've seen you somewhere, or everywhere, all at once.  

You mapped the stars by my side, when I didn't know where they were or what they were named.

You told me about fascinating little things that walked and lived, and breathed, with such enthusiasm, I began to learn that they existed with such amazement.

You formed nonsense of words, so ridiculous, you  made me question the peak of human intelligence.

You showed me gestures so small, or words that required no enunciation, I learned how silence spoke louder than our words.

You taught me so much, that eventually, I knew the feeling inside of me that grew in my chest, I no longer needed your assistance to name such.

Somewhere, everywhere, all at once, you were in the course of the world's creation.

The moment I took notice, the world stopped revolving.

And in that moment, it was just you and I.

Words were only promises worn onto our souls. A desperation when life is tainted with things unknown. Of course, the moon didn't fall for the sun in the horizon, when their gazes met in a minute of a terrible departure.

The sun knew what sacrifices were made when love fell, mimicking the way his lips met the sea and burnt it red like trails of ash on a used bed sheet.

Clouds parted, showing clear skies, and words were met with an expectant goodbye, like the clashing blue and red of the sun and the moon, all over again.

The promise of a better tomorrow was darkened by the night,  lit ablaze by the day, and still, the words were sewn into their souls; bleeding, tearing, and frayed.

Humans cried, animals wept, and nature mourned as days became hours of shifting pain between torn souls, who stared at each other across the sky, weeping, "It's always goodbye."

Sometimes, I wish I've never known you;
where you've come from, where you've been.
I wish you were just a void,
with no knowledge to love,
and with no knowledge to hate.

But because of you,
I have a name to adore,
and a person to despise.
Because of you, there are places to which I want to return to,
and there are places to which I am reluctant to arrive.

Your words have always been writhing thorns,
on a beautiful wreath of roses, and I love them -
for what they are, for what they mean;
for how they make me look and feel,
but the knowledge of them hurts me.
The knowledge of them breaks me.

By the gods, I love you, but I hate you on me.

And when I look at you, I wish to kiss you from a distance.
When I look at you, I am torn - disembodied between
my love and the fractured memories.
When I look at you - you give me a name to
agonize over, when the days are empty,
and my heart seems full.

When I look at you, there are reasons why I hate to love you.

And god, do I miss you. When the words blend
into the grains of the wall,
and your face becomes the back of my eyelids,
I can't help but let my heart bleed dry.

God knows how I hate loving you.

I hung pictures on the wall
The faces frowned at me
not because I hung them
by their frames
But because I nailed them there
instead.

we loved,
and kisses were butterflies,
hugs were butter on toast,
and sunshine was food to the soul
as we loved and was loved the most.
we lived,
and years were but mere moments,
lives were just as opaque as mist,
as seconds lasted morbidly slow eternities,
passing the bits of memories we missed.
we left,
too early for man to heal,
footsteps so light, without simple sound,
lived years of love and pain away,
making me think, "were you even around?"

We’re not so different,
you and I.
Even in the way
we say our last goodbye.
Provoked by hurt that still
makes us cry.
It doesn’t matter since
it was all a lie.

There are steel shears
in your lying hands
and a dress of hedges and thorns
that are my shielding woods.
In the back of my mind, as you hack
away at my limbs and marrow,
cut through bone and sinew;
I pray your blades grow dull
in what is left of me,
for steel simply rusts,
while I simply grow.

The living room is silent,
and my fingers are cold.
Have you come by in awhile?
Have you chewed on your nails,
pacing by the porch, before you brushed the brass knocker
with your rough knuckles?

The woolen blanket is missing,
from the back of my office chair.
I remember you stole it as a significant memento for yourself, when you stormed out. Your words knocked ice
deep into my throat, until it caused me
to lose the right words, to help you stay. Keep the demons at bay. The woolen blanket rarely helped,
unless I pressed the cloth into your
tired shoulders.

Do you miss me?
Does my touch still linger?
Sometimes, I see you across the street,
and frost grows at the edge of my glasses; a silent fury benign of threat,
but full of pain, making my bones creak and my back tingle. Makes my teeth chatter, and sweat build.

I still wonder,
when I peered behind the peephole,
to your bent head that looked
at your wavering hand by the brass knocker, scared to knock at the door.
Did you still love me back then?
Did you miss the press of my palms, and the kiss I gifted your forehead?
Was there still a remaining shred of love, left there for me?

But the living room remains silent,
and my fingers are cold.
When I see you across the street,
my heart drops, and your shoulders
are heavy, with or without the
woolen blanket. My glasses fog,
and every time I look into
the tiny peephole, not a single shadow remains there, for me to see.

Between the street, and porch of mine
that seems to rot away into the years of its growth, the rift only grows farther and farther apart, that even sorry cannot begin to cover the ravine between us.

I clench my cold fingers and cry, the day I finally acknowledged my futile efforts.

Between the porch and my brass knocker. Between you and the door.

Somehow, our love ended here.

It's so silent, and there is fear.

Is fear an external presence?

Internal?

I am so scared, and that's what I only know.

And the more I listen, the more I am scared of what's there. Of either who I am, or of either what's not there.

I am scared.

They say we're both
heading down to hell
and that, nothing will change that.

But from what I remember,
it has always been hell for
the both of us,
which is why,
nothing will change,
and we're not moving from where
we are.

The higher curl of the other end of her lip. The exasperation present in her eyes. The small sound of her snort as she looked away.

He loved that look so much.

God, he loved it.

And it was so unfortunate, that it was only now that he was admiring it. Only now that he was loving it, for the last time.

He took a breath.

She didn’t.