Hanna 2d
I spend my days staring at empty faces I used to recognise.
I’m dead until the night breathes me back alive.
I waste the darkness chasing artificial love and highs.
Because in the black, no one sees you cry.
But I always die when the morning is nigh.

sigh

There are never any stars in sight.
Hanna 7d
She felt shattered.
Like a glass that had fallen from a height,
she was in pieces.
She was thinking it over, trying to piece back together her smashed self, trying to reassure herself

but she just kept slicing her fingers on the shards.
Hanna Jul 11
It is late at night when you crawl into my thoughts.
You weave yourself into the branches of my brain until I can’t tell flower from thorn.
Often, thoughts of you are both.

I swear your silhouette stands by my bed.
I almost reach out; a pale hand,
shivering and glowing in the pitch black.
Outstretched palm turns to clenched fist.

What kind of suffering is this?
An eternal wakefulness;
you cast your curses well.
For thoughts of your sweeping face is better than dreaming of it.
Can’t sleep.
Hanna Jun 27
In two different rooms,
we might as well be in two different countries,
two different dimensions.

The air that resides between our bodies is the only thing keeping me breathing
after my throat starts burning.

A reluctant ceasefire with our fingers resting on triggers, desperate to twitch into action.

I want to watch you bleed out.
A halo of crimson, angel of destruction.
Then I’ll truly be the monster you think I am.
Hanna Jun 25
Loss is a very real thing,
almost tangible.
A figure, dark silhouette, in the waking hours of dawn, sleep still clouding your vision.
It stands at the foot of your bed,
uninvited.
An intruder, not wanted, but not unexpected.
It invokes anger, grief until it consumes you.
For once, it is good to feel something other than empty.

Why?
[did you leave me]

The lack of purpose behind the absence stings like blood eternally drawn from vein, losing a part of your essence with every beat.
You wrap your hands around its throat, feeling its cool smooth skin, and squeeze.
You try to make it understand the shattering, the waiting, the despair.
But it is just an apparition, vanishing before your eyes,
leaving a sour taste in your mouth that promises of next time.
Hanna Jun 10
I always thought that violence was physical, brutal, obvious.
I thought that violence was carmine washed down the sink in the dead of night.
I thought violence was sharp and hard and damning.

Not when it comes to you.

Your violence is subtle, lurking behind soft blue skies and the warm glow of sun.
Your violence is an inflection of words that makes me flinch more than a raised fist.
Your violence is comprised of memories and reminders and blame.

You don’t wield a sword, you wield your heart.
And somehow, it hurts so much more.
Hanna Jun 9
I haven’t tidied in a while.

Clothes coat my floor in a strategic mayhem; makeup rocks on its side, contents slowly seeping out.
Medication lays scattered, dots of colour in the ocean of obsidian.

I think I see you in the madness.
Your essence.
One of the last places you breathed in.

Maybe I think that when I clear away the buried floor, I will find you beneath the fabric.
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