He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

i am not here
to love someone
like you.
i am here to love
y o u .

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

ＪＪｓｂｄｋｓｎｄｋｋｄｍｘｍｊｓｈＪｕｓｔｌｅｔｍｅｄｉｅｍｍｍｋｂｈｂｘｊｄｎｘｎｂｄｊｘｂｄｎｘｎｎｘｎｘｎＩｍｓｏｔｉｒｅ­ｄｏｆｔｈｉｓｎｓｊｓ ｎｋｋｓｂｄｎｄｎｂｄｔｈｅｓｅ ｔｅａｒｓ ｗｏｎｔｓｔｏｐｊｄｊｄｎｎ ｚｎｊｓｎｎｄｕｄｎｄｋｄｋｎｆｋｄｍｓｓｎｆｎｊｄｎｄｎｎｄｂｄｂｄｂｄｎＷｈｙｔｈｅｐａｉｎｓｔｉｌｌｌｉｖｅｓｉｎ ｍｙｈｅａｒｔｊｊｘｎｘｊｘｊｄｎ ｍｙｋｄｊｄｖｊｓｎｄｊｃｊｎｄｎｄｎｃｎｘｋｘｎｋｘｎｄｋｄｋｊｄｎｓｋｘｈｊｓｈｄｊｄｄｎｄｅＩｍｓｏｆｕｃｋｉｎｇｔｉｒｅｄ­ｍｓｎｎｄｋｓｎｘｏｎｓｈｘｉｄｎｋｘｎｄｊｓｊｄｂｊｄｋｓｌｍｓｎｄｊｊｄｂｄｉｓｂｄｊｊｄｋｓｎｄｊｄｈｂｓｎｄｎｎｄｊｄｊｄ­ｎｄｎｄ


Ｙｏｕｌｌｎｅｖｅｒｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ ｍｅ

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived

i.

water-born,
the dark skies of the lily,
its song of petals
and gauze.


ii.

unwrapped and
white,
rushing in
streams of
bending flower,
ghost of a blue star.

iii.

ghost of a tender night,
calling out to a misty sky -
the breath of a star -
light spaces, stormy opals,
tranquil air.

iv.

sweet flower of
the dusk,
gathering the
glow of the lake,
gathering its
honey’s and frosts.

v.

below brooding clouds
that drop their tears
like heavy dew,
the lake deepens
and whispers,
carries its grey mask.

you are not the thorns
that leave your lovers
bleeding.
you are not the
sunflowers growing
in your head.
you are everything in between.
you are everything all at once.