Coming home to an empty and dark house—
It's cold but not unpleasant.
The cool tiles soothe your feet,
Aching from supporting the weight of bottled up thoughts the whole week.
Responsibilities loom in the background and you know it,
But the exhaustion is heaving on your hands.

You're ready to fill the house with a dimly lit light,
A mug of cold milk,
And some indie song of a band you've never heard of
Playing quietly in the background.

It smells like them, the memory of them.
You're alone tonight.

The notes slowly lull you into thoughts and feelings—
About what you were,
What it could've been,
What you did wrong,
What can and can't be fixed.

You think about life.
You think about change.
You think about love.
You think about depression.
You think about mistakes.
You think about the future.
You think about happiness.
As if the melody was meant for it.

You think about life.
You're so mad at it.
Why did I,
As someone who was once a child,
Have to go through all of that?
But you have to forgive it.
You can't give up.
Don't let it beat you down.
But I won't deny, the idea is tempting.

You think about change.
How you changed—
How the people around you reacted to it.
Did they change too?
Did they stay the same?
Did they leave,
Too afraid to see you morph into a new person?
Do you like who you became?
You can't know.

You think about love.
Will I ever be loved? you wonder.
Yes, I will, because I like to make myself feel better.
Too many people on this planet, there must be someone.
But will I ever meet them?
Will there be enough time?
You're too busy focusing on distractions to care.

You think about depression.
You're still here.
It was essential.
It made you a stronger version.
But was it necessary?
It destroyed you.
A part of you remains dead.

You think about mistakes.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
You mutter out a curse,
As the visceral sense of failure and frustration fill your stomach.
You feel anger rising up your throat,
And it stings.
But slowly, you start to see a pattern.
You understand.
No more mistakes.
But was that time, trying and failing, wasted?
Anyone could've gotten it at the first try.
The anger leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

You think about the future.
Your idea of it changed so many times, growing up—
Fitting your current ideals every time.
But you're also scared.
You don't want it to come.
Can it be stopped?
Time is ticking endlessly,
And you feel that sense of doom
Breathing down your neck
And putting its full weight on your stomach
The more you think about it.

You think about happiness.
Laughing until your stomach hurts with your friends.
That strange feeling where you realize
Everything's gonna be okay
And it fills you with warmth.
Spending time with your family,
The smell of dinner lingering in the background—
Everything feels warm and small and safe.
You always want to be happy.
But would happiness exist without sadness?
There's no up without down.

You were happy.
But you were oblivious;
It could've been better,
But you grew and learned;
You did something terribly wrong.
But you regret it now, which means you understood;
You think you can fix others.
But you can't fix yourself.
Why do you do this?
You were never meant to try in the first place.

Do yourself a favor tonight.
Have a warm shower.
Drink some milk.
Put some indie music.
But do not, under any circumstances,
Think about life.

It has no sense anyway.
Don't try putting binaries on it.
They're never gonna fit.

Just live.
That's enough.
Let that be. Just tonight.

The television is on the news channel
Showing pictures of grotesque tragedy
And stories that were yet to be told
But never got to be heard.

The television is on
Every day, at the same time.
Since I was a child, I wanted to hear those stories
But never got to hear the end of any.

The television is on
Because my dad wants to watch the news—
But he falls asleep before a baby in a distant land
Begins to talk and create its story.

The television is on;
I ask my mom what's going on
And when will I hear a complete story from their blood-stained, trauma-ridden faces.
She tells that's just how the world is.

The television is on:
The same scenario is presented every time.
I want to turn it off,
But what if a story gets told?

The television is on.
The same bloodied, horrified faces are shown;
The same rubble, corpses and tanks are shown.
I almost forgot about their stories.

The television is on,
But it's me who lit it up.
I don't like what I'm seeing,
And I know I'm powerless.

The television is on
And it stays on the whole night,
As i fall asleep before a baby in a distant land
Begins to talk and create its story.

The television is off.
No more blood smeared faces.
No more tragedy is shown.
No more explosions and cries are heard.
But the silence is loud, ringing in my ears
With the ghost of the voice meant to fill it with a story—
One that never got to be heard.

Little soldier stands in the smoke
Of bullets, of mines, of bombs.
Thrown into a minefield
In a war he never asked for,
He fights—for his life, for his name.

Little soldier faces the enemies.
He sees his own blood flowing out of his body.
He thinks it's the end, before he's reminded it's not over and over.
He wonders if the memory of him will carry on, or die with his body.

Little soldier can't let that happen.
He has to stop the blood from flowing out of him.
He has to use every chance he's given at life.
He has to make the memory of him last longer.
He can't die,
Not when he's so close to winning.

Little soldier finally wins.
His wounds are finally healed and sealed shut,
But sometimes he still feels the red liquid on his hands, warm and thick.
He's grateful for every second chance at life he was given,
But he wonders why he got so lucky—did he really deserve each one?
His existence continues to form memories in others' minds,
But he's sure some people remember him as dead already.
He's standing proudly,
But his legs are shaking on stable ground.

Little soldier is smiling.
But is he really celebrating?
The guilt follows him.
But is he really happy?
The horrors follow him.
But is he really alive?
Near-death shadows cling.

Little soldier is still human and fragile.
His soul isn't bulletproof.
His heart isn't bulletproof.
His will isn't bulletproof.
His mind isn't bulletproof.

Little soldier is hopeless.
He wishes he had a bulletproof vest for his soul as well,
But science isn't that advanced yet.
He wishes his heart was complete so he could love fully again,
But he wonders if anyone could love him, heart stitched or whole.
He wishes he had the will to see the sun rise for another day.
But it's all the same—the sameness is driving him more insane than he already is.
He wishes he could shush his mind when he goes to sleep,
But his mind is as stubborn as he was on the battlefield.

Little soldier went to war
And won with his name,
But people are blinded.
Blinded by the medals,
And blinded by his survivor smile.

Little soldier knows—all they see is a body.
A body that's smiling,
A body that's standing,
A body that's breathing,
A body that's functioning.

Little soldier is an empty bag of flesh,
Filled with remains of bullets, the never-ending ache of imagined wounds
And dread for a future
He both hopes will come soon and never arrive.

Music from another time
Begins to fill my ears,
And my mind gets flooded
With memories of then.

Memories of happiness,
Warm like a sunny day in April;
Memories of love,
Ever-consuming and euphoric;
Memories of agony,
Hollow lies and hollow heart;
Memories of confusion,
Fog flooding my mind at all times.

But there is one memory that stands out more than the others:
The memory of my death.
How I slowly lost my spark,
And was too aware of the cold.
How I slowly lost all meaning,
And just wished for an end that felt real.
How I slowly lost myself,
And I wasn’t sure if I was worth knowing anymore.
How I slowly died,
And I didn't even realize until I built myself up again.

I didn't die with a last breath.
I could feel my lungs inhale and exhale the air.
I didn't die knowing I was dying.
I thought I was getting better.
I didn't die, in my head —
I kept moving, too fast to notice.
But I died in my memories.
And realized only now.

But I was born again.
I'm not writing from my grave,
I'm writing from my pedestal.
Like a statue rising from cold stone,
I carved myself into someone new.
Painful, like sculpting pieces of myself out
From the block of marble I'm working on.
Slow, because I only have my own hands
And no other tools to work.
Strong, like the quartz
I chose to use and cherish.
Elegant, like the lines and curves
That I'm chiselling.

I died.
And when I tried living again,
I got killed.
But I already died twice.
This time, I'll grow wings
And be the strong phoenix,
Returning from the ashes.

I realized I was turning into a boy,
When my sadness turned into anger —
The sight of my own bleeding knuckles
And marks on the wall scaring me.

I realized my soul had gotten louder,
When my sorrow turned into rage —
The thought of becoming the version she would've feared, once again terrifying me,
Knowing she's too vulnerable for this imagery.

I realized I was changing into myself,
When I remembered my fury was once called depression —
Becoming the wound
And not the wounded became my worst nightmare.

Intertwining my fingers with yours
A familiar, intimate touch —
But this one feels different.

I reach out for you,
Placing my ear over your chest
And listen to the soul's instrument:
Your heart, drumming against my lobe.
The rhythm gets fainter and fainter,
But I will accompany you always,
Even where our hearts no longer beat.

I interlock my fingers with yours again,
But this time,
It's not your hand I'm holding.

A warmth I've never felt before,
Yet feels like I’ve known it forever,
Fills my spirit.
Your soul,
My soul,
Finally free from this mortal flesh.

I see you,
The most vulnerable and naked part of you.
It's hauntingly beautiful,
And I don't think I could be capable of imagining
Something as ethereal and raw as you.

I embrace you,
Becoming one entity of grief and love.
We're not two bags of flesh anymore,
We are our darkest desires and fears.

I try to hold your hand again,
But it's gone —
Dissolved into warmth,
Into light,
Into everything I didn’t know I could love this deeply.

I've accompanied you in this new realm
As the new spirit that we've become,
But part of me wishes,
We could still be two different souls --
So I could embrace your warm hand again.

Admire them from afar,
Like the beautiful constellation they are.
You want to feel them close,
But is it worth it?

Your eyes will melt,
And your skin will burn.
You will turn into dust,
While they keep on shining and sinning
With their mere existence.

Is the cost of turning into ashes worth it,
Just to feel them close for a brief moment?
Where their brightness makes your irises explode,
And the heat makes your soul melt?

Is it all worth it,
Knowing it will end you and erase your timeline,
While this is just another fleeting moment
In the endless light of their life?