I.
the silence after a fight threatens me to ask if you're okay. but i know you aren't, so i don't ask anymore. though i want to hold you and tell you that if i could have your hurt in my hand and throw it across the sky, i would make it rain.

II.
there are heights we go through to hurt each other, the effort is much appreciated after we fall from them. but imagine what we could do if we started climbing our expectations.

III.
things we know by heart soon become things we know by bruises and a sting on the back in the morning. try as we might, there is now a history here and as we ignore it, there will only be more to follow. it scares us both to the point that we have to sleep on the floor on opposite sides of the bed. in different rooms. across different cities.

IV.
there was a four letter word and it began with you, maybe there were three words and eight letters. but i wouldn't want to give you that satisfaction anymore, wouldn't i?

V.
we won't help ourselves when it comes to someone new. our favorite past times are now replaced by looking for reasons why we don't deserve other people. and for every reason, a flower in our hand. for every flower, a eulogy. though i am not as strong as to speak to your remains, i will appreciate you in graveyards with gardens in my hand.

VI.
i could not keep my teeth together when you speak to me through dead air. you give my mind only white noise to filter into miscommunication. ears only drum your words as impulses you won't remember. i won't either. we are locked in liminal silence, there is no key nor a lock. there are only rough translations of our understanding on past intentions, so we do not speak. we wave  farewells. this is the best we do when we try to act decently towards each other.

VII.
i question my own mouth. there is no denying that it is a gun and all i do is shoot. i know not all of my words will hit you and i am just another game of russian roulette. and we both know what's at stake. i try my best at taking aim against my own bets. but how can i, when the target is more lethal than the trigger?

VIII.
there was a silence after the fight that threatened me to ask you to leave. no further reasons. i hope you know the sun finally rose on my side of the bed. i just wish you had taken the rain with you.

IX.
every bullet in this poem is loaded into my mouth. i will save them for when you kiss me and when you do, i might put the safety on. i don't think i can shoot.

I could wake up next sunday, just maybe
if i make it through these weekend nights.
Anyone could tell me about what I should do,
but maybe I wouldn't push and pull through.

It's a different story, one I couldn't write anymore.
Somber's all I am recently, wish I could be sober.
It's hard to get up in the morning and not wish
to have so much more I could do about all this.

And I've paced my elbow room a couple times,
it feels like I'm a stranger in my own company.
Been vexed by the holy ghost behind my back
about faith I don't have and a father I can't see.

Won't take you a miracle, they told me once.
Said the cigarettes and lighters would suffice.
There's also the aftertaste of saturday's vices,
you'd know how hard it is, wanting to just go.

Because everytime I've told anyone otherwise,
I'm no longer surprised to be called thankless.
Though I've settled with pennies for thoughts:
my talk's cheap, arms open, but i'm still selfish.

Rid the virtues from my system, all but patience,
since I've been waiting on all my oppurtunities
but not for the home I've settled to call my own.
There's a way, I know, that's not how I want to go.

Today, I cried when someone asked about my day
because I've been like this whole weekends long.
My thousand tiny terrors yet again take their toll.
Wait for my sunday matinee, it's the last you'll see.