you are a flower, so do not treat yourself like the dirt that surrounds it.

the ocean will be bigger no matter how big you think you are.
the thorns on rose stems will still ***** your skin no matter how thick it is.
the air will still be made up of complex gases no matter how much you love simplicity.
the boy you wrote letters to will crumple them and throw them no matter how many more you write and lock away.

how foolish was she
to flourish in flames
and dance with swans
who had masks as names

she found a note and all it said was "goodbye"

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking to me about omens and premonitions
like how the glass slid off the tabletop that day
and i went out anyway

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking about lucky numbers and feng shui
like how we met on friday the thirteenth
"mom, you're being cheesy, there's no such thing."

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking about colours and hell
like how black skies were signs of demons
the ones that aren't quite like the ones in my head.

i should've listened to my mother
when she spoke of trembling hands and death
like how i shouldn't have left an hour earlier that day
because the dishes broke in the sink
and my father decided that wasn't a good enough reason to stay.

Rule 1:

This is depression, not an alien invasion.

Rule 2:

These are disorders, not disabilities.

Rule 3:

These are hallucinations, not possessions.

Rule 4:

This is love, not confrontation.

Rule 5:

This is sadness, and sometimes aggravation.

what she thought was a family portrait, was a lesson for what happens when you lose one side of a pair of shoes - you can never buy just one again, it comes in a set of two.

what she thought was a stove, was an analogy for the kind of love parents fail to tell - there's nothing more cruel than love, nothing will feel as good as hell.

what she thought were anniversary flowers, were rolled up versions of paper planes telling her mother she now had to use her grandfather's last name, or her mother's maiden name, if only her father had let it stay.

what she thought was his reflection (on a pretty grand mirror showered with lace), was nothing but a crack in the wall, and also the reason why her father never called.

i cried a tale
a feverish tale

of demons on tables and babies in glasses

of faces on floors
and portraits of lovers etched on doors

of gap-toothed beggars with golden teeth

of priests bending over with no god to please

i sang and sang
of bodiless faces

faces that went to faraway places
(i lost five tears to a man with four faces)

i sang and sang
of a princess with no womb
who ran to a juliet
buried deep in a tomb

this is neither the parting of seas nor the creation of islands

this is neither a blink nor a fever-induced sleep

this is neither the cry of a lover nor the weep of a sinner and trust me, they're both going to pray at some point.

this is the halfway mark of a poet who's running out of things she can and  cannot say.

empty journals are white flags.

i had the same song on replay as i walked around boston - the same sad song that had you saying goodnight  moon - and i think these lyrics have started to settle in my bloodstream, i'm pretty certain they don't want to leave - you would know how great it feels to call my veins home.

if only i could get on a big  jet  plane on autopilot; i'm pretty sure it's the only thing that can lead me to what i truly call home.  and i'd have that same song blasting throughout the plane.

except i don't think i call anything anywhere home, so i would be on that plane until my teeth and my fingertips turn yellow.

When i was a lot younger, my mother taught me to swallow my tears - nobody cares that you’re sad, so you must not care either. And now, you seem to have learnt it by yourself when that is the last thing i want you to do. Do not be like the pristine pond my mother wanted me to be; do not just ripple, make waves. Do not just collect as a cloud, do not even fall lightly as rain; make yourself a hurricane! Be the kind of sunshine so strong people run out of ways to shield their faces. Be seen.

Knowing you, you would interpret the pearl necklace as simply a kind of jewellery that is more often than not passed on as a family heirloom. The stories behind leave deeper scars than you’d think they would. This necklace hold stories within each bead - it in its entirety is a metaphor. A metaphor for the fight between the lust for ignorance and the nirvana of clarity. You are -  wounded on the battlefield - caught in the middle of this fight more than anyone else i know.

on the surface of my skin
i'd love to see bones
but they weigh me in boulders
not in stones
(n.n.)

when you look at me
what will you see
will you see a queen
or an empty shell of no sleep
will you see the phases of the moon
that sing you to sleep - the voices that croon
when you look at me
what will you see
all i hope for
is that you don't see the world
the way you see me
(n.n.)

we are all malfunctions waiting to happen so i don't know which is worse - bursting into flames or never sparking.

(was i the one who stopped time or was that the girl before me?
was i the one who donated a thousand butterflies to your insides or was that the girl before me?)

was i the one who sowed the sun into your eyes or did the girl before me have more skillful hands?

(was i the one who buried your grief, your pain, your hopelessness, or did the girl before me dig deeper?)

  was i the one who swallowed your sadness to the pit of my stomach and kept it there or did the girl
before me swallow an ocean?

(was i the one who made your thoughts come alive in the night or was the girl before me a better playwright than i?)

was i the glittery diamond that caught your eye amongst the rubble or did the girl before
me have a sparklier dress?

(was i the one who healed your aching heart or did the girl before me have more tender hands, a soothing voice and a better elixir?)

was i the one who you wanted to heal so desperately or did the girl before me shatter into more
pieces than you could carry?

(were my arms the place you called "home" or were the girl before me's arms more delicate yet able to hold you closer to her heart?)

was i the one who set your heart on fire or was the girl before me a more reckless arsonist?

(was i the one who placed your head in the clouds or was the girl before me already a haven?)

was i the one who taught you what hell felt like or did the girl before me have the hands
of the devil?

(was i the one who unfolded the meaning of life to you or was the girl before me a better philosopher?)

was i the one who taught you how terrible death is or did the girl before me's suicide note
have more tragic poetry?

(was i the one who made your voice sore from screaming for me to come back to you or was the girl before me more desirable?)

was i the one who made your hands shake or was the girl before me a little less of a hurricane
and more of an earthquake?

(was i the one who shattered your soul on the marble floor or was the girl before me's strength more tempting to give in to?)

was i the one who left bloodstains on your carpet or did the girl before me have lipstick that
was quite a convincing red?

(were you glad your nightmares stopped with me or did you secretly enjoy them because they reminded me of the wild nights you shared with her?)

(G.S. )                                                                                                                                                                                                                    (N.N.)

i've measured
the highway to your heart
in the tears from my arms
and the calluses on my feet