sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.

i've been waking up to desaturation all my life.
i don't know why but i've been
rolling over in the same grey-skinned body,
opening shoddy eyes, heart heavy
as a hangover. i climb into your chevy with
it in my hands. i know this is the fifth time i've lit
a cigarette since i quit, but my lungs needed the ash.
did you know, in a car crash, just one person
not wearing a seatbelt would worsen the casualties?
so if you see the casual ease with which i bare my chest,
know that the carnage of my reckless form,
hail in a storm of steel and violence, at least felt sorry.
the starry dark of a backroad, an explosion of light,
a bright metal supernova and colors even my eyes can't doubt;
we'll all find out exactly how heavy my guilt
is when the body sorrow built ascends through the windshield.

i'm sorry about the way i fumble for words and breath, but i just can't catch my death i mean breath
and i'm sorry if this is weird but there are some people who mean more to me than i can express using any number of adjectives
and sometimes it scares me because my body was not made to hold this many hearts
there is impossible love in my fingertips and it will bless anyone who comes near me
i'm sorry for being a dreamer i'm sorry i got so close i'm sorry for holding galaxies in my hands but i want to be just like you when i grow up
and there are supernovas whispering behind your closed eyelids.
you cannot win acceptance from expectation i know this from experience
and maybe it's okay to be a little ****** up but i'm pretty sure my heart shouldn't ache in time with people who don't exist
i'm desaturated, not colorful enough i cannot handle pure cyan or magenta but give me olive,
give me chamoisee and i will breathe a little easier
paintings come in all shapes and sizes and rainbows i painted mine on my hands and fingers
i cannot help it if my acrylics mix with other people's watercolors
this is how i am
sometimes i go up to your front door and do not knock
i hope you will forgive me for this
i'm not in the habit of wasting breath but i will waste death until i have no more seconds and minutes and hours to do so
tell me you love me there is a heart shaped box in my chest
it is sandpaper against your palmprints but you will clutch it, fingers tight
curling in and around like it's a part of you
i'm not a geometry problem that you can solve i'm more complex than that there are wires
buried beneath my skin pumping iron through my body i'm more machine than flesh
but that doesn't mean i can't feel your hand in mine
i measure time in the beats of your heartbeat against mine
you watch me like a car crash, like i'm moving in slow motion but you still can't keep up
compartmentalize your love songs and love letters and love
your heart will stop beating if you just tell it that it can't feel anymore
i am a sea of compromises this was not the first one i have had to make and it will not be the last
but i promise you that when we're dust blowing through the desert
a thousand and one lifetimes away,
i will remember every second of you
and we will be constellations sewn into the galaxy
another fairy-tale to be read at night when our fears are loudest
and i will press my fingers to your neck to show you that your heart is still beating
i am a rainbow paint me onto your blank canvas like this is the last time we'll ever see each other
i'm not scared of how i am i'm just like everybody else
it's not my fault that i have love pulsing through my body like tidal waves
paintbrushes are rough against my rocky craters but i love them just the same
i will love you just the same.

In the scripts playing inside my head you were there to listen.
You were there to talk,
To organize our chaos and to make sense of those wasted days when we could never connect the dots in this cosmic puzzle.
Words are all I need, the right words that can reincarnate the colors of this desaturated conspiracy,
Coming out of your nervous lips as your eyes misplace its focus in the light of my blushing face.

In my head, we were both lost in the midst of something that can fix us.

I have nothing but love for a blue sky
and how its glory opens up my mind.
How it shoos away grey thoughts
of color neutral, sleeping forests.

Oh blue sky.
If I had wings
I'd make you mine.
You'd be my canvas
and my feathers,
your delicate brushes.

Oh bright blue sky
If only I had time
to sit under you
and admire your clouds.
You wear them so well.

Instead in a monotone,
desaturated schedule
I march onward.  
Only able to admire
for passing moments
inbetween places and times.
Blanketed by your sunlight.

The first time I bloomed
was under the threadbare covers
on my silk mattress.

It was odd.
I mean, the utter controversy
of the two cloths clashed teeth to bone,
gums to tendons.
Made by the same mother,
abandoned by both.
(I guess in some way they were meant to be)

I grew out of childish fantasies
years ago, shredding it
like satin snakeskin,
but I can't help but wonder
if lukewarm serendipity
and blushing luck
were controlled by not a higher power
but our own heartstrings.

It would be an interesting sight,
to see braided desaturated yarn
entwined in our limbs like a tangled puppet.
Does that mean we are controlled?
Or perhaps the "control"
we see is merely an illusion,
easy to rip through like tissue paper.

I remember that my body burned.
From ever-growing light coiled around
split ends and twisting fingertips.
The light was skintight,
another layer of my skin.
My bones unfurled,
eyes glowing like fairy lights,
weeds creeping out of the fringes of my chest cavity.
Hands turned into bouquets of lilies,
pedals waving farewell,
why, I could not say, but it's metaphorical.
Kissing the wounded parts of my soul,
I grew bundles of baby's breath and chrysanthemums.

The second time,
while my hair grew into flames
and the hinges of my heart
oxidized into green,
my mother found out.
What she thought was a childish misunderstanding
grew into a maze of prejudice and disgust.

I knew, my mother never liked it, from the start.
Perhaps she was stuck,
in the past,
in the mindset,
in the fear,
in the normality,
and this,
this was not normal.

She sneered at me and my father
shook his head in disappointment.

Twang in my chest,
I tried to atone for my sin,
but I stopped halfway
because I realized even if I tried,
the growth would only speed and this time
the flowers would be blackened and dead.

The third, I tried to stop it.
I couldn't survive another heartbreak
so I folded it away,
into twos and threes
until the creases refused to crease
and rice paper cracked
into three million pieces
of jagged bones.

I never knew destruction was beautiful until then.

The fourth, I gave up on my reconciliation.
Why try when it wasn't going to work anyways?
I waited out the furnace in my heart
and for the first time,
wondered why I couldn't be normal.

I was meant for a happy ending,
driving into a sunset with a boy by my side
and it didn't make sense
(but ironically it did).
Girls couldn't like girls.

But I did, I did.
And though my mother screamed obscenities
and my father looked at me in disgust,
I could not throw it out
like bottles of spoiled milk.
I could no less cut out my own being
than stop this.

And through my suffering I surmised
that if this was seen so revolting,
then I should go down for it.
A life for a life,
that's what I thought.

But was it worth it?
I do not know.
But me, me who loves as much as I hate---
I cannot cut this out of me.

And maybe, just maybe---
even as I fade like the waning moon under my parents' hatred,
and this thing inside of me is cherished and kept inside
the hearts of others
---maybe it's alright.

Maybe I will be okay.

Hazel eyes, hate is very much alive.
Bleached striped hair, parents never cared.
Desaturated makeup, abuse save up.
Branch like lashes, left the guns in the attic.
Bloodied pores, closing doors.
Chipped nails, bleeding Dale.
Scarred skin, occurring sins.
Bloodied skirt, exposed hurt.
Bloodied sneakers, driving by the bleachers.
Steady hands, acting out plans.
Pressurized trigger, pull back finger.
Black handle, blood covered handles.
Full magazine, gruesome scene.
Empty canister, a new cancer.
Staring scope, deprived hope.
Heated Barrel, death written peril.
Dispensing bullets, anger she’s full of it.
Chipped desks, severed heads.
Impacted walls, faint police calls.
Shattered glass, death attracts.
Bodies down, the flag is proud.
Blood soaked tiles, bodies litter the aisles.
Wounded souls, doors closed.
Narrowed screams, a violent portrayal gleams.
Distant sirens, victims silenced.
Blurring smoke, the gun provokes.
Gas mask on, a tragedy in the dawn.
Emergency services, the hurt she did.
Police, she’s loaded to release.
Erupting explosions, a bloodied corruption.
Officer down, **** she’s proud.
Reloading yet again, pain is about to begin.
Hit through the torso, she still has the guns though.
Hard to move, starting to lose her homicidal groove.
Sheering pain, every scream sounds the same.
Another shot, her moment is lost.
Killed by the law, psychosis remains a common flaw.
Aftermath: A tragic path.
Overlooked as a simple girl, an untouched disturbed world.
Within the fragments of abuse and fantasies. Unknown abnormalities
She herself was very misunderstood, had no teachings of the common good.
Parents exposing death, they just didn’t know it.
Breeding a killer, giving violent media to justify a sinner
And they wonder why their daughter made violence a neighbor instead of a impostor.

I set the pace of my breathing to match the healing of my heart;
It's painfully slow and I'm not sure how much more it can take.
I watch myself from outside the window
As my chest struggles to rise against your weight.

I'm lying down and she knows how difficult it is for me
Yet she takes another step until both feet are firmly planted on top of my ribcage.
Gravity crushes every glimmer of hope that I had to make it through this task alive.
Once she sees the light leave my eyes she begins to relieve the pressure.

The world around me is hard to discern.
My eyes are unable to frame each detail which engulfs my body,
But when I look at her it's like God himself has washed me clean
And I am able to make out the outline of something I once loved.

But I can't help but to writhe in discomfort as his arms wrap around her waist
While I diligently sweep the floor that they dance across.
My head is drawn down towards the ground in an attempt to spare myself--
It didn't work.

I tried.
Oh god, did I try,
But my limbs became too heavy to withstand the weight of you leaving me,
So I had to slip outside.

This heart feels foreign as it battles for its life.
I do not know her anymore.
Green eyes have become desaturated and all I can envision is a hollowed body.
Are you really doing okay?

If there is a god, or if magic was real I think I'd wish for her to be happy again.
I long to love myself and to feel vibrant in my own skin,
But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't sacrifice it all
Just to see her truly smile.

Time is elusive and I know this is a dangerous place to be seen in.
It's torturous to toy with the notion that somehow things could've turned out differently,
So I return back to the girl inside the window pane.
She hates me, but I'm not ready to let her go...

I set the pace of my breathing to match the healing of my heart;
It's sluggish and morbid, but it feels like a fresh start.

The wicks have disappeared under the wax.
The strings only groan untuned noise.
The color has drained to desaturated blacks.
What is a flower with rotted petals if not a ****?
Nothing grows here, not a single seed.
Leave the wasted garden, place the candles in the drawer.
The piano's more desirable when it's not touched anymore.

How oft has the piping poet iterated
the many nuances of feeling,
the many ways to love, or hate?
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
But where in these enumerations
have we distinguished the longing
that boils up within us
at an absence, the missing,
whether momentary or eternal?
For there are many ways to miss someone.

There are, of course, the dreary ways
to miss someone, the ways
of grief, the yearning never to be fulfilled
for the departed and never to be seen again.
The moving on because you must
and still like ringing bells
the memories perpetually toll -
at first so loud as to obscure any sound
or thought, yet eventually
fading to a distant chime, ever still present,
lingering tintinnabulation;
if you stop and listen, you can make it out,
but day-to-day you’d hardly notice.

But there are many ways to miss someone,
like subtle shades of purple:
while some are dark, oozing, sickly,
violent, like bruises,
blood pooling just beneath the surface
threatening to burst;
or some are near-grey, cold, desaturated,
a sensationless day,
a gloomy cloud in our sky;
others would induce with their very sight
the soft scents of violets and lilac,
the songs of spring birds chirping;
and others still are rich and royal,
thick like honey, endowed,
velvet sheen, lustrous silk.

Yes, there are many ways to miss someone.

Like craving the crunch of an apple,
or the tingling acidity of citrus.
Like the thirst before the first gulp,
lemon water warmed beneath the sweltering sun.
Or like how dusk to dawn deprives us of that very sun,
and yet so soon will it return,
crying out a yellow hello into the night blue sky.

There are many ways to miss someone.

Like the budding excitement,
the cocooned caterpillar,
the anticipation of soon-coming,
daydreaming, enriching, sweet, joyful,
delayed gratification.

There are many ways to miss someone.

And when you finally bite into the fruit of your longing
the juices seep into all the cracks and crevices
of all the moments past of absence,
fill you, elate you, concentrated,
and you ask yourself
was an orange always so sweet
or the lemon so sour as this?

Suffocation. Loss of breath Numbness to every step. Depression at its best.
Back to hell again. Where my mind welcomes my sin. My brain has always been my  the hell I’m living.  Isolation. Yet you’re the only thing worth seeing. Vibration. Of a frequency worth believing. You are the worth of my life. Let me pick up the notebook and drop the knife. Figures of desolation. Yet when I look at you you’re my only inspiration. Living isn’t for the weak. I see that phrase living in me.  Combination of mental instabilities. Colliding with my purpose. Always questioning if I'm worth it.  My breath slows as it colliding within your sweat. Yet loving you has freshened my scars. Thinking of losing you tears me apart. Our love is complicated. Yet underneath the desaturated makeup I see a soul damaged by the fragrance. The smell of trauma emerging throughout the pavement. Seeing me aid your struggle gives me hope for my struggle.  Disarranged and unfit. And as we scrape our knees you are the one to help me sit.  Bandage my wound just as I did to you. I lost myself looking at the reflection of you.
Flat line. The thought of losing you. Tears a bind directly through my heart tearing apart the spine. And as I am left disassembled., Society walks over our pieces like we are just a doll.
Sprawled out broken. Damaged and misspoken. Lost to them. But never Forgotten

I was a deep purple
Shy and kept to myself
Always thinking,
Imagining

Then I met you,
A bright, vivid green
So lively and hopeful
Always talking

Together, we were perfect
Yet we're
Complete opposites

Then I tried to mix us together
I thought we'd be perfect

But...

We became
a muddy
desaturated
mess

You are the proof of my great development,
diary made of waves,

emotional gradient which occurred in the fifth grade,
witness of great change,
from one man to another,
during the last moon phase,

shallowness of my deepness was my ticket
to the land of harmony,

the keeper of all the evil must have opened the doors,
when we were unaware,
and happy,

and then I met you
and my mind went desaturated,
I remember Ivy,
no one else does,
no one has the keys to my precious vault, which I call home,
I carry it everywhere,

I took part in an unfair lottery hosted by the devil,
I walked into the dark tunnel,
and left two months later,

I got good at this vague game called ‘living’,
it’s Hardmode now,

but the Waxing Crescent told me telepathically, there are no losses on the acute horizon
upcoming,

there will be confetti,
biggest party of the decade,
you must be the perfect lover,
you won’t harm me,

I’m independent,
I know it,

after the distance that I’ve crawled it’s clear as the night sky,
all the stars say:

I got this.

i want to know my shape
but i am made of vapour
I have spent a lifetime draping myself in shrouds
so that i cannot see the edges of myself
I am hazy and undefined,
desaturated and without contrast
my flesh is a metaphor for everything i am
and it terrifies me.
i have given all my energy to crafting myself from disruptive camouflage
so i would not need to apologise for,
so I would not need to know,
the contours of who i am
so I would not take up space
but i want that
now
i want to find all the parts of me i do not recognise
my spine
my voice
my worth
my shape
I want to look at a picture of my life and for the first time
see me in it

The little sillinesses
Wanders and drifts away
Until you realize
The color of your shirt
Doesn't matter anymore,
The car you drive,
The ceiling above you;
Truth is not cruel, it is only cold.

The roads are different today,
But they all lead
To same is destinations,
And my obeying foot walk by them
Just to not be stuck.

Those smell that once
One could almost touch,
Delicate in all tones,
Desaturated, are only smells once again,
Distant and forgotten.

We merged so strongly
That we've wrecked in our way out,
And now I don't look for fixes anymore,
I look on functioning,
Completeness,
I look the other way
(It doesn't look bright either).

Leave it all behind
Is just another way
Of carrying the weight