I feel at home in the liminal        in the space inbetween,
between past, future, reality       fantasy, this, that.  
In the liminal, the past and         future lap around me,
demanding waves that climb      high and share their spray.
The salt water clings to my          hair, stiffens it like straw
and I stay, ungrowing in              the liminal.
I live between thresholds             on the threshold
and sometimes the tension          tugs and tears and rips
my fingernails, my hair                my skin.
Thresholds are supposed             to hurt, to push, to compel
but it’s where I rest and               make my home.

The liminal does not rip me apart as it should.

It’s hollow in the liminal             a void that digs my insides
out. It’s a cave in there                 walls of apathy and dread.
My mind grows in on                   itself and I live in it,
where it plays in the                    liminal.
It cannot survive                          beyond the threshold
so I stay in the house                   where the windows are
clear and the doors                      are unlocked. Nothing is
keeping me in but                        myself.
I feel at home in                            the liminal, where the tensions
hurt and erode                              but it’s safe here,
or safe enough                               in the space inbetween.

I fear the sea and the tides so I stay on the shore.
It hurts but not as much as it should.

How does it move away?
Does it pack up what is racked up
Heading for the horizon and simply fade?

How does it walk away?
Does it stomp with every step as it squash whatever's left
Like footprints in the sand lost to the waves?

How does it stay away?
Does it rotate slowly with frustration, lamenting your suspicions
Frustrating you, festering and pestering,then it wanes
Till darkness blankets your brain?

How does it slip away?
Does it go unnoticed for days then weeks,
Wondering from the sunrise till the flickering of the lights in the streets
Insisting,persistent,yet resisted then dismissed,
Offering random handouts like a dog begging for scraps
Running and hiding, punished for trying then eventually dying
To an eventual parting of ways

What makes a Solid Bond struggle to maintain?
What makes it strong and easy to depend on?

XIN

Potted in soil that nurtures naught,
With petals of suede
Whose shade changes at a touch,
All in a state of forever bloom atop an ungrowing stem.

These petals don’t fall,
Lest it be plucked from rose.
These stems don’t grow,
Yet the inanimity gives immortality.

Stagnant.
Never growing,
Never dying,
Never living…

we could have been beautiful
like a sunrise shining
in the dew of a
morning flower in bloom
but something inside of me
was withered and ungrowing
sunflowers are said to bloom
and move towards sunlight
but I think I must be
something more macabre
i'm the tears on a
mourning rose on a coffin
after all, flowers don't grow
once they've been severed

and you deserve sunflowers