You have the most pleasant touch,
most pleasant eyes, most pleasant wrinkles.
Kotschka, you have turned me into a fire
without knowing it, without seeing it.
Now that you do, look at me and show
me remorse, and give me your condolences.
This is my very first time saying this:
I died when you looked at me
and I died when you said 'hi.'
I died when you smiled,
and I died again when you touched me.
This is how it's going to be, but know
that I can die again and again
as long as it's for you and because of you.

You know I read your books, right?
You've always fascinated me with your eyes -
very sparkly, dauntless, always looking for an ending.
The truth will be out, and I guess you will never
linger again with your systematic veins to which
I have become attached. Like a weapon in the making,
your silvery hair creating a shimmer across
my bedroom window. And it stains the whole atmosphere;
when you left and went back with your hobby -
knitting, fixing everyone but yourself, and to cavalry, too.
They're burning your throat, but you insist on saying
that you're becoming more at peace and unbothered,
like a succulent, but I don't see it that way.
I see lots of empty pieces behind you
and the places you went back in that no one thinks
you did. As well as the people you tried to ran away
from and the people you've left behind, only to find out
that they are the one. I am the one.
Don't worry, you've always been sunlight. I'd still pack
your bags when we go for a trip together,
and I'd still cook your favorite dish while
you scrutinize my behavior. Am I your date or your lover?
Don't you think we've come so far?
Don't you think I read you too much like your books?

the angels have brought me once again
with all the figs and then there's Josephine,
she shook my hands when all my sins
sunken deep into the water I could still dive in
vanilla dreams, that's why I bought it
I might be reckless and he might be adrift
crippled by the anchor and tossed by a scale
to be vile is easy until you have to admit that you fail
if he weren't a prince and I wasn't a flame
then he was a game I couldn't blame

unprecedented, Josephine says.
with a cup of tea, I have been sold to a past
one for the cigarette and one for the lass
The 4th of May ended well for everyone but me
and heaven was too confident I could handle it
it was too early to cry so I stared at the screen instead
I will privately pour the glass with my words unsaid
not the wine, not today, not tonight
if I'm weighing you down, here is a green light

call me the loudest sinner
floating, scattering my trash in the sea
with my unsuspected heartbreaks in winter.

(we brew a damsel's flesh... then make a gentleman drink, for what's left has to be given and what we can only give... epic. ourselves.)

once they swallow my vision and rosy touch,
they might as well have swallowed my tribulation and such.

(1676)

"drop your weapons,
don't leave the discourse"

well, I've thought about it when nobody's here
my hands cannot cover these shiny tears
our hearts cut in half,
my wings plastered and sore
from falling into the depth
of broken silicon.

my mind might be rotten
but I'm elegantly withering
like a burning chauffeur
in the middle of the autumn,
and will be absolutely unforgotten.

What drives my mind crazy
the stillness of the rain
when our heads are exploding
miraculously pounding,
begging for deliberated smiles
the fingers might have bled
from circumstances we could never stop
to interfere could make it worse...
but my knee jolted when no one knocked,
my industrious heart, pleading to be let go of.

Bull's eye. I have dreamed about this not so long ago.

Do you ever wonder what's inside a basket full of shame?
that actually resembles to a pack of soul we filled
when the stories have been torn, pages by pages
when the river stopped overflowing, now it is dreaded.

Even when I'm sleeping
I can feel my heart dropping, melting
like an avalanche...
at least it's still beating, right?

(a letter to Orpheus)

to catch a glimpse of an unwanted occurrence
how long will I have to be a disturbance?
your eyes, always hungry for the moon's elevation
aren't we supposed to address our questions?
so, hear me out—every Wednesday
reminds me of the wild shatters
missed opportunities being tossed out the window
abruptly taken away, getting stuck in a limbo
days of the week relentlessly drifting away
like a fire losing its flame

how could i ever forget?
the silence between the loudest horns
the music bellowing like an unstoppable storm
we could have made it right
but if fear begins with me
that... serves us right.

I like going to the dark places
without even thinking
that I could possibly
get drown with my own thoughts
and whispers from the shadows
but I'd tell you something
you don't know about me
I have always felt alive
and alone at the same time
I have felt the lights dimming
in front of my eyes while I lay my cards
I have seen the terror in the hands
of the unknown
I have seen my own shattered heart
always at bay
and perhaps, that's the reason why
no one wants to stay

do you see me, sir, as a foolish maiden?
excuse my manner but how could you?

(You’re having sleepless nights.)

What a shame. I was about to tell you about the moon’s magical powers and its ability to protest. Heaven says everything would be fine, but still, I cannot comprehend the past and how cryptic it is when the truth has been denounced.

(There are certain words that my mouth will never say but that does not stop me from speaking. I’d give my heart away in the blink of an eye, if I must, for the truth.)

Now, call me, the contagious witch.
For I am always howling for the truth.

And what a shame to agree with dissipation.

You must be thoroughly blind.

In an empty ballet room, I grasped a blue spellbook with unknown proximity. Its enthralling sensation made me realized that I truly never mastered the ability to feel withdrawn. There are certain things in life that I cannot look away from—such as enticing gestures, delicate scenery and a glass full of wine. I am who I am and none of the people I have met or I will meet can change that.

I had this clarity that I have to feel big, even in small spaces and that I don't have to feel small in crowded places. Although I sing a different song when I am alone—fearful yet incandescent, and sometimes menacing, at least for me—my own colors can be atrocious, and yes, I love it.

how lovely it is—

sashay is acceptable and conscience is brutal
some cannot feel it, some cannot see it and some think it is futile
permissible, yes, but if one does not contain such thing
you must never trust them that much, for you can never win

I want to want affection, I must never attach nor kiss
My hands found the greatest tale, should I dismiss?
All I wear is darkness; nevertheless, the story remains
How it keeps me pure and consumed, I can never explain

By default, I feed my hungry eyes with our vices
I can never cast away the madness; you are the nicest
I questioned myself for doubting the unrevealed
It hurts to be awake for it has always been real

You are so serene, how could I ever forget?
I convinced myself to turn away and it made me upset
My team, we know we will always go to extreme
After all, what is hope without its dream?

i feel scared.
i don't know why.

i am barely breathing
   tell me this is not my destination
   i just want to ask you something—

is this where i truly belong?
  i am trying! oh god, yes, i am!
  when did it all go wrong?

all the lies i fed myself—it is becoming real
   i have always known it
   i was never meant to heal

i think i have always been so tender with everything, but it crushes me every time. every person i loved, they always choose someone else over me. i guess that's how it's always been, and getting used to it was easy for me.

[1] truly, i belong to no one. but unfortunately, my heart keeps yearning for love. i believe it does not make me a desperate woman. for me, it only proves that at the end of the day, we all covet attention, touch, sweetness, and love, of course. if i have given the chance to keep the ones i felt a connection with, i thought maybe, i can fix few parts inside their soul that would make it work. but they proved themselves that they're just a season - and i wish they weren't.

[2] they came barging in, questioning themselves. what have they done long-ago or who they truly are? the eloquence denotes an adoration. they threw pebbles in the fountain and wished a happy ending, illustrating the comfort and triumph we could get. no, they didn't say the endless possibilities. just that. indecision arises within and the injustice won, and just like in everyday life, it occurs often. it's humiliating to admit how i almost drowned in the lake where i supposedly am only wearing a silver lining but instead, i wore a discolored crown and a cheap jewel. nevertheless, i giggled, of course; who wouldn't? oh yes! my future self will call it deceptive. but isn't it?

[3] i saw a blotch of paint on my arms. a raspberry bruise on my knee slowly vanishing as i tried to stroke the brush onto the white canvas. the art is looking more forlorn than it was thirty-two minutes ago despite the cerulean clouds and ginger-colored paint dripping. there's a feeling of dissatisfaction that seems to linger—no, let me rephrase that. it’s like a sting in my heart, just like how needles can abruptly make your fingers bleed, or how someone can touch your soul except they can swiftly **** you twice. shut your eyes or shut the door? would you even dare to choose? i cleared my throat before picking up the paints on the floor. if this is a dream, i will not protest.

[4] the deities, whom i described as righteous, superior and unbeatable, declared a plague where humans become bellicose. in a piece of paper, i wrote it all down and carry it in my pocket every now and then. i believe this is how we, the mortals, should be; someone who has a sense of right and wrong. but the latter ones love contradicting the divine. so i guess, this is a sentence. i told them no! i will never be one of them! but i cannot decipher their faces. there's a slight uncertainty on the surface because of my undeniable convictions. i am a woman, after all.

[5] i believed in rainbow-like reality. my soul grew up in a household full of love, trust and maybe a few adventurous spirits. the clash of unfair judgment and misconception doesn't seem to matter. we're all different, point taken. yet, it did not disrupt the petals budding in meadowland; something i pictured in my head when i was five or seven years old. i simply believed in love, and loving them could be the ultimate cure to wounded hearts. for me, there are no bad people, only a damaged one.

[6] i tried to soften my heart. again and again and again. but it seems useless. do they enjoy betraying the trust? do they like sinful beginnings? do they love being an untrustworthy person? i cannot fathom their reasoning and logical thoughts. apart from the fact that they make my heart aches, terribly, they think dominance is the only way for me to think that they're in control - and that's the most disgusting thing.

[7] my ears cannot disregard the heavy steps between the whirlwinds that disturb the bushes. i've talked to the owls last night and they said you were wide awake the whole night. they told me how frustrated you were with how things turned out. how awful! you know i can't call the ambulance - not because i can't do anything about, but because i really don't want to.

justice hurts when truth prevails. suffocating, isn't it?

[8] i have no idea how to swallow my bruised ego. excuse my ignorance - does it sound foolish? coming from the mouth of a woman laying her head down, scorned repeatedly by the hands who willingly pushed the wine barrels from the top of the hill, resulting in unstoppable motion.

my cardigan tenderly wrapped around my body, i felt the skin cuts, the remorse for letting you all in, the storm brewing, sorrow - all at once.

don't you dare tell me i did not even try!

the ones who wholeheartedly devotes are the ones who suffers the most.

they peeled off my skin,
shove the lies in my throat,
now i feel the need to repent!

almighty! a terrible suffering.
i allowed them to orchestrate,
sacrifice my token for help—

they petitioned to jeopardize the igloo
for this century despise the moon
and believe they must create a deeper wound

doing something for somebody who ends up lying to you is funnier than the joke itself.

what no one has ever told you about the devil, is that they aren't real.

my mother gave birth to a rose with pure innocence. clementine, raspberry, oh! look how sweet she looks like. the glow she produces, everything her fingertips touches becomes stardust, and her stares can feel bittersweet - get burned or ache for bonfire inside your home? either way, you will discover how hungry you are for the thrill and torment.

beneath the pillows is the pain - how easily forgotten, but it will never stop regardless of how many white dandelions she will plant at her backyard.

her bones marbled amongst the other, calm a crocodile upon its attack, distance - that's what she's good at. i wish this dampen cloth made from grief does not cloud her judgment. she made too many ruined choices, embarked on a journey alone once or twice, sew the torn sheets, spilled four caffeine - and still, all she knows is how to look at the stars with tearful eyes and buttermilk aroma smile. naïvety. a great trap, i suppose.

   ; don't you know how much i want to drown those lovely sins? it makes me think of the galaxy i once felt, and like metamorphosis, it turned into wishful skins, then slowly, burned into ashes as i try to nurture the wooden skulls. i shouldn't have done that.

will you light an aggressive fire for me?
look what you made me do

... the devil, perhaps, it's within us.

the worms start to crawl on my belly. my innocent desire is only to express my moonlit thoughts without being scrutinized by desperate mouths, eating cockroaches instead of vomiting snake skins. p r e t t y little thing, they say. no one sees the facade. but to me, the prettiest thing comes from the abandoned houses, yelling in shame, intimidated by the oppressors.

but do oppressors really matter? i think not.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

in my dreams, i call you the keeper - there are millions of fireflies in the garden, asking how we made it this far. i say: it's not even far, but my throat is burning, the words starts to disappear, my hands keeps getting colder and the clock is ticking. tick tock. tick tock. tick tock.     take u s away

the water from the shower continues to run down. my back against the wall, trembling hands, smudged mascara on my lashes. people's eyes always imply to act proper. i will always be a   /l a d y/   but oh, i think i will never be free from their expectations. frowning face, stern behavior, bitter truth—they loathe it.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

i have always wanted to tell the mortals to bury the hatchet. but i know sustaining a war sometimes feels comfortable—a unique distraction to preoccupy our raging minds, parting ourselves from the unsatisfied society. still, everything stays. our pasts. the heartbreaks. love. the deities will never punish us for the displeasure but it will make us tick. we should know.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

i feel as though i am a misplaced dirt. i don’t belong here. i don’t fit in anywhere. it seems like every place i go to will be a strange memory. like a mere fog in the city transporting your soul into vulnerability, allowing you to surrender your weeping soul. some days, the sadness consumes me. stop this ******* pain! oftentimes, when i am alone, in the dark corner of my bedroom, i say this to myself. beating my chest intensely, missing the warm glow i once had, preaching the power of internal monologues i purposely created to fabricate a picture where i am pure and glistening. but this isn’t me. i am beseeching the gods above us, have mercy on me! the unknown cause forcing my bones to feel the ache. give me the silver blades to end this madness. open lungs, dampen pillows and deep desires to take a new gaze upon the world. but the misery keeps my hands *******. the fact that i have the ability to commit a mistake drowns my body in the ocean of disappointment. hush, put me inside the coffin instead. i made my own bed. this impulsion to start anew is nonsense. the absence of one’s emotions used to make me puke. i have never known how people can easily forget a face, not until i lost myself, and to realize everything about it is a fear i will endlessly think about—for breathing the pure poison of the world is easier. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. the eccentric aftermath will always be bittersweet. in the blink of an eye, i forgot my own face.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

if i survive this drought,
does it make me tough?
or does it make me cruel
for not calling your name?

let me fill up
the empty cup
with these tears
from regrets and fears.