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I am a twenty year old girl who has just found singing for the first time, and you are the melody that keeps clashing behind my closed teeth. Your name fights, syllable to syllable, colliding against cartilage and making a boxing ring out of my larynx. The vocal coach hums a sweet tune, but my trapped-bee-buzzing might sound a lot like screams if I opened my mouth. Singing and you are much like each other, a language I do not know, a note I cannot reach, a tune I cannot hold. My voice box is a desert- dry and empty except for the occasional cactus and tumbleweed. You are the rain, the assured violin notes of a master violinist universe that plays the music to which the sun, moon and earth all dance to. The curtains fall and rise in a melody of their own. The dance ends, and begins, and ends. I sit alone in the auditorium and wait for syzygy but throughout the settings and risings, it never happens even once. The universe plays dice, the people play dice, and not once in all the mathematical probabilities and coincidences do the stars align so that you come back to me, as you were.

On The Outskirts of Heaven

Listen, listen, listen, please, you hear but I need you to listen to everything I’m screaming without opening my mouth, I need you to put aside these games and just listen to me.
Please. Listen before it’s too late.
Beneath these webs we want the same thing. You want me to want you, and I already do.
I swear, just open your eyes and listen. You’ll find me behind the whirlwind haze of glitter that surrounds you.
Here I am, on the outskirts of heaven trying to look straight at you.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much I can see.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much to see.
(If only you’d feel.)
If only all these people could get out of our way, then we could be our curtains-down, kitchen-sink selves. I could breathe and you could smile like the world was ours.
Like the world wasn’t ending.
Like we didn’t make so many mistakes that slept on our shoulders while we stayed up at night.
Like we weren’t making new ones every time we looked away.
The ghosts in my city like to count my mistakes out loud, I wonder if you hear their echo all the way to where you are.
Wherever you are.
I wonder if you hear me calling you home.

Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.


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Listen, it’s been too long now, okay? Too goddamn long, and you need to leave. You need to get out of my heart because I won’t be letting you stay in here anymore, not when you’ve smashed every glass window and every mirror into a million shards and ripped every door off its hinges, not when you’ve left coffee stains on the walls from still drunken rages the mornings after. I’m boarding it up now. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to renovate this house that you’ve destroyed and turn it into a home again, but for now I’ll board up the shattered windows and doors so that the splinters and the words we never yelled at each other don’t hurt anyone else. Maybe I won’t. My sixth grade teacher once told me that sometimes places never recover after they’ve been hit by hurricanes. Maybe it’s the same for people too.

Second Loves And What They Feel Like.

Falling in love for the first time is like being an adrenaline junkie and jumping off a cliff, full of naive courage and only thinking of the wind rushing through your hair. But your second love is harder because as you lay there on the sharp rocks, the adrenaline of the flight down wearing off and your body battered, bruised and bleeding, you’ll promise yourself to never go through anything that risky, that damaging ever again, because it’s just not worth it.

The ecstasy is not worth the pain.

You’ll promise yourself to never let your fragile heart in someone else’s ruthless palms ever again after seeing it smash down onto the rocks and scatter into a million pieces, and as the water will start to rise, tides lapping up the shore, at first the cool water will feel good on your broken body until you’ll realize it’s pulling you out to sea now, and you’ll hold on to whatever rocks you can, cutting your hands and making rivulets of blood flow down your arms, to keep yourself from going into the water because you know you won’t be able to keep afloat, but the water is strong, and you are not, and now you’re in the water with no more energy. You’ll stop fighting, and go under water, but you will not drown. You’ll sink to the bottom of the sea, and sometimes swallow salty sea water that burns down your throat, but you’ll be alive, and you’ll be more alive than you’ll have ever been. Sitting on the seabed with the fishes around you, you’ll realize that maybe you thought yourself stupid for thinking you’d be one of those who found their wings on the way down from the cliff and flew off into glorious sunsets, but you’ll know you were stupid for fighting the water when you find that you can breathe in the sea easier than you did in the purest of air. This is where you were meant to be, and you know now that anything can happen.

You believe again.

This is what your second love is like.


Image taken from here.

Feelings and Colors: Pt. 1

5 stages of grief.

1. I paint the brightest shade of orange all over my lids with messy strokes and multiple coats to block away the deep purple of loss, but it comes back to haunt me in my sleep every night where there is no orange, but only the deepest, darkest purple.

2. I pour black all over my heart and it burns out the red passion I used to hold, turning it into an anger that is insatiable, an anger that does not lessen. I have broken my mother’s best china and smashed the table that held my snow globes. I have not slept for ages now. My eyes burn as I stare at the blank wall, my soul burns away thread by thread as the black swallows the purple.

3. The black fades to a pale, sickly brown, and I pray to whoever and whatever may listen to rewind time and let me hear you laugh one more time. Please, I say. Please, I scream, and I scream until my voice gives out and the neighbors look through flicking curtains to find the banshee, but all that I hear is the taunting silence of the universe.

4. My heart and fingers turn into a velvety cobalt blue, and it slowly travels until I am blue all over, from the tips of my hair to the nails of my feet, and I play with fire to drive it away, and I play with sharp objects to cut it away, but even the scabs that form are blue, and the scars left behind are blue. I don’t think it will ever go away, I’m a girl of blue ice who can never get to fire in time ever again.

5. My heart is the palest shade of copper now, and I know I’m not the first person the universe has thrown off the edge of the world. I know I will not be the last. Life will forever go on as it always has because we’re just tiny ideas occupying borrowed space in the void of the universe, and that’s exactly how it is supposed to be.


Image taken from here.

A Poem For The Boy I’m Not Sure Exists.

I dream of you every night, 

And it’s always the same;

You sneak into my semi conscious brain

With the subtle footsteps 

Of foamy seawaves on a very windy day,

But, that’s okay,

I mean, writing you love letters before I even knew you existed?

I might not know what subtle is, 

But if you open the dictionary to the word that’s the opposite of it, 

You’re gonna find my picture.

See, you visited me one night,

So is it really my fault if I only sleep in hopes that you will maybe once again?

But I only catch glimpses of your shadow here and there,

I chase your footsteps across the ruins of my mind,

And I think I’m only going around forming crop circles in the blue flower fields.

But then, I wake up in the mornings to 4 PM sunbeams, golden and lovely, scattered all over my pillows and on my cheeks,

And really, I think you need to stop playing this hide and seek with me,

Just drop over into my reality the way I drop my pencils all over the place,

And believe me, love, I’ll draw you like it’s the only thing I’ve ever lived for,

Because that’s true, 

And I’ll make you my best masterpiece. 

Just the way you are.

I sleep with the nightlight on these days,

And my father looked at me like he didn’t know who I was anymore the next morning 

After he saw the faint light peek out under my door one night, 

But you change me into someone I never knew I wanted to be,

And I’m here waiting for you with my nightlight on,

In hopes that maybe if you sneak by into my dreams again, 

I’ll wake up with your laughter streaked across my eyelids, 

In hopes that maybe I’ll see it clearer, 

Remember it this time, 

Sew your crescent lips into the dark split seconds of each blink,

Hold it close every time the world goes black.

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Image found on Tumblr.

Confessions Of A Fading Ghost.

Listen, I am a ghost, and you cannot convince me otherwise. I haunt the ones I love and that is why they hate me- I’m a reminder of everything good that was actually only rotten all along and no one likes to be betrayed. My honey tears are molten glass and they will sear into your skin to brand you with my curse. If I were a person I’d be the loneliest in the world but I don’t remember my dreams anymore. I don’t think I can dream anymore, except every morning I wake up with a bigger hole in my gut and I am a hollow ghost of once-there-but-fleeting happiness. I tried to love this world but everyone wears the same mask and all my soulmates have eyes a little too hollow except one. This world glorifies ghosts but doesn’t want to become one, and my heart wants to give out on me before I give up on it. My brain abandoned us to our horrors years ago. The chanting in my ears comes from another place, I think it’s trying to call to me, but I’m a ghost and I can only go where the wind takes me. I floated into an anatomy class once and I know all about humans now, except how to become one. I hear they are fond of making homes in one another the way I sink into my quicksand sadness. Atlas needed a break so I agreed to take his place but now my shoulders hurt and my vertebrae are slowly turning into sawdust. If I crumble and fall entirely, the world will fall with me- who will be left to pick up the mess I make?

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Image credits: Shingo Takei, from The World At Night.

Come Home.

Forget love,
I will die
If you don’t come home.
You left so long ago,
I have forgotten your face
And your eyes are blurred in my mind now,
But my soul remembers, I swear it does
And it calls for you-
Sings you lullabies to pull you home,
Strews cherry blossoms in the spring
And dead leaves in the winters
To guide you back
To me.
Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten
My voice across the winds,
Don’t tell me you don’t know
Where the golden light leads to
Anymore.
What is it you’ve found
That holds your heart so strong,
You will not leave it to come back home,
What holds you so tight,
The waves cannot bring you back to my shore?
My city is in ruins,
It was only ever made for two,
But I cannot own it alone
And the winds have blown so hard to bring you back to me,
The other half of my city has flown to you too.
What is left of a city when nothing remains?
It only ever belonged to you.
So forget, love,
This city is gone,
These ruins remember nothing;
I would not blame you
If you have forgotten me too
Because I’m in a city that was made for two,
But both halves of it have blown away to you
And I’m left in a desert
Where the earth has never known rain
But it longs for water from what it remembers
Of the ocean that once covered it.
Maybe this is the curse
That comes with my desert city,
That both land and keeper long
For that which has abandoned us.


Image credits: Matt Lief Anderson

When Not-Love Comes Knocking.

Love knocked on my door again last night, but I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I hid under the bed, in the space between reality and dream, and told myself that this wasn’t love, because love was supposed to walk straight in the front door. Love wouldn’t knock on windows and whisper from under doors but disappear once I tried to let it in, love wouldn’t haunt me like the ghost of everyone I let go because they weren’t love. Love would know all the words that always got stuck in the thorns between my ribs, and love would know why they never even got to my throat; love would know all about the skeletons I bury under the wilting blue flowers beneath my window, and why I dig them up every night to cry over them- love would know I’d sooner turn it into one of those skeletons than let it leave me again, and maybe love did know all that but chose to ignore it, so I ignored love as it called me beloved and tried to peer in through lightless windows, because it wasn’t, it wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

So I let love or maybe love (read: definitely not love) knock softly on my door all through the night, and at dawn, when not-love left, I finally fell asleep to loveless nightmares less scary than the knocks on my door. You see, in my dreams, love didn’t exist, but then neither did maybe love or not love or a possibly, almost kind of love.

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Image credits go to owner/s.