22 December 2018 I imagined my mind knowing better felt my viscera quiver. the birds get startled into flight though always round-trip. it’s good to be home alone not that you would if I had anything to do about it but we make do. life sucks its thumb. you’re right where you’re meant to be. who’s to say blankets aren’t party dresses or that eyes can only wet in one way. gloveless in this eventide chill. luckily we aren’t parting thickets for interstices for clarity. I empathise with the trees that bend out of light’s way at least till rough limbs creep up gently against glass they refuse to crack. dirty bedroom window remains so. it treasures the head that rested on it oil and all pondering the ease with which we dance around naked intention. show me it’s possible to live and for quite a while without flowering a new wound. how lovely we are in our natural state. taste of raw tongue on my tongue waves fragile at our feet. we stay dipped long enough for our digits to grow old shrivel without fear. something once felt too cruel to endure. I would not have chosen to float if given the option. but now i’ll swim.
nostalgia is bittersweet and tonight i've just been completely immersed in it. hello. long time no see. how has everyone been? not like anyone cares, but i'm sadly still (physically) alive. self-serving rant. don't even bother. things have completely changed: no glimmer of hope i was clinging on to ever materialised. i am left even more alone than ever because of how much of a different person i've become; i don't blame anyone for it, most of the time it doesn't even matter -- this is just one of the rare times where i feel it really does. i haven't been feeling like a human at all. i spend most of my waking hours running around classes and to places i don't want to be in, all while being completely detached and half-asleep from a settled lethargy. from before the sun rises till well after the sun sets, every single f*cking day. i don't remember the last time i smiled. i don't remember the last time i felt like i had a good day. the fact that this is the life i've been forced into is only beginning to set in. feeling like a complete wreck has screwed with my emotions way too much. one moment i'm flaring up, cursing at everything and everyone, the next moment i'm just in pieces. either way, i'm completely consumed. there is nothing i feel like i'm really comfortable at and that i can find solace in. writing bad poetry has taken up most of my time and gotten my mind off my real life, but my imagination is running dry and i feel that i should just accept that i suck and stop writing/trying to do something i'm not meant to do. for the millionth time, everyone is sick of hearing about this whole situation. don't ask me what's wrong. this is what's wrong. i won't even bother to try and salvage this (anymore). i've tried to find a way out on my own, spent hours talking to people who know better than to just simplay say that things are going to be okay, etc. and the consensus was the same: i'm screwed and that's just how unfair life is. i myself am sick of having to talk about this but it's just something that's constantly nagging in my head because i'm living in it. i want to leave.
in a chance meeting with the lips that were the chaperone of your cotton mouth, i kindled a spark on the tip of my tongue with the sole intent of lighting the cotton; burning it with incendiary agility, that guides towards your clouded lungs. i never fathomed your psyche; and as it burned, it still refused to release you—clear as glass— to cry for mercy with the truth, instead preferring to asphyxiate in an obscurity that won’t dispel.
if ink flowed through my veins, then i already have you— all thoughts: said or unsaid, written down or not. omnipresent in every nook, filled to the brim; exhaustively fluent. kissing bugs may imbibe to their heart’s content through permeable susceptibility, but they’ll return every drop, injecting with a written apology. if i evaporate to vacuity, vapour will sprout up to the clouds and scribe them ink black to project your cursives. i become your language and this is forever.
we smash glass. in smithereens they scatter away from each other; a release of suppressed repulse. our triumphal celebration, hosted in rage, all just to prove that we’re destructive, (too). but in the end, we both still hold the crown of being the most destructed.
'ascent' i ascend, harness uncinched. you peeled my fingers off. i love the fall, only because it’s to know i got so high. dislodged somatic bones; a puzzle that fell into place; intentions now clear. to know there is pain from this semblance of utopia is to say, i have experienced a subset of this immensity so insurmountable. all that lingers is enough. for now.
i am a secant. i cut you once; i came back to do it again. you sighed, but said it was alright and drew hearts with blood. less idealistic, more anatomically correct. “i am so sorry” the sea repeats after me in a monotone. i asked to be ferried out but i didn’t have a ticket. i wasn’t given one. and stolen tickets weren’t accepted.
'a journey along your spine' tracing your scoliotic spine, hoping that i don’t lose you to the alternating hollow recesses, while meandering, navigating. a one lane. a two way. only two ends in sight. to your head or your hips? or to both, and also to the universe in between? not all destinations show. no cartographer has mapped this plentiful expanse in you. i humbly attempt your moon. craters spell revelation doom.
'relativity and reality' nightingales will traverse meridians in the aether of cerulean skies. nature’s ensemble of green expanse will play by the grand caprice of the breeze maestro. back over at our table, your douceur moderates my verve. our earl grey tea turns tepid; unsavoured because of chatter. i subsist on the words you utter in mere coquettish jest. in this evanescence, i achieve autarky. if only these things unfolded at the universe’s intended pace with the narration of time, instead of all just at an instant — and only in my moonstruck fantasies.
'a little while forever' your amorphous apparition embraces in a fluid haste. you plead: don’t leave. be my viscous reluctance; stay in. linger. (linger a little while longer) breathless. lachrymal. but underwater, it doesn’t matter.
'ambrosial heart' my ambrosial heart worshiped your whims; now it lies wedged in between your teeth. this feast is packed with incisors of its own. fashioned with lexicons from the mortuary, toughened by rebirth, let’s grind to zilch. this vindictive sacrilege i have long sought. ~ you reduced it back into its constituents; a defiled manifestation so structurally unsound. these fragments crushed asunder and spat, but it was well worth the now-orchestrated encore. on the cold, indifferent ground, pieces spell all your words, and the modus operandi of your perjuries.
beneath this cranium encrust is a pressure cooker where stress compounds with every day subtracted from the countdown to implosion. worn out from incessant considerations; materializing nightmares that torments my waking hours as much as it does when i am asleep. soul strained to its limits; haggard and gasping for answers like oxygen. lightless metres under, the end wrought by one single blunder. / i am but only a teen. help.
'paper boats' i released paper boats pilgrimed by finite hopes fleetingly lightweight towards unexplored waters; hoping to see it reach your side when i do. (if i do) you grabbed a handful of pebbles and angled them towards the water, pelleting with malicious intent; hesitance evidently never crossed. the pebbles in chase; skip, skip, lickety-split. i could only clasp my hands and pray that you’d consider what i’ve brought before letting buoyancy claim its prey. “don’t get caught.” “don’t get caught.” “don’t get caught.”
'precipitated vagabond' in this perpetual, equatorial summer, the rain niveous. the rain like winter. raindrops dancing; taking centre stage under the warm yellow streetlights. a drifting figuration; a silhouette in the vacant street. pelted by pinpricks, oblivious to the dull sensation; thoughts mundivagant. as cold as the world has made you, in this wintry chill, you are in equilibrium. as many fires as the world has snuffed out, in this dark night, you are home.
i am honestly sick of this shell i'm in and every association this 'shell' has ever formed with anything or anyone around. i never feel anything other than pure lethargy, dread and trepidation. i have no idea why i'm always this tired, i have no idea why i'm dreading the things which are supposed to be good; probably because i am too accustomed to the status quo. fear births from this dread – the fear of the unknown, the fear of having no control over the situations i'm going to be placed in, and most importantly the fear of not having a voice to take a stand. i see no purpose in anything because everything's just disappointing and pegged with fears of the unknown. it's so cowardly and pessimistic that i'm being like this but i am losing my zest for literally everything. my mind is running free and unrestrained and it's making me constantly sick at the thought of anything. i feel tired but can never fall asleep or get a good rest because my mind never goes blank even for a second, something is always running through my head. and when i do sleep, the dreams i get are never pleasant. everything i ever dream of are just horrible worse-case scenarios. it's tiring to appear happy, carefree and confident as i keep up in school and when talking to people. i've to constantly remind myself to not appear as a dead, perpetually grim person because that just scares people away, but at times i just feel that all the better because people are hard to interact with while having to put up a front. my shell's disgusting, and a sum of mistakes that will not stop haunting me. i want out.