paradox.

My bones are splintering apart

My tendons twist.

My muscles groan and rearrange themselves behind the thoracic cavity, attach to the right intercostal space, readying for the catharsis.

Something is clawing at my marrow, scraping a dull blade in the sides for leftover grief so I can bake it in the oven and swallow it twice.

so it'll travel down the canals of disbelief, and settle amidst liquid sadness and convictions clenched tight between my scarred fist where a sprig of daisy once lay...

I can feel it stay up, and I can feel it peeling scraps of devotion from the once-blossoming innards of name-engraved perfume vials the loves of his life left unattended on my vanity

Do you love my mind? You say all the time heaven sits on my fingertips and how you taste stardust when you put your mouth on me.

And when we switch phases, you say it's pure oxycodone

don't you hate how sharp-mouthed I could get, my love being a sort of noose around our necks?

When my hysteria drains of color, don't you ever tire of how I'd mull in grey-smattered corners of the art room in my brain, reeking of cynicism and eternal devotion all the same?

I fantasize about clutching onto your shirt and telling you how much I wish I could do better.

And then I'd throw endless charades of pretend self esteem. I don't do that though.

I can't.

My emotions would spill over granite... stream down my fingers drip drip onto the floor

It is a blink of an eye before we're sloshing through gasoline.

I believe in a past life we made love with our fingertips only and you couldn't imagine hurting me.

and yet here we are, caricatures of hypocrisy and glimpses of what-if's, almost teetering off this cliff, won't be long before we break our anatomy from the fall down the parapets... past the barricades of loyalty...

crash off of this fort we once called home.

I wanna rest my face in the crook of your neck and cry about everything that hurts.

Every time you accuse me of crimes I didn't know I committed, I can't say I love you a little less. I know my friend would tell me to move on, find a safe place.

But you, my darling, are a labyrinth of twisted devotion and hot-iron kisses.

I'm forever branded yours even as I kiss those boys with morose sky blue eyes. Your touch punishes and cures me the same; I'm left breathless you always have me betraying myself.

I know I'm never really done with the idea of us.

I'm sorry I sold your chances and mine one summer back.

I'm sorry I don't know just how mean this wretched pulsing red organ of mine gets. such a treacherous act to pull you in and push you back out again

again and and again and again

repeatedly

through the rooms of relapses and baby steps

just the way he taught me.

We're in love with this sick, sick game,

anticipating just how much is too much before we leap off the edge of insanity but we'd tumble together at least

right?

I have neither grown taller nor wiser. maybe greedier

I could use a bit of love to last four more summers but my muse is long gone. I'll let you in, you fit the criteria.

I think there's this sadness in my eyes that pulls them in like a stranded little love fleeing from tornadoes and pitch black earthquakes.

I love him in that "victim" way and he loves me enough to keep my nails trimmed

and cares for me enoughto keep me singing for him in an alloy cage.

I don't think I want to escape now though.

I've learned to make the best with what I have, and so if I cannot have love, I will not go about without traces of what-if's sitting in the bottom pile of my self loathing tendencies. I will not go on without him.

We might not be good together but you always catch me when I fall.

And I fall quite routinely.

I'm not really a reliable lover. The only thing I'm good at is hoping.

And so I hope you(he) never get tired of my theatrics.

I'm guilty of treason. I still want you—

don't you dare exile me.

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start? 12:55am

Dec 16 24

fin12:34am 18 may '25

a.n. kinda depresso but I'm back

it is an extremely satisfying feeling to subconsciously incorporate past, familiar similes and metaphors into my works these couple of days... and here I once feared part of me still does ...

what if I forget how to write poetry which is absurd because everything is poetic enough to draw inspiration from

if you just look at things in a discrete perspective that is eerily observant and it's important to try feeling instead of processing emotions if you haven't already x

I have included subtle/ obvious past references in my vv recent poems n that is how I know I have found my dominant (overall) voice starting in '24 even if specific themes and metaphors I come up with may vary as I grow up

<3