Tag Archives: fault

The Amputee

Wonder why I wake up living in a made-up
Dream of you and I, together there
Baby, wake the fuck up
Time for you to grow up
Don’t you know that life is rarely ever fair?

~*~

now i should cease

with my attempted wars

involuntary romance

could only get me so far

.

i’ll cross black holes

for the simple soul i adore

they won’t recognise

such a dark helpless horror

.

pulled back and forth

maybe i’m a piece of string

pirouette me overhead

perhaps you’ll hear me sing

.

it was never their fault

i’m aware i have fallen victim

to the hell of taking light

as the other is still rekindling

.

now i should stop myself

while control’s on my fingertips

an accidental devotion will

only make me lose all my limbs.

~*~

Ice cold, baby, I’m ice cold
You’re the only one who could make me fold
I wouldn’t ask you to take care of me
Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to take care of me…

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nocturnes, numbers, nyctophilia

It meant nothing to him any longer, only a faint tinge of sadness—and somewhere within him, a drop of pain moving briefly and vanishing, like a raindrop on the glass of a window, its course in the shape of a question mark. ~Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

~*~

i.) the jealous penmanship

clever words left tears forming in my brain

ones that i have to open up my healing bruises

just so i could let them out somewhere

somewhere my veins wouldn’t be affected severely

(it was late at night, and my stars called out from nowhere)

sensations poured out from every letter and departure,

as it entangled itself with my nerves and wore them down,

and wore them like a dirty dress, and wore them out to town

until they were worn-out; nothing but a few stray threads.

i burned half of my journals when i turned 16 and stopped trying

to imitate being an author, because writing for me isn’t an expectation–

it’s nothing but another puzzling lock without a skeleton key

and because the most delicate daydream wasn’t mine

because selfishness, to me, is not just another bland adjective

because my bones screamed with the weight of a black hole

because your reveries were enchanting. and mine were f a d e d

n o , i ‘ l l  n e v e r  b e  a s  g o o d  a s  y o u

~*~

ii.) softness, like his heart in the shape of a newborn galaxy

i faded into an ugly shade of something that’s neither monochrome nor coloured;

on the verge of collapsing onto the other side of the fence, threatening madly

but never quite having the contemplation to choose a losing side

as i fell down into the blue of a stranger’s wanderlust eyes.

someone else had taken most of that vibrant shade already, but i managed

to steal away just a sliver, a glimpse, an infinitesimal shiver

and it was the kind of lasting cold that froze summer hurricanes

and kept my breaths visibly foggy and crisply sharp with every inhale

(you never warned me. you don’t know me, but you knew me too well. and i never listen.)

i’ll always be an insignificant detail in the cyan tapestry you painted for yourself

and i’ve accepted that long ago when i said i loved you in my nightmares,

tossing and turning on the bed covered in plastic arrogance because

no other blanket felt warm and comfortable enough for my body to sleep on

until then, i could only sink deeper into the fathomless wish that this universe would end s o o n

i t  w a s  a  k i n d  o f  l o v e  t h a t  m a d e  s u i c i d e  s o u n d  l i k e  m u s i c

~*~

iii.) an abrupt goodbye/the guilty party often disappears first

i was mad at something. i didn’t know what it was, but it was foolish enough

for me to take it out onto the embracing autumn sky, on the taciturn smiles that

were supposed to hold me when tempestuous desolation grabbed at my twisted throat…

and on you. you never meant anything. you just wanted to talk, and so did i,

but my tongue was a spilling box of blades, and every time i opened my

wounded mouth to make you laugh, i always ended up cutting you by accident instead.

(friend, even if i said i’m sorry, can you ever forgive me for what i’ve done to you?)

it was an unreasonable apology, and i erased myself because of my own self-hatred,

but not before leaving footprints of a migraine in your head, which you will inadvertently step on,

slip at, and hurt yourself…fuck. i don’t know why i’m like this. i don’t know why i have

to push and pull apart the only semblance of logic in my life, the only anchor

that keeps me from towing away from the tides, the last person that still feels real to me

when everything else has blurred into an amalgamated indistinct static background;

i don’t know why i feel so smothered, when you’re the only attention i’ll ever have and need.

at this point, the only thing we have is each other’s problems, and the way we both

jeered at it, taunted it, and blocked it out with our own shared playlists until we felt better—

but now that summer was just a distant memory, and so was the scarlet artwork we made of it.

you also needed comfort. but did even try? no. i ran away from the colliding wreckage

as if it wasn’t my fault, and i numbed myself out because i couldn’t do the same for y o u

i ‘ m  s o r r y  i  m a d e  y o u  s a y  s o r r y  s o  m u c h . . .

i  d i d n ‘ t  m e a n  t o  d e s t r o y  e v e r y t h i n g

~*~

iv.) the midnight closes. the violent curtain falls.

the cold glow of my computer screen was rude and restless

and it made my fingers promise, crossed and uncrossed, that i would

stay with it until it slips into comatose. i have rinsed my mouth with lukewarm water

a hundred times to try to wash out the taste of stale coffee, but it never came out and now

i’m stuck with it until morning, until another astrological moon cycle, until i lose

myself in the chemical moments of something that’s so artificially natural.

i’m constantly starving myself, stuck between confidence and relapsing withdrawals of

my past life that i thought i discarded when i finally held on to my shooting star,

but it was always tethered tightly to me by a crimson string. and it always probably will be.

i’m alone. i’m friends with people that talk shit to me in the mirror, and when i bite

my chapped lips and draw blood by accident, it almost feels like atonement. almost.

(i got what i came for and i can’t try again. this is what i want…..isn’t it?)

i know that there are people out there making fun of me and rolling their eyes

petulantly as they bask in the trite, whimsical “perfection” of their storybook existence

but not everything has a happy ending, and not every sad story has to end badly.

i don’t know. i’ll never know. i’m tired and i have responsibilities that i’m not

built for, and every crack turns into a break, and a break into shattered p i e c e s

t o m o r r o w  i ‘ l l  d o  t h i s  o v e r  a g a i n  .  u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  t o m o r r o w s .

~*~

v.) nocturnes.

( a n d  i ‘ l l  s t a y  h e r e )

u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  n u m b e r s  t o  c o u n t ,

a n d  t h o u g h t s  t o  f e e l ,

a n d  n i g h t s  t o  s t a y  a w a k e .

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The Division

Let me count the ways you kill me;

1.) You carved promises at the notches of my brittle bones, mercilessly enthralling and hypnotising me under the anaesthetic assurance that everything was fine, that I was fine, and that I wouldn’t ever have to destroy myself again; but all the while, you crushed the very foundations beneath my suspended feet and made heaven shatter all around me like an ethereal motion sickness. And as if that wasn’t enough, you set everything on fire and watched this wretched phoenix turn to listless ashes, never to rise again; a demented conflagration.

2.) You promised me for better or for worse, but as I tried to find new names for the shade of red in my lips, you forgot about the obscene sickness that’s violently heaving inside my compromised chest and without so much as a twinge of second chances or point-blank hesitation, you injected every indistinct symptom known and unknown to man, turning my shaky breaths to crystalline lilacs and my selfish ribs to impure glass. I asked for a cure, and instead I received a despicable panacea, a myriad riot of plagues that irreparably devastated my system, ripping me to irreversible shreds. “You can’t get hurt if all you feel is hurt, right?”

3.) I’ve got hands like houses, and you rejected my severed hospitality as you broke down every locked door and deceptive boundary like it was nothing; like I was nothing. I constantly find myself lost in complicated syncopes, as I’m trapped spiraling and crawling back to the same self-sustaining cycles of parabolic grief and hypertensive schizophrenia, predicting premonitions that never came true. This eternal winter freezing over my bloodline is stitched together by a million blizzards and snowstorms conspiring exquisitely at once, but this difficult tantrum of a weather is not a tribulation to you, is it? Your cold temper is intolerable, a thousand suns melding together and detonating convulsively in the empty vacuum of space, and there’s no one else around to hear me scream one last time. I wanted to burn. You took it too far.

4.) Were you even sorry? Did you even feel a single taste of contrition when you watched my starving, pathetic soul grapple for life at the very nave of that decimated altar, asking for the silhouetted universe to fall on my back so that it wouldn’t be my fault, nor yours, that everything got screwed over? Did you see what I’ve done, just so I wouldn’t be what you’ve become? I couldn’t find my way back on the ground, so I swallowed my pride like pried coffin nails for the sake of a more poignant memory to remember; retribution heals what time cannot. Yet now I close my reckless eyes and softly coalesce in sadistic plumes of the miserable discourse you call an intravenous love, and I beg, and I beg. Were you even sorry at all?

5.) You are me, and I am you. I have no one. You are no one. When you lived, I died; and when you died, I along with you. I called it genocide. They called it desperation. For I am me, and you are you. There was no one else. They called it suicide. I call it salvation.

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left in stitches

my father sat beside me

and his eyes were in stitches.

i fidgeted, and touched the linoleum floor

with my cold bare feet;

my father didn’t say a word.

he merely stared at me with needle looks

threading unspoken thoughts over and

under my skin in tight crisscrosses.

i flinched, once again, and my feet instinctively

twitched to graze the floor, but i only

felt frigid air and a million miles of

nothingness beneath my cold bare feet.

i was starting to bleed profusely

and my numb fingers were convulsing

from the relentless tingling that was

overtaking every inch of my

breaking-down body

and still, i didn’t have a clue on

what was happening to me.

i tried to call out for help

but, it seemed that my crying mouth

was already sewn shut, and

my father was embroidering his

guilt and blame on my face,

cast fault and lost sins forming eternal

patterns of this knitted contrition,

writing down personal confessions

that were not even mine to begin with

and will never be mine to keep.

my eyes were slowly shutting now.

and with the last strength that i could

muster up within me, i pleaded silently with

my father, screaming “what have i done to you?”

but my father, with his eyes in stitches

and his love for me trapped in a needlepoint,

he finally looked away and murmured

“what have you done to yourself?”

i think i may have shed a tear (or lint?)

before the last of my vision was tied off

and i was nothing but endless unraveling threads—

i woke up quietly crying and suffocated

by my blanket, feeling soft prickles on the

numb arm i accidentally slept on.

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enough said

You wanna move mountains? Go ahead
I think I’ll suffocate instead
A change of scenery won’t tame
The endless earthquakes in my head
They’re all in my head, so I’ll suffer through
A means to an end, it’s all I can do…

~*~

i’m not the one at fault

but i’m the only cause you see

so i have to take the effect

what do you want me to do?

i’ve cut myself up until

both my mind and veins are drained

but not of all the guilt that i carry

and still, would it be enough?

would it be enough for you?

.

i’m just so tired of waiting

until i stop being such a fucking liability

and i start being your healthy host

that you parasites can ravage

just so i could atone for what i did

or at least just so you would see it that way

because what else is there?

saying “i’m sorry” when i don’t mean it?

that wouldn’t be enough for you, would it?

.

but then again, it’s my fault

for being way too fucking optimistic

i don’t accept good and bad luck

and that this time i struck out

no, it’s all about positives and negatives

call it a karmic irony, if you may

find a way to be a little happy for once

and life drags you down through 7 layers of hell

tell me, loved ones, was i never enough?

.

and i couldn’t even write about it

because you’d call me selfish and shallow

that i have no right to be depressed

because i’m living the “good life”

and that i see only myself in all this

well, of course i fucking do

i need to place myself somewhere

otherwise i wouldn’t see the bigger picture

but don’t you see, loved ones?

will you never see that i’ve had enough?

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first act, insanity; next stop, recovery

“I never meant to hurt nobody
I never meant to hurt you, no, no…”

~*~

acrid laughter is ringing in my ears

good-natured, perhaps, to them

but the sound pierces like twisted barbed wires

straight through the caliginous corners

of my teeth, bared like a regurgitated heart

and almost—if not just as—crimson

as the fucked-over severity in my demented head

but sometimes it feels good to simply pretend

that the banter is a little less than risque

and i let my agitation be fooled…what an idiot.

as i’m sorry plays like a stenographic record

etching deeper grooves in the back of their stares

but never playing the right kind of music

am i screaming a typhoon in your clear day parade?

i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i want to cut it out

i want to cut my fingers open to point it out

and take all the sharp-edged blame all for myself.

but my testy temper rides on the flexible bullet

severely mutilating this nascent entertainment

that masqueraders and pantomimists have played

for the melancholic, esoteric, plastic actor

and you insisted on applause and receptivity

despite my initial protests against it all

for i am not your contagious chemistry audience

but i surrender my scab blood to you anyway

and keep clapping on and on until my hands fall apart

like a marionette’s lamenting swan song;

like this borrowed skin that sheds itself as we speak.

their laughter is mutating into vicious sneers

stabbing like blunt edges of a mangled fountain pen

and making me grit my shattered teeth—

your fogged-over eyes interpreting it as a smile

amused, but i’m simply bemused by my endurance.

i’m tired. i’m tired. i’m so fucking tired.

of the teasing testing taking terrors tampering

with my dysfunctional mood, its revolution ever retrograde…

it’s not your fault. did i ruin your sunshine again?

i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.

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Native Tongues

How can they say that it’s one way
When it’s the opposite?
And how can they know the end
Of the story before I tell it?
‘Cause when I walk, your feet
They fall to the same beat
Or maybe we’re from two different worlds…

~*~

We used to be the epitome of mindless materialism

Taking apart brick and coin for a little inkling of fun

We talked away in circles, but never in infinity signs

But it didn’t last forever ‘cause we both wanted to die

.

For I never understood why you didn’t ever understand

Until we’re left with empty voices and mismatched hands

I translated it all wrong, you decoded nothing but misery

We spoke in undecipherable tongues, so now we’re history

.

Why did we waste such eloquent words on each other’s lies?

Breathing out sombre songs that never synced the beat right

Wrought desiccated eyes with apertures that flashed blindly

And we set out separate restrictions from the cold apologies

.

We turned back but never forward and we took a couple steps

Too far until we hit the brick walls, this was far beyond any help

How could we plead that it was one-way, intersections opposite

When the fault was a double-edged tongue talking about bullshit?

.

But behind this dead mess, I do admit I enjoyed all the endless chaos

Riding the hurricane with you, and making my own cyclone at a loss

I wish you the same, and let me say I hope you don’t regret and think

Don’t forget the secrets we shared when our native tongue goes extinct.

~*~

We talk to people
But they never understand
They think we’re crazy
‘Cause it sounds like noise to them
Ain’t it strange, all the things you hear
When you sit and listen?

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the familiar taste of poison

Drink the wine, my darling, you said
Take your time and consume all of it
But the roses were only to drain my inspiration
The promises were spoiled before they left your lips and…

~*~

treacherous poison

that’s all you have in your blood

and you infected me

you infected me

yet you blamed me solely for the taint

saying it was my filthy tongue

and its harsh truth words

saying that it was all my fault

it was all my fault

i attempted to get rid of the dirty blood

purging and expelling until i nearly bled out

and still, i can’t get rid of it all

i can’t get rid of it all

you called my ritual a crime

an unforgivable transgression that should

be shunned and immediately cured

as if the sickness wasn’t in the blood

the sickness wasn’t in the blood

so pray tell, was it my sin

to vain uselessly to dissociate from you

and from your corrupted veins

coursing through every offspring you have

toxic brainwashing every single one

and further spreading it to the crashing tree

transmitting and scattering rapidly until it promptly rots

until it promptly rots

now you threaten to disown me

but it’s the kindest thing you could ever do to me

because i’m tired of having to live through

all your sanctimonious ideals

and profane vitriol brewing in your decayed heart

but even then, it wouldn’t completely get rid

of the poison you passed on to me

you passed on to me

and i will concoct more spite in my mind

and spit out evil blood

in the pure eyes of the innocent

damaging others as you have damaged me

you have damaged me

i wish i was someone else whose

hatred isn’t malignant and contagious

but hell, what else can i do? it runs in the family

it runs in the family.

~*~

I could fight this ’til the end
But maybe I don’t want to win
I breathe you in again just to feel you
Underneath my skin, holding on to
The sweet escape is always laced
With a familiar taste of poison…

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teeth that bite

did i say

something

wrong again

or did my

tongue slip?

did i do

something

to break

down that

stiff upper lip?

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From Cathedral Confessionals To Vacant Motel Rooms

Give us this day our daily dose
Of faux affliction, forgive our sins
Forged at the pulpit with forked tongues
Selling faux sermons, cause I am a new wave
Gospel sharp, and you’ll be thy witness
So gentlemen, if you’re gonna preach
For God’s sake, preach with conviction!

~*~

Prayers at the pulpit, wasted sunlight stalked in grey

Cunning trick and guileful guilt trip theatrics at play

Cavalier coronary effusion, witnesses plead the fifth

The parish resident contradicts, as all the crosses lift

.

Glory conceived in savage strokes of bloodied wines

My conviction is an eviction, tell a jury lies this time

Plagued with gunslingers, spinsters, character shady

Debonair diner apparels, wrinkled trousers, humility

.

The constabulary and congregation condemned revolt

My empirical altruism’s the new cancer, neglect faults

Burlesque shame accentuating formaldehyde intimacy

Asbestos lips, flimsy camisole fumbled simultaneously

.

Tenant engaged medical malpractice, his landlord buys

Epileptic gloating and impertinence, furlough play nice

Sartorial sarcasm and wills held against the desperation

Divorcees eavesdrop on prudent prudes, commiseration

.

Perfumes and newspaper advertisements crying of weddings

Massacring a breathalyser, scotch in prefaced elevator scenes

A paperback syndication concealing secret wretched incident

The allegations made by schizophrenics held to be significant.

~*~

Strike up the band! Whoa-oh, the conductor is beckoning
Come congregation, let’s sing it like you mean it
No, don’t you get it, don’t you get it? Now don’t you move
Just stay where I can see you, douse the lights!

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