Tag Archives: soul

if i’m being honest

you make my heart leap in fathoms;

dazed with love and imperfections, i’m

utterly smitten by you

.

you’re my slip of the tongue,

my careless laugh out of nowhere,

the pursuit of scarlet lipstick and radical change;

you make me hope for impossibilities and singularity

.

wishing there’s a dream where i appear—do i

wake you up in butterfly palpitations

the same way you leave me unready, completely

unsteady in the dead of the

wandering night?

.

(it’s a fickle thought that keeps me going

despite all my misfortunes and the

arrogant reality of our transatlantic million miles away)

.

i’ve found another “one”

but i don’t want to count higher, this time.

.

my ribs ache for your missing

puzzle piece, the final fractal of fire that

will keep me warm against apophenic shadows and

keeps me breathing on for infinities…

.

you make my heart leap in fathoms;

dazed with love and reckless notions, i’m

utterly smitten by you.

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Cížek

i.)

there’s chemicals

on your lips, a toxic

shade of purple—

blood and oxytocin

acrid aftertastes

burning a hole in

my tongue, but i

still thusly refuse to

d-i-s-c-o-n-n-e-c-t

ii.)

claws unsheathed

fingernails dragged

down shivering flesh;

you starve me far too

much dear, and yet i

still crave for so little…

iii.)

you’re the enticing mystery

i desperately deign to solve

and when i finally do, i’ll keep

all the answers for myself

iv.)

¡ scream louder now

rupture my lungs

and send my head

reeling, from migraines

and ringing ears and

the bitterest irony of

my fucking addictions

(sing louder now) !

v.)

you are pure perfection

with dimpled mistakes

myriad colours festering,

of butterflies and cosmos,

limerence and transience,

infatuation and repression…

you’re so goddamn beautiful.

vi.)

[if only i knew

that i’ll never be

your pale luna,]

[only a forgotten

freckle in no one’s

lavender skyline]

vii.)

dear lost lover,

if only i knew

b e t t e r.

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27 – musings on gil puyat station

oh, she’s like this cardboard city, with the subtle way she’s barely holding herself together.

she’s an anachronism, of late-night guilt and freshly-brewed coffee; no sugar, no cream, barely sipped. she intertwines her deepest confessions inside my vulnerable chest cavity and suddenly constricts without warning, completely sucking me dry of resentful consciences and clever second thoughts.

though i talk with corroded shackles beneath my tongue, i care not for the sharp tang of rust. while she solemnly weeps for fictional infinities on the other side of the country, i impatiently await that impending reply as i absently gaze outside the window of a clattering train, basking at this city, built upon centuries of dusty grey smog and busy promises—of fragile bodies barely touching, barely stopping to breathe, barely existing.

she has an irrational need, that insensible girl, to save what can no longer be saved, to control what is far beyond her means, to create as it destroys her. the pleading words on the dull glow of my screen are a tangible whisper, tasting of colliding tears and bitter shame. “i want to help you, like they always did for me, but—i fear…i fear i cannot.”

can you not, indeed? my ulterior rejection is swift and bordering on impolite; but i still listen, and descry for mutual understanding. for though i shall never admit it out loud, your blithe persistence undoubtedly plagues me; to the very throes of my lavender dreams—resting beneath the stars as i turn my back upon that flimsy conversation and that paper metropolis, and allow myself to think clearly again.

to her, i am the eternal glue that holds her together. to me, i am the stranger who mercilessly ripped her apart in an attempt to reconstruct her to my own selfish beliefs.

who is right? what is the relative concept; of wrongness, of forgiveness, of sudden change and reconciliation, of the flismy trust that you broke, and the tested faith that broke you?

and who am i to tell?

the verdant landscape of laguna finally greets my wandering eyes and thankfully pulls me away from the echoing cries of that city, that poster past of a coalescing city that fills up my thoughts with a charcoal haze and renders everything else an unfamiliar slate of grey. my sighs are comforting once again, and she no longer appears to be just another one of the million impostors i came across today.

she means well. she meant well.

though—call it nihilism if you may—at the very least, she should be tolerable to her qualms and fear not the fortunate reality of losing me; arms unfolding, heart reaching, mind forgetting.

and fade away, i will. a plastic boy like me has no place in a cardboard world like this.

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25 – revelations

my schizophrenic shadow wistfully overlooks the edge of the world, and i despair; and i despair.

my vulnerable screams are plangent and writhing, yet no hands clamber for salvation, only mine; only mine. the blood from my scars clot and turn into vicious rubies, scratching under my skin, entangled arteries blocked with the sound of desperate confessions and faithless escape. soporific gazes puncture my eyes like clever sin, injecting doses of pity and false concern, and my diseases lie; and they lie.

against commas and halos, only the propane in my dry mouth tastes of sleep. though the sourest hints of fire is nothing but another bad affinity, another chaotic weather, another apologetic insomnia last night; was it last night? i find myself distraught with overwhelming furore, pervaded senses intruding the compromised chambers of my chest and colliding against my ribs, my painfully-starved ribs. my taut insides churn and hunger against me angrily. i deserve nothing less.

my bruised fingers are mere cowards for not pushing the rusted knife in deeper now, and deeper still. my tender flesh is weak for buckling and shivering against my final prayer for remedy, one last suffering goodbye, an unwritten note belied in self-sabotage. my crass willpower is a fledgling deceiver, for somehow fully convincing my desensitised mind that it can leave no warmth, no life, no breath inside my poorly-shattered spine, by the time she finally arrives too late to wonder why the hell i did such unspeakable actions; oh, she must wonder why.

failure, again; and again. i can do no harm—god, why can’t i?

as cascading chains of sunlight eventually incarcerate my catatonic body in an overwhelming apoplexy of pain, i simply sit in the suffocating confines of that final concluding silence, and morning awaits. mourning awaits.

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2 – 10 a.m. backaches

sad, tinted vision

a kind of tiredness that

violates the soul itself

.

tense bodies twisted in shapes

their spinal columns bent

almost to a fractal fracture

.

cold sighs, half-meant

an almost corpse-like shiver

instinctive, twitchy, mere impulse

.

tender bruises, counted;

stitches, pulled out again

me, your modern marionette.

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sanguine

When everyone you thought you knew
Deserts your fight, I’ll go with you
You’re facing down a dark hall
I’ll grab my light and go with you…

~*~

you kicked up reckless dusk,

and for a moment, time was yours.

i sat on the kerb and wept,

lost in the haze of fog and music,

watching the years go by with

nothing more than flammable illusions

cutting open the stars because you didn’t bleed,

waking up with dead skies because i couldn’t love—

letting the alarms go off hour after hour

but never letting the nightmare end, melting

away into paranoia and humiliation,

red lips a soundless “darling, i’m fucking cold.”

ignorant eyes couldn’t see the last of us

until it’s held at speculated gunpoint…

do you have to cross the start of the horizon

before they could see that you’ve died?

do i have to cross two lines off my hand

before i could ever try to live?

~*~

And go with you, I’ll go with you
I’ll go with you, I’ll go with you, yeah
Stay with me, no, you don’t need to run
Stay with me, my blood, you don’t need to run…

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Danielle’s Falling October

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that makes autumn feel so jealous

From her button freckles to her pumpkin-spice skin

She dances vivaciously in a riot of fireplace colours

.

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that always makes my vintage heart feel new

When the pages are torn to cliffhangers and wishful nothings

Her camera smile captures every quaint blush of my pale hue.

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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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phantom boy

don’t you go,

phantom boy

i’m still not done

painting your portrait

to hang in my walls

long after the house rots,

long after i’ve passed away.

they said to let you go

for you’ve already found

your bluest heaven

where you can sleep with

fleecy floral angels,

but i don’t think i could

let you go that easily.

i want to capture you,

your ethereal silhouettes,

your faded outlines,

your scars and scepticisms,

your details and blurs,

and your coalescing heart.

because i still have mine,

phantom boy

and it beats angrily—

refusing to let me rest

until every colour, linework,

and careful brushstroke

is immaculate and

tastes tangibly of you.

i know you wish to leave soon,

phantom boy…

but won’t you please stay

and spare me just

one last masterpiece?

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Plastic Brains

The feigned humanity

That plastic lips fabricate

Speaking of sincerity

As the scarlet inside fades

.

How can mechanical eyes

Speak of soul, speak of pain?

How can a monochrome vein

Bleed out in sunshine and rain?

.

Perhaps hands have to be clever

Perhaps they just fool themselves

But just how could a plastic mind

Speak about the truth of oneself?

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