hopeless romantic but also a realist.

I think if I tell the moon about what you did to me, after waxing poetries of my love for you, sunk in every vein, and every artery, whenever she shone upon me, telling me to stop fawning over a human, they are always meant to leave you, my darling, she'd find you among the millions, and make sure her moonlight never touches your soul.

there's always been a little sadness inside my happiness, i've never been able to separate the two.

sometimes i forget how i got here.  sometimes i forget how much i didn't want to survive.

Life itself is a death—death just takes your breath away, but life—life will bring you to your knees. Death isn't something to be afraid of—life is, life is, life is.

I'm abandoning everything! everything! and that way I wouldn't be abandoned—

does it make me selfish? clinging to your half forgotten memories hopelessly hanging onto your faded eyes and barely stretched smile just to make sure i can still write about a tragedy that has barely left a trace behind i seem incapable to pen, if it's not you i write about so i forego any semblance of pride and fester like a mold consuming your echoes for the fuel of my heart a fickle desire to quench the thirst of my hands is it even love anymore?

Rage is gripped in the hands,

Rage gets stuck in the throat, suppressed.

"Time does not bring relief; you all have lied..."

“I don't know what to say to you except that it tore my heart out of my body saying goodbye to you.”

Also everything returns, but what returns is not what went away—

I didn't want you to hear that shake in my voice. My pain is my own.

At least let one thing belong to me.

Everything I came to love, was taken away from me, one by one, at agonizingly slow pace. Each loss carving into me, each gain becoming just another fear of being left behind.

Love, that was once my reason of being, became a symbol of fear, of loss I won't be able to recover from, a loss that will rewrite my soul, scatter its remnant, rebuilding me all wrong, jagged from my core. Like a knife twisted inside me, the only thing that is keeping me from bleeding out, but I know each pull, each twist of the blade, is a promise of an inevitable death.

The only thing no one ever took from me, was my pain. The scorching heat beneath my skin, the boiling tears under my eyelids, the trembling fury inside the closed fists of my hands—always closed, the nails always digging into my palm. The heaviness that weighs on my heart, willing me breathless, the dryness that resemble thorns in my throat from pushing aching words down, prisoning the sound of my cries into its windpipe.

You will not come here, asking me to confess.

I did my part, I showed my pain bare to those I let in my heart—the home decor had always been rusty, hollowness corroding the walls—but I had them plastered with something pretty and digestible. So, when they asked, I surrendered the only thing that belonged to me.

How naive.

So, you understand?

You will not come here for my soul, asking me to undress.

My pain is my own. I cannot let you taint it, I cannot let you purify it, I cannot let you make any difference (because then, that small part will start belonging to you too). I cannot let your citrus dissolve the rust decaying the walls of my heart.

I know, you tell me, they caused you pain, they caused that hurt—but it was my body that held it, it was my soul that felt it, it was my heart that took on the damage, it was my mind that weld it.

So, the pain that found shelter in my temple, cocooned itself in the heat of my skin, sunk into the blood in my veins—and became the only that stayed...

It belongs to me. Just mine alone.