and when the flood releases, i'm a goner. am i fixing myself when i'm rebuilding the dam, or is this simply another burial in disguise? a delusion that worn out branches could easily withstand suppressed wishes and haunting regrets from beneath?

and i do have good days. great days, even. but the sun that welcomes me warmly each day cannot change the fact that the skin it caresses so gently still does not feel like my own. and i've tried to bask in the light that is so rightfully mine, but i can only think about the next wave that is to come.

i do not wish to take your hands into mine, i simply wish to sit in the corner in your mind and slip past when the deja vu hits.

your proclamation of love stirs anger, and suddenly, i am ever so conscious of the hollowness within my body. you've never thought to pull away the curtains, much less brush your hands across the velvet. affection comes with responsibilities, ones that you've hardly scratched the surface of. i've seen your face in hundreds of awry passersby. i know what you want. i know it well. i know i cannot give it.

i do not believe in fate, no, but i wish i did. the privilege to attach each word unspoken and each touch of regret onto an external force is one that i do not have. i know i did it with my bare hands. i tore off the strings, i reached for it once more, i flinched at the brief contact. i am not proud of the way we became intertwined and loosened, but i did it all.

i hate to say it, but it breaks my heart a little to light the candles again this year knowing that i have not yet outgrown the shoes i've worn since i was thirteen. the flame begins to flicker and i wonder if the lighter is on its last spark too. even so, i'll clasp my hands together as the desire eats me whole: please, don't let me keep waiting for nothing.

the epilogue always comes accompanied with a sense of deja vu. the frost that greets me in january is the same of that from december. the same imprint of my boots, the same foolish desires i seal in a letter to no one in particular. if all is futile, then i beg for god to grant me the gift of indifference. but that desire too will be lost in this year's wind.

happy new year and thank you for reading my poetry, it means a lot to me

i suppose if you're rotten, then i am too. and so, i pulled the vines apart with my bare hands. i did not want to lose myself to the cherry sap and watch the decay consume me too. i had meant it when i said i had no regrets. in fact, i'll show you my hands: the scars have faded. don't tell me how the rosy scent lingers— i am well aware. i just wish i knew whether it served as a warning, a punishment, or a reminder.

it is december and the snow from last winter has not yet thawed, so i will make do with what warmth is left. silence was sewn in openings that lacked your etchings. i asked for a patchwork of what could've been, and tonight i will drape it over my shoulders.

and it's a feverish type of comfort you bring to me, during the half-awake half-asleep in-between of a mundane night's insomnia. restless and lethargic, the premonition begins. my eyes flutter shut, but the premonition urges me to flutter them open once again. wake up. wake before the blurry mosaic of what we once were starts to piece itself together. wake before you drown in your own sleep.