elio

I feel like i was dead even before i was born.

I almost feel like a still born but quite not the same.

I feel like i never had a life to begin with.

I never had a beating heart inside of me.

I was never supposed to exist—

Even as a still born.

I feel like i keep going in and out of the same wormhole over and over and over again.

I'm 17 again.

The cut is still bleeding—

purple with infected rotten flesh.

I'm 17 again.

Do you die when you stop breathing or when your brother looks at you like one would look at their own death.

I wish i was dead, so I wouldn't have to suffer this stench from within.

I'm 17 again.

He thinks it's better if i was dead. More so, if i never existed.

But death isn't kind to me. it wasn't the petals of late autumn.

I was dead when i woke up. I couldn't move, i couldn't breath, it's like im the Houdini but there's no elaborate magic to escape from this everso increasing claustrophobia.

I'm 17 again.

The sadist and masochist coexist as i love you to my death.

I chose you to my death.

I chose you to torture and love me till my death.

But in the end it doesn't matter what you choose to do as it all end in my endings.

I'm 17 again.

It's like a whirlpool, taking the long road to my death.

but I could spend every breath of it

tracing the constellations of your mind

Forever is a long time,

and still, I find myself wishing for more

just to sit beside you

in all the quiet versions of love.

Forever isn't enough.

I want a longer eternity.

I would bend time

and fold the universes—

just for a few extra seconds with you.

Give me a longer Forever,

July 23, 2025

Learning to let yourself have good things in life after something traumatic happens to you is one of the kindest things you can do for someone in this world. It might seem selfish. But people deserve you. And you deserve them just as much. It’s selfish to keep parts of yourself locked up just because.

I have always chosen honesty above everything—over peace and love. And I know that I always will. No matter what, or who, I lose for being honest( even though I’d prefer not to lose anyone). I have to be truthful with myself. That’s the only way I know how to live.

In my 22 years of life, what I’ve learned is: people will twist and turn the story to fit their narrative. So I keep track of my life to stay clear, to stay clean in my conscience. Still, they blame me for looking after myself. They call it selfish. But it’s okay for them to choose themselves, right?

Just because I don’t whine over the tragedies I’ve lived through, just because I carry my pain without spectacle, doesn’t mean I’ll let you undermine my life or my achievements. Just because I don’t use my wounds to prey on others doesn’t mean I’ll let you use me to do that anymore.

One thing about truth: It belongs to everyone. God and the devil both carry it in their palms. Even the devil is honest in his own story. So don’t preach morality to me if your faith is only ever used to justify your own cruelty. No prayer can wash away corruption from blood that refuses to see itself as tainted.

I’m done. Tired of talking. Tired of living with this heaviness, this negativity.

I’m moving on to something better.

A life of my own—

even if it’s a life on my own.

But oh…

The way she talks to me.

The way she falls undone under my gaze—

like a wisteria bloom.

I think I want more from this world.

I want to hold her gaze forever.

She calls me…lovely.

And the words—

Whatever I am, you did it—

slip out of my lips like a tear