Cig

might move somewhere else here too for the fun of it but that just means i have to migrate these writings too, a hassle i must say

the greatest thing you could ever contribute to the earth is your decaying flesh. you would never be like a nobody like vincent van gogh that had become somebody after death. you will have your bones assembled at the deepest pit, and there, it will be crushed into specks of dust to make way for beings who did not need themselves proven, who did not need the filth of mud like you do. there, you will be forgotten by the time; and you're gonna be a concept not known to anyone, just a mere passing breath suffocated by your own hands. there is no need for me to wish you ill-intent. the world never thought highly of anyone. you're going to be what you always feared. it is enough revenge to have you stumbling on your own feet, succumbing to your own destruction. i don't need to make an effort to lift a finger just to order tragedy on you, and you know this. you are nothing but a future fertilizer to the soils you loathed your whole life.

I was already familiar with the shapes you morph yourself into, darling. You're a dying star with a grand rebirth and I am nothing but an intergalactic void that eats away your remains—a black hole loving all the cosmic horrors of your unbecoming. Whenever you would explode like a supernova for shining on no-more spheres & worlds & lives, I was always there to take the fallouts; to suck on your grief like a gravitational field; to tear you away from the repercussions of your own scientific innocence. Loving you is becoming the opposite of all your evolution. I am the delay to your advancements; the theory on your facts; the nothing to your something. Always, darling. Beyond space and time.

It kills you to think nothing in this world belongs to you. Weaved and worn out. Putting yourself a little on edge in hopes of the abrupt salvation coming to graze your shoulder and change your mind about some things. Oh, but you will never change. Stuck in a loop of your own doubts and disappointments and dreads since you believe you are entitled to possess things without getting your hands dirty. You are of naivety, not of reverence. Your purity comes from filth, you are a lousy liar, you want to be a so-called sweetheart but you've got a sour heart. And still, I adore you—despite all. You are a star pretending to be larger than the space you surround with. But you've become a supernova that explodes right in my mouth.

Mathematical calculations were never my forte but often the golden ratio comes around in every endless cycle of sizing people up as if it is my strongest suit—human scrutinizer, human-izer. This keen sense of curiosity and childlike interest have always approached the getting-to-know stages like escapades with something to gain. RPGs with good endings and bad endings except there are no restarts, no revival points. Suddenly, I am good at counting the number of days in which figures would start to trip over their words and admit I am the game changer, the wise subduer, the conniving jester. In the tip of my finger which traces the measurements of their ribs, I've memorized the number of times when their breathing hitched. Humans are of such vulnerability; otherwise, you are an outcast or an apathetic nobody. Sensations mattered more than anything else, doesn't it? Compatibility requires mutual pleasure, sex requires two bodies pressed together; the inner thoughts tossed at the back of their heads. Oh, but I do not believe in one night stands. Sex, to me, is more than a physical nudge. Sex is everything as it spills the loads, the thoughts, the regrets, and the whims. On the verge of tears is when you will get to know someone better than initial assumptions. And maybe that is why I was not good at mathematical equations. One cannot count the stream of tears. I cannot count the bodies I slept with that I hadn't wept over for.

My body is spilling youth. I spit it with the blood on my knuckles that did not bled out of violence but out of consequential respite. Apparently, rest is a luxury that isn't granted but earned. She gets to decide whether I am worthy of relief or worthy of being subjected to a petty comparison in the absent face of her first violator. She gets to decide who I shall be, a ghost to chase, and then another day, I was set free. I was a child and a concept and a threat and a thing that grows faster than the speed of light. I am the miracle, the curse, and the thing to look forward to. I am where time ages on the skin, where flesh meets rot, where a kiss is a passing reward and where a love is merely a matter to wrap up for the day. No returns, no look-backs, no anything but forward. I learned that the best way to sift people is to fuck them but never love them because the ache of sex stays in the physical and love is just a crazy notion and our brains are delusional to call it a pain and that evidence should always be something that can be seen on the surface and not what the brain or the heart tells you. So, alright. Maiming bodies is the evidence of this love, because there was contact, because there was cling, there was proof. Though, at the end of the day, it did not mean anything. What difference comes from claws to nails, teeth to bites, anger to forgiveness, youth to non-youth, when everything hurts just the same? She would set up the table for three so I would be reminded of the generosity, and it would remind her of the one that wasn't there. A father of deafening silence and a mother of unwanted presence. I often split the plate in half and shove the remains down to my stomach, and then the cycle repeats. I grew up a year each day. Grew up as a better man than that good-for-nothing, but never a better man to her liking. I grew rebellious and was treated like a threat more than a leverage. She has no need for little things that cannot be bent over in her will. I learned it from her, and I learned the act of flee from my father. My body is spilling youth but it stayed in the chamber like a shell. My soul slithers most of the time, garnering experiences and taking in the world's most exotic flavours. I learned deceit right at my face, learned façades and women and literature and acting. I have been acting for the past 13 years that I wonder if these words were soars of freedom or a holler for help. Perhaps it was off-script, perhaps, the drama has long since ended, perhaps perhaps perhaps. I know I didn't have to make sense in order to be understood. I was taught that there is greater comprehension in the mess; it's just that, most people do not taste the spill. They do not clean up after anyone, but they would like a stain like mine to call it a shoe decoration. Perhaps, someone would kiss me and leave me for it—someone would love me and leave me for it because they cannot offer anything other than tenderness. What even is tenderness, does it hurt good, too?

To relentlessly starve like this—you could tell already. I found the substitutes off-putting (faces after faces, names after names) but the pleasure isn't similar, nothing comes second to our primal agreement, after all. In a certain whiff, I briefly framed your silhouette in the stature of a similar caliber: (a.) An intellectual, (b.) An audacious, (c.) A certified fucktard. But his arrogance wasn't your arrogance. His were a pair of narcissistic irises, and yours? The look of an equal standing. The look of something . . . the look of, indeed, something else. But even so, within these extensive observations, not a hint of where you might be. The distance must've been self explanatory. Inches of our skins would lead me to pressing you against the concrete wall, so I guess this loss—was somehow a safer method to lead you astray from my grasp. But I yearn for you, I yearn for you, my fingers on your jugular (hoping you'd know what it means). Tending the wounds and other ways to make up for the hurt. Are you spilling yet on the graveyard of your choice? You told me the desire to reside in the cemetery of hopeful consolations, and we laughed about it with the same brand of cigarette lingering in our teeth, lit up by the same lighter, from the same pack, from the same pocket, from the same lips. All those indirect contacts, I took pleasure in. But the ache has reached my bones now and I am searching for you. Come back to me, I don't mind even the tiniest portion of yourself, just be back soon, to me, in these trembling arms, or else— Or else.

the war stirs in my ribs, heart tyrannized and steered by your plutocratic methodologies as your being was reigned as the wise subduer; caesar & pharaoh in comparison, but a tyrant is a tyrant and i am the system. you spit commands to my chest but i breathe you like a treaty with no beneficial outcomes. your strategy against my acumen; like a mind to a heart, a heart that already belongs to you without its proper acknowledgements.