S

She once said in between convulsive gasps, "Nobody. walks. on. earth. fully. clothed. in. liberty because. being. free. only. meant. a. leash. unshackled, yet. never. severed." and with one final gulp, she exhaled her last ounce of life, collapsing in my bony limbs.

I spared her no tear, For I was slaved by the cliché: That to weep is to make less the depth of grief. She deserved more— if not to be kept alive At least her soul unconfined

But I stood idly by As she shed her final leaf I only had whispered prayers Brittle as fallen autumn twigs

So with trembling crooked fingers, I fold her lids shut, And held her close. She's lost the warmth That I knew so well in my memory.

Beneath the crimsoned fabric Was her pulseless neck Painted with marks That sealed Papa's ownership.

And though I never held the chain, Did she feel my grip too? A child first, but born a witness, Taught to flinch before I could sprint.

you do not see dried crimson drops on his carpet

you see crimson roses on the bed compelling you one more time to forget

when you smell a murderer

you do not smell graveyards that reek at dusk

you smell a hint of musk

on mundane occasions

wonder

why he isn't as dressy on anniversaries

as he is on friday nights

wonder

why his side of the bed is cold

if he slept with me all night

wonder

why brew a cup of tea

if he preferred coffee

well

maybe I was steamy

but also, too easy

and at every stitch I painstakingly make

to seal a home I couldn't keep

he unravels the thread

and snaps me awake

i finally saw the murderer

disguised as a lover"

it's not necessarily a rite of passage to adulthood

sometimes it's sweat in her hands

that made her lose grip to her sense of fantasy

finally rejecting the notion that a woman is represented

by a plastic figure

only exclusive to a piece of slice from the whole cake

and "what cake" she asks

when she finally understands

that a woman isn't an object to be eaten

by watering mouths of the same monsters who label her derogatory names

neither are they accessories

in a society that measures her quality from the quantity of clothing she has on.

Sometimes dropping the doll

isn't losing the childhood

but losing the ignorance of a child

and gravitating towards her newfound allies

who dropped their dolls as well

and together they will scrub away

cruel norms of society

printed in jetblack ink and burnt rubber

and they will rise against the warped perception of beauty brought about by dolls

that they later learned not to worship.

They will rise

and girls' bodies will no longer be sources of amusement

neither will they ever be flesh packed straight from slaughterhouses.

Their bodies will be as they have always been

temples built for their masters

and the masters are they, themselves."

to carve poetry

with a bleeding heart

and throbbing hands

.

.

the city is wide awake

resisting Gaia's lullaby

the humming of city cabs

muffling my cry

.

.

the sun is asleep

constantly radiating eternal warmth

but skipping past my coordinates

ushering my limbs to search

for even the tiniest cut of cloth reachable---

or the slightest attention

to compensate for the cold

in the middle of summer

but what, by the way, is a summer?

i can't seem to respond to anything

except to this melancholy

dragging me like a slave

paid for the day

but in my case paid for my whole life

but what, by the way, is a life?

when i see you waving goodbye

at 8:45

To be the lyric of a song?

To be the subject of a sonnet?

To feel like I belong?

Bet it’s as good as burying the hatchet, after years of cold hostility.

Bet it’s as good as knocking the lid off the coffin finally spoiling my lungs with the treat it was deprived of, after years of being empty

No more longing

 My strokes are erratic but I am sober

She’s the muse of my painting

But does she know? I wonder

Bristles caress the canvas

Like she does when I’m anxious

Every stain that spills

Plays a memory that kills

I’m bleeding art

Because I’m longing

I’m still longing

 He is my Sun

I am his Icarus

I am the naive

He is my dangerous

While I melt under his thumb

I feel more complete

And even under his heat

I’m no longer longing.

 I’m still longing

She’s the thought

In every drop of wine I’m sipping

She’s every hope and dream

But she never knows

I’m seated here with the painting

She will never know

That I’m still longing.”

"Sing me a lullaby

Draw me far high

Enough to reach the stars

Feel them blaze,

See them torch my way,

Touch the flares,

Smell the burn,

Hear myself explode,

Taste my death,

Just to forget

Your iconic deadly gaze.

Sing me a song

I convinced myself that I belong

At least once

In your loving embrace,

Which turns out

To be a bait—

Like a fat fish

I thought I was fed with love

But I was fed

'Til I was fetched above...

the water

Sing me

Maybe a eulogy—

I don't know, really.

I've lost my senses

But this coffin makes me claustrophobic

Than your love

Which by the way, is so toxic

I feel more alive in this deathbed

Than I ever was in your heart and head."

"The winds keep taunting my sail,

Prompting me into an erratic motion.

Spinning in the midst of nowhere

Whilst waves crash— as if in confusion.

Among the unpalatable noise,

I discern a distant voice.

"Who are you?" I reckoned.

The sea groaned, I froze for a second.

It was an unfathomable song,

But beyond my cognizance,

I knew I was enchanted,

By a spell in which I danced along.

Hypnotized;

By the beauty of the unseen.

Mesmerized;

Like a broken time machine.

Face is moist with spray of brine,

Teal currents provoke my senses,

Weaker consciousness,

But sharper taste and sight.

Hovering into the myriad of waves,

Willingly victim,

My life measured in drops of

Hourglass sand grains.

Patterns of notes fade,

Desperately gasping for life.

Slowly being shipwrecked,

Together with my virtual wife."

A dream so sweet

That I always anticipate

Before sinking into a deep slumber.

Be the riddle you've always been—

A mystery to unfold,

A beauty beyond any logic,

That holds my breath on pause.

Let me lay asleep

While nestled next to you.

Twilight has come,

The pleasant crescent flew.

But if you may,

Please wake me never

Even if the stars had come to dim

'Cause that's all you'll be ever:

My favorite dream."

I could vividly see why

My lover is so smitten

His face cannot lie.

She's shaped from Aphrodite's mold,

Carved for his eyes to behold.

A lovely creature— a belle beyond facade,

Possessed a treasure I wish I had.

She'll offer him visual satisfaction,

Nothing I could ever equate.

What else can I offer him,

If nothing but these poems I made but hate?

To retreat is not me,

But neither is to fight

For something that asks for nothing

But to be away from my sight."

Lies a lifeless husk

Where valor and love used to crowd

Above it a lonely man

Whose tears drizzled the freshly tilled ground

He sat and gently cupped the earth

As if to coax her back to life

Groped for whatever of her is left to be felt

Any sensation is worth the try

He never prayed only until today

“Dear God, let the sound of her touch be replayed”

Inaudible to ears but tangible to his heart

She whispered, “Darling, we’ll still never be apart.”

So many songs left unsung

I can’t seem to accept

Why things, sometimes

Are better left undone

Or why things

Should even be left at all

Or why me

Who’s most feeble and blue

By you

Out of all the people I knew

Maybe it isn’t a matter of who

But a matter of when

Each day with you was a gift

Back then I can’t see the end

‘til it happened

‘til you decided

To leave like we never happened.”

I wonder why I even did.

Now I’m walking on a floor of bones,

Towards you on the other end.

I shouldn’t have come home,

But I couldn’t tell you.

Want you to believe it’s worth the second try

Even if we’re painted with blisters,

And on your face, I still rub another lie.

I shouldn’t have come home,

Just caught you with an ax on your grip,

Ready to wake the dormant beast from sleep.

And it’s been months of awful living.

I’ve grown less accustomed to your presence---

Each day always an exchange of cold faces.

“Empty love,” they call it,

Might as well name it “non-existent”.

With an unsolicited tear,

“I shouldn’t have come home,” from my lips you hear.

Got me dazed, bereft.

When you responded, “You shouldn’t have left”.

The booze is in the air.

I debated into the darkness

Whether you’ve arrived

Or I have just been smelling

You from my imagination,

So I crawl under my sheets in hope for serenity,

But I made a total fool of myself,

Because instead of freeing me

From this stupid anxiety,

It felt like I’m being strangled

With your steel-like fingers—

Drawing strength from your furious knuckles.

It felt like I’m being suffocated—

My lungs a bag of your unpleasant vocabulary

Accumulating into a snowball of fire,

And I gotta stop all these hyperboles,

I know you can smell fear from me.

You’d slap me and say,

“Sorry. You know I don’t wanna hurt you, baby”

But rather than brushing a feather to my heart,

You prefer triggering my tear ducts

Into bleeding salty pearls

And gag my mouth with your violence

While calling it tough love

And expect me to swoon,

Or at least understand,

That you’ve done all of this for me.

But how,

When all I wanna be is to be free?”

His dagger-like adjectives

That I’ve grown ageusic

Even to the bitterest of coffees.

I think my ears have swallowed too much of

His horrible nouns

That I’ve grown deaf

Even to the sweetest of flatteries.

Perhaps too much—

That I, myself, heaped horrible permutations of the alphabet

In my throat and in my mind,

Convinced that I am what he used to call me.

So, I am deeply sorry.

If I’m a sullen load;

If I can’t bid you bye on the road;

If I can’t accept compliments I know I don’t deserve;

If I don’t take a heartful bite from my spoon;

If from your kisses I pull away too soon;

If from your touch I wouldn’t swoon;

Because he was damn right

About everything.

And while I kiss the memory of him away,

He haunts me down each night,

Chokes me with labels I cannot fight,

Because he was damn right

About everything."

“I’m utterly surprised by the normalcy of mornings.

My potted lilies bloom,

Like my life hadn’t been a doom.

My curtains sway at a steady rhythm.

Barely even noticed that just like me,

They were blue,

In contrast to the skies—

Which were gray.

I can’t let you stay.

My eyes a shade of red—

I hate red,

Because they remind me of the blood roses

The ones you always buy me,

On your each way home from her place.

 Tranquility was a pleasant word,

Until it only meant having you in my arms

After you snuggled with hers.

 And I don’t know how long

This body can take the remnants

Of her warm embraces

Without feeling the tiniest trace of guilt;

And I don’t know how to refuse regret

When I still taste her from your mouth

And smell her love on the roots of your stubble.

Tell me how this isn’t a trouble.

 I was lost in your eyes

Shining emerald green.

I hate green,

Because green means go—

I don’t want you to go,

But neither can I keep you---

A man who to his woman is untrue.

 You weren’t even mine to begin with,

So I keep these sad poems to myself

Convinced perhaps that

Literary is my best friend,

Not responsive,

But at least,

Not abusive.

Apathetic,

But at least,

Not toxic.”

The first time I kissed a girl, I was lost in a trance. Never thought I'd give it a chance I couldn't inhale through all her suffocating sun-sweet roses. Where is the musk? I was desperately searching for a hint of roughness--- A field of stubble would do fine, But all she gave me were her warm breath Blowing in the right places; Her smooth tongue Fondling me with solace; Her lovely mouth Whispering songs to mine. Honest. Brutal. It was perfect.”