findmeinyourbones

and one day i'll be too far for me to even hear the echoes of my footsteps walking away. my body wouldn't flinch when offered a love that stays. my skin wouldn't burn the hand that will hold me— wouldn't burn everything when held. i would forget all the names i attached with abandonment including mine. and one day i wouldn't feel the need to hide just to be seen— i'll be everything i could've been.

it's always either alcohol or sleep i run to when our flashbacks start to fall in a memory lane. but there are holes in me that couldn't be filled with any distraction—any deprivation. i am biting the same bullet i shoot you with. i am digging the same ground i buried you in. i am drowning myself in the lakes i dragged you to. i bathe on the same blues and grays you bathed on. i grieve not for what is dead, but for what could've been alive if i was just brave enough to revive it. 

it's monday, nothing poetic.

we're the stray souls who happened to dwell in our ruins and somehow found a place of refuge in one's brokenness. i fear that in the ocean of broken and lost, we become one of those who mistaken it as love because we don't have other names for being only each other's reparation.

skin me alive. peel me off, and see which layers still have room for saving. i am made of cobwebs and haunted poems. make me an exit wound and i sure will crawl out. to speak my name is to bruise your lips, but it's the only sound i'd listen to. call me from the deepest pits of hell, and no hades could stop me from returning your glance.

i have committed the highest treason to myself. i cannot stop deteriorating inside. everything that i do is an act of treachery, so nobody betrays me more than i could. i don't know what it's like to feel at peace; it is a strange feeling. it gives me the best sense of awareness to clutch to what's already familiar. the way i crave any lingering pain is by far the scariest thing about me. i pathologically fear that people are bound to ruin another, and i did that to myself. i was born with a knife in my hand; my calloused palm knows no softness. i was never an ally. i was never a friend. nothing has ever burned my skin more than my own touch.

truth is, i have this hunger for love that is insatiable. this mouth, it knows the dearth of satisfaction better than anyone. everything falls scarce in my stomach. so i take all in what's given to me, steal those that were not. i was taught that a hungry man doesn't care about the names of the bread; all he knows is the rumbling in his belly. this little desire grows day by day. it became a famish for affection that i barely, if never, had. thus, i devour anything that bears a resemblance to it.

i have terrible hands for holding people. my fingers are paper thin that cut through the bone before you even notice. i was built from the ruins of my mother's ruins; my curse is cursing someone. and it will not be long until i sicken you too. these little crippling thoughts are always bigger than what my head could store. oftentimes, they explode like landmines in one wrong step. i am the weight you must discard before i bring you down to the cracks with me. because i have terrible hands for holding back, even if your only intention is to pull me up.

this sadness i hold is a prepainted ache no yellows could alleviate. there are no undecipherable words attached to it or codes to be cracked. it doesn't free hundreds of black butterflies coming from the dead when i couldn't give it a proper burial. it was here long before i noticed my birthmarks, claimed by my body as its religion although i didn't host the baptism. mine is a sadness that just exists; mine is a sadness that's never been poetic.