Sol Enríquez

This is a ghost story.

This is a story about how nothing ever dies,

a story in which I only know I bleed because my body makes sure to remind me.

.

This is a story about the disintegration of self,

and the transformation that comes with it.

This is a story that never ends,

a story in which a war is fought and blood is spilled everyday,

and yet, the sun never stops rising.

And the rain comes again and again,

cleansing what's left of the loss of you,

revitalizing what's new of you.

.

I borrow a heartbeat from you and hide it under my pillow.

When I go to sleep I hold it close to my chest.

I say, This story belongs to me.

And so does that kiss,

and this one here.

I am no thief. You said, Take it!

Take all of them, take them to safety,

sleep with the sleep arounds but come home and please, love me.

.

And I let myself break apart into a million pieces,

like I am made of glass,

and once I am shards of glass,

I will melt myself into one.

You will see yourself in me,

because that's all I am.

Whisper to me,

say you will stay till the end.

.

Till the end of the story,

where the trees catch fire

and the birds turn one with the sky.

Till the end of the story,

where the colors fade,

where I'm stuck with that bitter color, that lifeless gray.

Till the end of the story,

where we are nothing but soldiers fighting a secret war.

Till the end of the story.

Where there isn't any blood left,

where we finally come home,

and you become my ghost

as I become yours.

.

And you will know only then

what all this fighting meant,

remember how that rage felt?

Well, only then will you finally understand.

Enough death and heartbreak.

We've won the war.

We've won again.

Are you ready to rest?

Let's not haunt this place,

let's just sail away,

Sometimes I stand over the remains of an extinguishing cigarette

and stay still until the fire dies out.

Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting at the edge of the world

just pacing myself to a dying beat,

and watching everything as it dies out.

Sometimes I feel like a poor analogy.

And it's not sad.

.

You see I have little time,

I'm nothing but a faint whisper,

nothing but a frail speck of dust.

Quivering,

without a trail, without a trace.

I'm a shortened breath,

the one one makes before a pause,

or when one is interrupted.

What if life is meant to resonate in the way Whitman said?

To make my part and to contribute a verse to an endless cycle of life and death,

to leave a worthy mark in my short stay.

Who am I to try to leave anything as a memoir?

A little something to remember me by.

As if that would make the world inside my head spin again

or simply stay once I depart.

Should I play my part in this bitter display of thoughts on end?

Aim for the remembrance of a lost consciousness?

For a memorable legacy,

a meaningful say in this meaningless place.

Something that will open a door for it take precedence

over everything else,

to grant my death that guarantee of a purpose,

if that makes sense.

.

I know.

I know I'm saying something that has been already said.

Many times, I bet.

But I bide my time writing about death and heartbreak.

And this composition is purely a mess,

there's no metrical intent, no math,

no pattern at sight to try to understand.

Yet I know I will be judged for my poetry, not for my math

because my poetry resembles my way of life,

and chaotic behaviour just takes the prize

every damn time.

Now I hear people calling my name,

echoing in the awake parts of my brain.

But now it's 6:21am,

it's late,

so I sing a bit for the sake of the restless and the wicked who roam this town today.

.

Nonetheless,

to sleep I'm not a simple friend.

To sleep I am the poor analogy that stands tall,

the dynamo that keeps the sky's framework spinning

and setting it alight when the morning comes around.

Ra, the god of the sun,

the sun of the god.

Yet I'm not a false god, I'm just a falsely accused sun.

The eye of heaven,

craving the black and blue kiss of death,

half in love with a goodbye.

.

An extinguishing fire;

I like my name.

I like how my presence means that I'm all over the place.

But I specially like my name when I hear you say it,

which you don't do very often,

but just enough every time I come over.

I remember every time I used to come over I feared for the words that would rip me open,

but I never thought of what could come after.

Is there anything after being ripped open?

Yes. It seems I forgot about the remains.

The remains, the good that prevails.

Nothing good ever fades away without it leaving a trace.

.

And so come new words,

so many different words that aren't even close to a goodbye.

It all sticks, you know?

I said it once, I said it twice,

I said it close to a million times:

"I love you forever"

and god knows I lie, but I never lied about that.

And love changes, love mutates.

Being so many types of love out there,

I seek to discover them all.

Yet I'm sure that I feel all of them when it comes to you.

You were always greater, larger, fiercer,

and the only thing I ever want anymore.

I know I'm a broken record that still sings about love,

but it's all I know.

You're still my favourite,

and I breathe fire through your words.

.

I like the way you look at me while you run your fingers through my flesh.

I like that you make me go wild,

and let me swim away,

drifting off further into these stranger tides I've called home

ever since I met you.

Hold on to me and I will always be your girl.

I'm the fucking eye of heaven, I make everything glow.

So come on, I would like it very much if you let me stick around.

You know my flesh like no one else,

you know me in soul and heart.

You know that my heart beats for everyone,

but burns for only you.

.

But there's a darker side to everything,

because too much light is blinding,

and too much love is tiring.

There is a dark side of the moon as there is a dark side of me,

and a dark side to this.

Because I don't want you to be Icarus,

you've been Icarus too many times.

Yet it's a fact,

my fire will never die out.

I live on an atom,

I am constantly disintegrating

and every time I have to restitute,

I wonder why I never learn

and complain about how much I would love to just stay uniform.

.

I live on an atom,

and everything around me is constantly exploding.

I understand that this is a vital fraction of life,

the trouble and the stuggling youth.

The abundance of flesh and lack of emotional control.

Don't you grow tired of the endless interlinked echelons?

.

I live on an atom,

I stare at the face of chaos and say:

You are welcome here,

stay as long as you please.

Then I forsake and curse my friends

just in case they come to think

"No-one likes a tease".

And that's just as good as it gets,

All in all, that's who I am.

Just someone who's lied enough to make you pissed,

but touched deep enough to make you understand.

But don't misunderstand me:

I am not yours to take.

Don't asphyxiate me with your decorated threats,

just don't attempt against this flesh.

I am nobody's girl. I belong to myself.

Get your hands off my body.

.

When I feel chaos coming I just wait with open arms and utter: Let it all begin.

I make my share of bad choices,

and every now and then I get screwed over.

And I'd say there's an art to my tears but then I'd be wasting my breath.

I am never done hurting because I know that the ache will come and come again,

and there's a hole in my chest that I created by emptying the remains

of the contents that were once there.

A chest that has taken bullets and was choked into silence,

in order to let go,

just so I could articulate the most painful words.

But it still beats. Slow and steady.

.

And I am,

I am alive and breakable.

I breathe and I beat.

Slow and steady.

And I carry it all within me,

with all the pain I can muster.

This chest of mine is no longer empty.

I live on an atom,

We had too many goodbyes,

but you would always come back.

And now I think we got around the fact

that there is no escaping us.

But your truth is always a warm gun,

my lover, my killer,

as long as it doesn't hurt I'll stick around.

×

I remember the day I said I'd do anything for you.

I had taken you to the source of my wanderlust,

a forsaken spot smack dab in the heart of a small forest.

The sun had faded and from the ground

it felt like the night was eating us up.

My vision darkened and so did your face,

and I remember the tall grass tickling my arms,

as I buried my heart in that exact place.

I was a wanderer and you were unknown,

but somehow you weren't,

somehow I had found you before.

And when I said it, I meant it.

There's nothing greater than us, not even love.

I even broke the back of love for you,

because it was the right thing to do.

×

Funny thing is,

I came back to that place,

this time with someone else.

I saw an image of us,

dancing our lives away,

cutting that evening to pieces with swift moves,

and I made it mine.

And this girl who got me all figured out,

well, she told me that you and I now share the best kind of love you can have.

Larger than the usual, romantic love,

like Siken once said.

This version of love tastes like freedom.

I'd do anything for you,

and I do,

because that's how much I owe you

for not owing you anything at all.

×

There's a melody I can't quite put my finger on,

a sound resonating through the tree tops and its branches.

Everything we ever lived still breathes,

it's still in us, and that's why we stay,

because some things never change.

You can see, for instance, that I'm still writing to you,

and it doesn't even feel strange.

I didn't taste defeat that day,

and I never break my promises,

so I wish and wish and wish away.

×

I'll stick around

because when I'm with you

the sorrow and heavy weight of this world retreats,

I find myself in you,

and I'm free to enjoy a moment of shared laughter

when our flesh is done chasing what it's after.

I'll stick around

because we both know

we were the one,

and we were the only one.

It doesn't hurt,

because it was only ever us.

There's nothing to talk about.

There's a lot to fear, alright.

I am being flooded by the need of breaking curfew,

of walking down the deserted streets,

forsaken by the lack of mechanical moves,

of the automated whirrings made by idle walks of men.

A city so motionless is wasted by not being watched.

All of this lockdown musings are nothing but shedded skin

of who I tried to be yesterday.

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The downfall of the human race:

being left alone with their thoughts;

which is also the prime of their core.

"Let's see, gentlemen, shall we start another war?"

No, let's start on a clean slate!

We are all full of dirt,

you don't get to decide your fate.

All we ever said has turned to dust,

it's cursed blood-money.

Thought we would be let off with a warning?

Here, how about this,

how about we get bored to death

and then get to talk about it?

And we will all sit under the sun and complain about the wasted hours.

That's just how the human being is;

It's archaic and carnal.

It's feral and wild.

.

Carnal:

of the body.

Isolation drives the body insane.

It begins to reflect and ponder about the remains

of whoever touched you or craved you.

All your angels have gone away,

go ahead and touch yourself,

think of all your love affairs.

That right there,

is the idiotic nature of men.

And sex is just running an errand these days.

.

Read your tabloids,

the only news is that we can't get out of the house.

Give it a rest, mankind, you'll get your routine back in a couple of days.

Just pipe down, you won't forget about their face.

Why don't you spit another joke about it and make us all regret

about that time we didn't wash our hands.

It really is funny how we will never stop playing with fire,

but let's see how long this architecture stands.

.

I wake up,

have cigarettes for breakfast under the sun,

and watch the machinery of life and all of its noises ignating.

And I'm knocked out of my feet,

my body feels too asleep to be a part of it.

.

When I get drunk and then rise at all the wrong times,

I wonder about him,

and how he knocked me out every time we locked eyes.

He still does.

When I get drunk I want to find where I belong.

But I'm not ready for that war.

I'm not ready for anything, I think.

I'm still a child who hasn't found my truth,

aware that now I'm not even searching.

Now I just get tangled between stranger legs and a million kisses,

and when I wake up in the cold of morning I am alone.

.

How can I be a part of the machinery of life if I'm not a part of anything?

I live inside a bleeding heart filled with spiderwebs,

where almost every battle was lost,

except, thank god, for the most important one:

the one against my thoughts.

The world is out to get me but not if I get to it first,

and yes, I write about tragedies and I have my share of losses,

but I still have my mind set in conquering it all.

.

Thing is,

I've got lots of great ideas but there's something that sets me back,

which is that I can't seem to forget about all those who have forgotten me.

And every time I break, I remember them.

I have loved them so fondly,

but I feel like they stole that from me,

Of course they'd die for me once I put on a show.

In my headspace I'm never there, though.

I'm scared of their bodies, and they don't know how to work mine.

No one ever knew, because I never let them.

I'd burn bright and then burn off,

for me, that felt like enough.

Here, have this body, my soul will be waiting next door,

I'll go get it when this is done.

The secrets that have consumed this flesh have made my sincerity rot.

I only know how to play games,

there's no search for something real anymore.

They are all so desperate to entertain,

that they all think I'd take the fall.

°

Truth is, if you let me in,

you'll only get lonely.

That's why I don't want them to know me.

I have what it takes so they'd think "This girl will fucking destroy me."

And I believe I can,

because I've already done it.

The moment they locked eyes with me they knew I'd never be honest.

That's when they lose all their power:

they chase after the crumbs I left,

unaware that I won't ever be a friend or a lover.

There's nothing left of me in that bed,

last night that wasn't light;

I never shine,

I'm too busy chasing after time.

°

Yes, my body is a temple I set in motion

only when it is longing for devotion.

But I'm not an enigma.

I'm just like everybody else,

a tangled monologue of self-centered jokes.

I'm not that important, and neither are them.

We are all just the same,

locked in the same cage,

playing the same stupid pursuits of the flesh.

This isn't unfair! We all know how to play.

And nothing can change the weather.

It will rain if it is said so.

And we will stay inside our cage,

watch it wash our sins away from behind the window.

This is what it's all meant to become.

°

We are lonely when we come to this place,

and we will be when the sun's out or the night reigns.

We will be lonely when it rains,

and even when we enter our graves.

Or maybe that's just me, stuck with a mistaken belief,

still I implore, please don't let me in, I'm just a ghost,

I'm faux-real.

I just want to be remembered.

And if they touched further than my body,

I just want to make my way into their pillow and haunt their sleep,

so they can dream of me

to the point they can't tell apart if I was ever real or not.

I walk out into the balcony,

and I walk into the nightlife.

The soothing sounds quietly fix my soul.

A soul which is everything but quiet.

The crickets, the distant engines of cars and its wheels racing in the pavement, the soft caress of the cold wind.

It is all far away, but within me.

A summer night like many others, but somehow different

because this time

I breathe a lifetime of movements in,

and I breathe the peace of a soul out.

I am a part of this world,

I vibrate with it.

A soul that is tired but anew.

And flesh that is a stranger,

but knows all of my soul's moves.

So I spelled it out in the middle of my ribcage,

in a way I always remember the powerful force of being a stranger

in a place where everything wants to be known.

This is all about me.

Life is packed with some ugly turns that either unwind the soul or charge it full.

Something changed, and next thing I know, everything changed.

And lately I want to have it all,

I want to chase the rainbow,

or just fuck everything up.

But when the sun sets time catches up to me,

and what charged my soul full becomes a burden.

.

What always burned in me still burns, but all around me, fires keep dying.

People get tired of tending to their fires,

and people are predictable.

You always see it coming, the damage of what ceases to exist when they stop trying.

I don't want to face the torture of trying to keep something alive,

for it perishes each time the night arrives.

And god I don't want to lose the touch,

which proves what I said first:

that this is all about me, and no one else but me.

.

Long ago, with one evening and several dawns I made someone love me.

Little time after that, I unleashed all the darkness that slept in me,

and found peace within him.

The problem is what I do when I am the one who loves;

Historically,

at the beginning my love is pure light and beautiful,

and reaching the end, that light is tiring, and no longer pure.

Then again, I only lived one lovestory,

and it was enough for me to see they are not a cure.

I now want to see how many souls I can make light a fire for me,

how many can fall, how many can try.

I lock my eyes in theirs and watch them melt;

they get that look in their eyes when they touch me,

that it seems like they would do anything to get me.

I know what this is, and I know it's twisted feeding off of other people's fire.

Yet how many times has that song played, the one in which I say I'm evil?

.

Life and memory are a strange thing.

I used to see them in this way:

life in a constant hurry,

memory floating in still air.

But I got it wrong, they are flowing.

Always moving, always changing, always exploding

for one can't exist without the other.

As I live, I remember, and I feel warm or I ache.

Living in a place that makes me remember what now aches is not an easy game,

because nothing tastes like it used to.

But hell, I play.

Even if I'm too busy missing my man,

even if I'm too caught up in being in love with someone who's slowly fading away.

I'm sick and tired of talking about me,

I'm bored of watching people portraying a worried and anxious face,

eager to talk about themselves

and how they relate to what I just said.

Hell, I probably do the same.

I guess I'm just done with this mediocre journey of human emotion.

Is it really necessary to talk in order to connect?

Let's not pretend we care,

and allow the pure honesty of silence to take over.

And the truth is not behind the eyes,

it's behind a mask,

so don't even bother searching for it.

You're never going to find it.

°

We are all tremendously flawed.

We are all capable of feeling unloved, or of unloving.

We are all prone to be caught by traps,

to be deceived by desire and tell some lies,

yes, all doomed to let other people down.

We say we live for ourselves but truly, we live for others.

We push and pull and wonder if it's worth the trouble,

believing everything is so complex

when actually, it's all really devoid of meaning.

I'm faithless and this is a shitshow I don't buy.

°

But what else can I do?

I am tremendously flawed,

so I follow because I don't want to be left to the flood,

and I don't want to feel unloved.

Man, I'm just so tired.

What with issues and being unavailable,

I feel this knot in my heart,

would you please be kind enough to hear me out?

I may be kind enough to hear about yours.

I really am sorry,

but I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere.

It all fits until it all falls apart,

so really,

why even bother?

°

Yes, I know I should bother. I actually do.

I'm just thinking, what if I didn't?

What if I just flowed with time; untroubled, indifferent, and fucked everything up?

This is how the end starts.

This is how shit starts decaying.

The differences, the needs.

This is the moment when everything starts falling apart.

°

The lacking.

The crying and scratching my back so not to scream, alone,

or even in your bed with you right there,

where the only answer I get is a heartbeat.

And me, I get so little that mine I can't even find it.

I understand the problem here and I am sorry for the trouble.

We stand in different ends now,

it's too much of a difference.

And so I say,

it's just a matter of time until you choose to let me fade away.

I'm sure it won't be that difficult.

Maybe this has been going on for a while,

but you were too scared to say goodbye,

scared I would shatter as a reply.

°

I sometimes want to get little again,

so you can see how fragile I am

and try to put me up there,

as you used to do when small was all I felt.

So I lay down with my body on the side,

show just a bit of my pale bare skin uncovered by the sheets,

and wait till you come to bed with one hand under the cheek.

Anything that can remind you of how much love you have for me.

But there's something I got wrong,

that even though your love is not gone,

you just don't see me how I intend you to,

you see, but don't see me through.

If I'm lucky enough,

you place a little kiss on the back of my neck and get back to the screen,

then I pretend to be asleep until I finally am.

°

Ever since I met you I knew this would end as it always has.

I am just too much.

Before it started I knew it was already over,

and I thought of how much it would hurt at the end

and how there would be moments I would never forget.

Because there are parts of you everywhere.

So I made sure I was everywhere too.

I saw an empty wall and said let me put some of my love there.

Don't live in fear;

if I'm ever gone,

I'm always going to be right here.

°

I flap my wings, scared to feel real,

leaving feathers as footprints that say:

I am always gone — to stay right here.

All mornings seem to wear the same hiding sun, but the sun is always changing.

Routine kills imagination, I believe I have heard.

People usually lie about things, but this one is true.

Routine is tiring. It weakens the mind.

Eyes open, and with a dizzy head and awful breath... up and away.

Then a walk of four blocks with a cigarette in the hand.

A few ladies on the bus make the sign of the cross,

paying respect to their churches when we ride past them.

And I think to myself "Where the fuck has your god been, man?"

He's never set a foot on earth and you can tell,

if he had, he would have burnt us all to death.

How merciful is your god up there, if he keeps taking all you love away?

Oh, yes, the people too.

Always for unfair reasons.

.

But sometimes my mind isn't running out in the open like that.

Routine makes a busy head.

And a busy head is a machine, not a functioning brain.

Emotions seem to turn off temporarily, being replaced and invaded by something else,

bigger and evil.

And I'm all about flesh these days,

all about the body and not about the soul.

Who am I to undermine the power of the soul?

Trying to decorate my face, constantly thinking about what to wear,

as if to be seen was important to me.

Well, it is.

Yet I can't stand that I am not putting my spirit first.

I haven't been hiding, I swear. I just haven't been able to express myself.

.

Bottling up thoughts and feelings all together will bring hell.

Lately, it's been as effective as confessing to a god;

not effective at all.

I'm still gambling with the same devils of the past, and they set loneliness alight.

I gave a few spaces to the memory of the past, of my past,

of a blonde teen who knew nothing about the world but still,

felt utterly crushed by it.

Today I was asked if I kept any secrets.

Well of course I do. I am entitled to my little piece of daily secrecy.

Aren't we, blondie?

.

Yes, the present working as a swivel of the past,

pulling the thread, a rotating wheel.

I go through all the houses where I've lived

and over all the memories that I've built.

My future being at stake the whole trip.

Or should I call it a journey, as I don't even know when it will end.

When I step out and feel the cold of the morning freezing my skin and bone,

I sometimes come to think that I've been hanging with the wrong crowd,

with the worst crowd: my own.

This thought visits me first thing in the morning, when daylight hasn't yet shown up.

.

But there's this spot, this lapse of seconds when the bus reaches the coast

and I swear to all your inexistent gods

the sunlight drowns me, and drowns the whole bus.

And it's a relief, to see the shore and the seagulls and the glimmering sea.

The bright yellow light bouncing off the tall buildings, yeah it just,

lifts me up from all evil.

For just this second, the world beams.

And so do I.

.

I find myself astray among drafts upon drafts,

turning every rock in search of something worthy I might have missed.

But the feelings and desires are all the same,

only the choices of words change.

Sometimes I go back to willingly drown in old mistakes and unstitched wounds,

because they were once all that mattered.

Then time went by and their significance drifted off in open shore.

And now they're nothing but a speckle in the air,

just another part of many that makes me who I am.

.

I have always known that recycling ideas is a dead end.

What once was there is now gone,

the words that express that thought have vanished,

and that idea has nowhere to go.

It's stuck.

But I get it. I've been stuck, therefore all that connected to me too.

Changes come and go and I'm always a little sad,

because I'm constantly waving goodbye.

It's just the flow of time,

which I'm afraid, will always crush me. And I will always deny.

.

You can try and say to it,

"I have bled for this, please don't take it from me."

But it will.

"It's nothing personal", time will probably answer.

It's hard to understand that this is not a war worth fighting,

because not even an instant thought is your own,

there is nothing you can keep forever.

Perhaps a memory, but that is no good:

a memory belongs to the past,

not to us.

.

Every new day there'll be just a remain of yesterday.

Nonetheless, I will still smoke the same cigarettes,

and view the world as I may.

I will still find pleasure in the same spaces

and know there will always be new and different places.

The world will change and so will my thoughts,

but I'll only wish farewell when the time comes.

.

Being time so fleeting,

it's dismaying how long nights can be.

Every time I can I prepare with any distraction at hand,

because I do not except long nights to find me empty-handed.

It's during those endless nights that all of my worst thoughts are tested,

and I end up in a spiral,

contemplating what past versions of myself had to say.

.

"I have danced with the devil for too long", we all said.

I am tired for I carry too much weight,

but it's nothing I can't take.

.

Maybe you're only becoming just like everybody else.

And maybe, so am I.

But I don't want to be just like everybody else.

I don't want the cheap reward of being socially relevant.

I want a life fitting of the world in my head.

The taste of this one is turning sour.

I'm getting impatient, I'm getting stuck.

I'm getting homesick of a home that I haven't found.

×

And I'm searching for an answer to the misunderstanding of my tears.

Then again, I cannot explain something that isn't really here.

That I'm still grieving from a past life,

or grieving from a future one;

it just doesn't add up.

I know;

You can't walk unaware in this life.

You can't move forward careless of the lives you entangle with your own.

But I refuse to believe everything is so small,

so I'm not just careful for the present,

I am careful for before and beyond.

×

This place just cannot be all there is.

Here, the only ruler is the power of fear.

You have to keep your eyes open in case someone is being unfair,

You have to keep your back guarded in case someone tries to screw you over.

The task in life is now to remain alert.

What kind of a life is it if you only live in despair?

Not a pretty one.

Yet everybody's living this life. This terrifying and terrible life.

One where the only thing that matters is what money can buy,

and not what our minds can create.

And I should be hearing this more often:

Kill the art and everything else dies.

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Lately, life's been running so fast I can't even catch the start of a the day.

Letting the night-time drift off as I sit in bed,

wasting all my precious time.

I'm sleeping less and less,

no longer chasing creations in that other place I like to visit,

so often called dreams.

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And to this day I still wonder, do I deserve someone even colder?

Will that suit the way I love, cutting me into pieces until I acknowledge I am alone?

I believe that's the only way I would stop believing in love.

Only if it rips me open, and gives me more harm than I can take.

Oh, and I can take plenty of it.

Until it reaches the edge and I am too afraid to fight it,

a point where I'm either capable of giving in or letting it consume me by complying.

Love, my mortal engine.

.

Until it crushes my ribcage and takes every bone it wishes.

It's okay, it's love we're talking about.

I can lend it whatever it would like, from thought to organ,

because I was taught that love si always building something special.

It needs the materials, so take me whole, if you may.

But there's something they never teach you;

Love can be so evil if you force it to stay.

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I didn't sell my soul to the devil,

I sold it to a devil. Love.

I traded all I had for a little more life to live.

And now it owns me.

And I found love in someone, who I thought I could love purely,

but things started going sideways when he realized that I priorized him over myself.

Every time.

And I never got the chance to tell him,

that it isn't him I put first. It is love.

He happens to be the person I channel it on.

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In the movies love is always the saviour,

the medicine, the solution, but never the weapon.

I tell you this so you picture that there are different types of love. All possible.

And I want to defeat the evil that taints the love which was once pure.

Because I am filled with it.

If one were to say they are filled with love, we would cheer them with joyous approval and perhaps even envy.

Yet to me, being filled with love is what has been killing me.

How do I get rid of it, if it owns my soul?

No one is going to take my soul away, I sing.

But something already did.

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Cotton candy pink;

haven’t written in a bit.

Everything around me began breathing again,

the machines all ignited again.

The framework lit up and now shines bright enough.

This is how it feels everytime I come alive.

I’ve been dead, I’ve been buried, I’ve been stripped away from all that has protected me.

I have laid naked on top of the cold metallic bars of a deranged mind,

isolated in despair, helpless.

Yet I walked away, step by step, catching my breath.

Now don’t you dare take the love away from me. I’ll perish.

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And I guess I am apologetic,

that’s why I’m writing right now.

I’m apologetic because once everything is up and running,

I’m afraid I may fall back.

And I have the love of my life holding tightly of my hand,

as tightly as he held it when he met me and was out to get me.

I have recently discovered that I can have complete power over someone,

and that power terrified me.

I am my own person but my soul I share it with this other one,

so beautifully flawed, full of stitched-up holes.

Together we know that our souls are bewildering.

And whatever may bewilder us, we follow.

So we are always after one another.

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Most of my secrets are out on the open.

A few of them I keep to myself, and I lock them away safely

at the end of a strategically designed labyrinth.

So hidden not even I can find it. And it is better this way.

Just now I talked about power.

This secretive feature of me is part of that power.

But not only that,

he’s truly afraid I might leave his side.

That I might want to share my body with someone who isn’t him.

And I just don’t know how to get through his fears

and whisper that for a long time he’s been the only thing I’ve ever wanted anymore.

That sticks, you know?

Don’t worry now. We have forever.

Come play with my hair or drive me to the edge of town,

night-time is ours.

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What can I do,

I can’t get enough.

I get attached to anything detached.

Anything a little loose on the edges calls me and begs for my attention.

I have a bag full of sounds I haven’t yet encountered but I’m dying to,

stuffed between the streets of unknown cities.

I will always talk about this.

Because I will always be attracted to the things I cannot have.

As soon as I get close to something akin to what my fantasy depicts,

the hollows of my insides are temporarily filled.

Still, I’m a little lost when it comes to reality.

I love him, and he loves me, and this is real.

It’s so hard to believe that this is happening to me,

because it feels rather closer to a dream.

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Yeah, I may be happy,

and may not want to share it.

I may choose to keep this feeling to myself.

Because it’s mine, and it’s something I deserve.

This feeling is nothing like I thought it would be, though.

It isn’t permanent; it fluctuates.

Sometimes, with the strength of a tide, it crashes against the walls of my kingdom.

Sometimes, with the frail force of a string, it quivers along my pulse.

And I am no queen, but I have built myself a palace.

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I wish I could learn the mechanisms of the world by heart.

The patterns of the universe are nowhere to be found,

but I, I am ready to discover them, and break them,

so they stop breaking me.

I will utter the words I please and make this place belong to me.

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