#thewritersguild

In times when you feel like I don’t show how much I love you enough, know that I am trying my best to show them in bits and hand them to you, piece by piece. It may not look like it’s as much as the sum of its parts, but believe me when I mean it more when I share my shards than my entirety all at once. Shards not to bruise you, but shards with smoothened edges not by my own resilience but with your endless understanding.

Our love is like fire ranging from sparks to flame at times. Your hand is wind that dries my tears. Your cradle is water that makes my soul ebb and flow. And your chest is earth, founded to make me still.

In all of these, I always spare a thought of you — in between pauses, in my habitual spacing out, in between breaks of everything that I type, and even when I flinch out of a dream.

To feel yourself

and not wonder if you should burn yourself with fire?

You see

I’m living in a body that doesn’t feel my own.

I don’t think I want in anymore.

skin alive his pain cut open a vein let it bleed all over his loss relive a tragedy before his very own eyes and then painstakingly,

heave all of this sadness into the hands of a poem,

Whenever I wake up with rock-hard hangovers and the feeling of alcohol circulating throughout my veins, 

I remember all the bad dreams. 

I remember the wounds  already closed, but the bleeding remained inside - how could you heal if the pain is only commemorated with scars?

I remember pouring ourselves with gasoline ready to burn with a single spark from people who are brave enough to touch our skin, but later would fly away - no one stays on burning forests, they called it survival.

The cracks inside your throat as words try to escape, sometimes, choking is hard, but breathing gets harder, you scream for “help” but how would it be possible if everyone screams back “help yourself first.”

The flowers that once bloomed from our mouth, slowly decaying, beauty could never bloom from the flesh of sinners like us - only offerings to the altars that would soon bleed, and bleed until everything starts to feel peaceful.

A whisper in the night, only to find the bed half empty, to be filled with extra tequila shots, for the lost pieces of yourself, from time to time, of giving your life in a gift box with warning signs - fragile, handle with care, but people still chose to break the parts that were once beautiful.

So whenever you stare a little longer, the mirror stares back, full flawed, full fucks, forgotten kisses on your own wounds, its gets harder everyday, yes? It was never mentioned in mythologies but heroes get drunk with their own loneliness that even the gods created the rain to clean the sky once again, but it doesn’t get better, yes?

So you get another shot of alcohol, a bullet through your head, because tomorrow, it’s going to be the same -

whenever I wake up with rock-hard hangovers, I once again remember the world.

And it doesn’t care.

Maybe it wasn’t about the alcohol, maybe, it was the extra shots of words a promise of compassion, but why are you still drunk alone?

And it doesn’t care.

you, me, the moon, and the sea.

Is that not perfect?

Yet despite the heavy blanket...

visible still are my sins"