⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Love humbles, when it meets the violence of my need for you.

please be gentle with my bruised heart. i am not cruel, just cautious.

i don't need you. i tell myself, more often than none. but it's a lie. as soon as those words leave my mouth, i find myself looking for you in crowds. in every new face that i encounter. it terrifies me how disappointed i get when none of it is yours. and i promise i am not a hopeless romantic. no, it would only make me miserable. but you see there's this insatiable void in my chest where heart sits and i am deluded that only your presence can sate it. perhaps i can be a little sick like that every now and then. because i often find myself lying wide awake at night, thinking of digging my incisors into your heart. the tender flesh melting against my tongue. i consume you, fully, utterly, piece-by-piece, so i can finally quench this yearning. do i appal you, my beloved?

Somewhere between I want to punch my father in the face and it's his first life too.

I feel things deeply and that is more of a curse than a blessing.

where do you hold your grief? in the unsent letters stashed away in that ragged bag? on the tear stained pillow cases? in the unfinished drafts rotting away in the notes? on the cold walls of the bathroom that you spent the night crying in? in the streets now estranged from that old house you moved out? on the doodles of the bench of that middle school classroom that you will never visit again? or in the stubborn heart that keeps beating even after being dismantled quite a few times in the name of love?

If yearning were a cake, I wonder what it would taste like?

date idea: i sacrifice you for forbidden knowledge. cute, right?

anyone up for joining me in the woods and sing hymns to please the moon goddess?

Do not mistake my survival through the unfathomable agony, my strength. For, lord knows that all I wanted was the softness, the love, never the pain. The same wretched pain that sliced my skin piece by piece to mould it into steel and welded it back to my bloodied bones when all I ever dreamt of was the warmth of gentle hands.

yearning will ruin me but god... how can i ever stop– knowing you exist?

When your love runs out, tell me. Tell me that no longer your eyes search for me in the sea of faces. Tell me that no longer my name is a sacred prayer on your lips. Tell me that no longer your hands itch to hold me close. Tell me that you feel nothing but numbness when you see me. Tell me you no longer love me. But do so gently. Let me cry, beg and scream. Let me collect myself and leave with dignity. When your love runs out, ruin me, kindly. Let me remember your love as the softest act of cruelty.

I think artists– poets or painters, and everyone in between; do not tell the world of their misery. Not at least, the mundane way. Unhappy of sorrows, we open our hearts to those who are willing to listen. But I think artists find their muse in pain. Then, agony turns into ink bled on the paper. And suffering, the colours on the canvas. All the anguish and hurt just turns into something that people look at and whisper, "What a piece of art!"

i have savoured nothing sweeter than your love. for it's my ale and poison, that turns my bones softer. my flesh, a mush. i am a puddle of skin and veins, that reeks of your being in the face of your laughter that warms my coldest nights, and your smiles that burns brighter than the last candle kindling in the hearth of temple's shrine. you're both a prayer that i never made and a secret carved hollow within my ribs.