a.m.

it's the worst that i write best

[aureumaze]

hi, let me introduce myself.

it's aureumaze. a girl in her twenties, searching for anything, putting herself in many shoes, trying to understand and to be understood.

i have spent forever here, writing, pouring every piece of me into words, through metaphors. disguising myself as a tiny piece of media you see on your screen, yet I'm leaving myself bare so you can see through what i hide inside. everything i could never shout out loud, i leave them here for you to hear.

this place is my cry for help, my whispers. a place for my side of self that couldn't exist anywhere else —I'm there to entertain, I'm here to let the mask falls out my face. here, I'm nothing but a bone and a bore.

i hope you can stay and make yourself feel at home here. I'll give you a cup of tea, some cookies, and a piece of me. one at a time. it's my safe place, can be yours too. we can chat, we can leave our weary skins on the racks.

i'll be your host. it's very nice to meet you!

tons of love, aureumaze.

[aureumaze]

my dearest, most beloved ivy,

what language have you spoken in?

has the mother earth stopped us

from talking to one another?

but, love, i have watched you

dancing off your leaves,

every time the wind kisses

your lips with ease.

and surely, you too have

witnessed me, weeping quietly

underneath your canopy.

so, please lend me a few decades

of your life, and speak to me.

you have grown roots beneath

my own planet, between my teeth.

i do not want to grieve,

seeing you bear your fruits,

while my husband tends

some other plant.

i do not want to grieve,

what could've been you and me,

my dearest, most beloved ivy.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

i'd like to believe that this town was full of pretenders,

who thought this place was so lovely in the summer.

a small paradise for those with afternoons to waste,

sipping some sweet iced tea fighting hard the heat.

and i'd like to believe that it had made us feel tiny,

that the big performing stage always passed as a need.

with the stage lighting bleaching these faces,

blinding, burning, flying with familiarity underneath.

we'd forget how tree shade had been hiding names.

so it would come as postcards from the old peers;

a picture-perfect family, a white picket fence by the creek.

the flashes of life we had traded for the taste of rain.

because the sun had always refused to shine,

where we were standing with our souls intertwined.

but i know for sure, i'd keep looking into people's windows.

and i would be nothing more than just another pretender.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

the kettle hissed every time

i walked into the kitchen.

as if there was something alive

behind the walls, under the counter.

maybe it was just being honest,

about the heat it could handle.

so i sat cross-legged on top,

wearing the suit, second-hand,

just to wrap around my plastic part.

pretending these seams could bite.

and it never crossed my mind that

those ghosts could be polite.

so i kept a chair out by the window

and they could sit down waiting

while the tea's aggressively brewing.

then they could just walk out,

finding another bed to wait in.

as i cleaned off the stained cups

with my ceramic heart.

and i might slowly crawl back

into the ruin in my mattress

with its dipped center,

until i could hear the kettle

hissing again as i walked back

into the kitchen.

and no ghost got to stay till...

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

my grandmother would love to pass down a family heirloom.

some heart shaped pendant, chains 'round my throat.

also the house without windows by the shore.

across the lighthouse that's been standing tall,

guiding all the passing ships sailing afar.

for all the sailors who thought they could be a savior,

yet he would borrow those treasure chests

he thought she had hid six feet under.

but there wasn't any guiding map or any light.

just the known constellation holding out its arms,

asking to craddle these worn out hearts.

but the salt in the air is always rubbing my wounds.

and i knew that my mother would love to

pass down a good family heirloom.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

my dearest,

you were born underneath

the soft tides

and flickering skies,

kissed by the sunlight.

you carried oceans

beneath your eyes,

you love like water

filling every space.

but if that's the case,

you'd rule tidal waves.

my cosmic child.

[aureumaze]

when you were hanging

on the edge of my lips,

the sin tasted bitterly sweet.

the drunken taste of secrecy,

dopamine, stimulant, and chemistry.

bought every trick, just in case.

perhaps we could outdo the warmth

of the other side of our beds.

but you scratched deeper than

what was given to my heart,

yet i couldn't promise you mine.

and the wiser put on their belief,

that it takes one to know one.

baby, we would have forever

to sit, sip some wine, and burn

the house to the ground.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

Mother, let me believe

that the universe

has a magical force,

to let me learn to speak

in softer tones

even when I tiptoe

around scattered bones.

Mother, if the universe

could be so kind,

could it rewrite the laws

that keep me tied?

With these roots tangled

and thick with grief,

let the fruits fall, roll down,

and find another ground.

Mother, let me plant the seed

underneath foreign skies.

Mother, let the wind carry me

without the need to justify.

Mother, I need to breathe in

the magic,

I need to believe.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

this city was supposed to be pretty, but it isn't. for me. i see people, only their empty frames. i see the ghosts of them, the shadow that has been haunting me. empty names, blurry faces; fading out. this city was supposed to be pretty or perhaps it still is but for some that this place never hurt. i was just unlucky that i wandered around this city with this hole inside my heart as the only part that fits in only lives in my memories by now. this city was supposed to be pretty, wasn't it? and if it isn't, you have the chance to leave but i don't. I'll still have to wander around, carrying all the untold stories on the tip of my tongue, lingering memories of every corner of the street full of traffic. tragic. you have the chance to leave but i don't. you have the chance to leave. you have the chance to leave. but i don't. and i won't.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

I was always the moon, but you were never the earth. I was never your satellite, and you were never my planet. We weren't meant to be, darling, weren't we?

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

the clock struck midnight,

and Peter decided to grow up.

outgrow the life of Neverland,

yet still left the lost boy shadow

jumping around, dancing in the walls,

and haunting Wendy's balcony.

she was told to kill off the lantern,

never trust in her bedtime stories.

but she packed up her grief,

her clothes and her make-believes,

chasing footsteps in stoplights

and those foreign street signs.

so she's outgrown her London too,

away from those pirates and mermaids.

"Find me, Peter," she whispers.

she's been lost in between two suns,

and forgetting how to fly

through another July.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

in this time around,

half remembered stardusts,

the world blinked and forgot to breathe.

a vow once whispered into the wind,

my finger, my throat, and my rib

wrapped in a crimson colored thread;

how to decode these lullabies?

in glances beyond the closed doors,

standing tall at the end of the cosmic hall,

Wendy got lost in almosts,

yearning but Neverland was never real.

perhaps, somewhere else,

in the silence between lifetimes,

it would make sense, Peter Pan.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

soft lips and sun kissed,

April waltzed back in,

and I wore the wind.

the stars bloomed

in my bedroom,

wrapped in velvet ribbons,

cradled the old wounds.

gentle, soften the silence.

in chords, off-key lullabies,

beautifully mine, this time

the sound stays;

old habits joy-stitched.

forgiveness came quiet,

in my sunday lights.

I do not grieve,

I celebrate,

with tea, silence, bloom wrists.

I am the God in my cathedral.

I am the feast, not the offering.

no, not anymore.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

and this table is a grave of feasts,

once brimmed with sunlight and spoons,

now only shadows dine here.

hope was the linen,

and grief the spilled wine,

I was the candle burning at both ends

melting into every plate I placed.

the last offering, not meant to nourish,

only to linger a little longer.

let the air grow heavy with absence,

let the dust claim the silverware,

let the hunger fade with the light.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

chasing stars in my cracked ceilings,

keeping the gate open, waiting.

and carving a key from Eve's ribs,

trying to keep the hinge from rusting.

yet, still growing and I'm wearing guilt,

it's me, stitched and I still bleed.

I could never afford to buy more time

to raise my glass and toast my grief.

maybe once this lifetime passes by,

I'd polish up the palm of my hands,

taking the three swords out my heart,

laying out the fine china, ten cups,

and I'd breathe just fine.

never choked on everything I hold.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

I've grown into my bones, fitting the piece right, the other half.

Got a taste of the age, and I was going down with the superficial.

Coming in a leather, a promised cradle, or whatever they offered.

Got a taste of my bleed, chewing me, spitting me out, and left me

wearing guilt like a hand-me-down. Oh my, what a tragedy!

They went down the greed, I had my fair share of ego-fed flesh.

I've reached the stage to sip away the wounded girl, please,

sit with me. I have a lot to offer this time, I've been polished up.

—a.m.

[aureumaze]

I have folded myself six times,

seven's a charm.

So I died, a little then all.

In a cruel and harsh house of cards,

I was painfully alive.

Three swords in the heart,

I mirrored the hurt, the touch,

and the rush.

Reflective.

But they set their fate in a guillotine,

who am I kidding? It's a mutual belief,

it's manic, it's impulsive, impressive.

Could you see how the colors

fade from your face,

through the metal?

It's quite a scene.

Hush, I'll wash my hands.

It's reflective.

I'm scheming.

—a.m.