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dishes are left bone-dry and i am left rotting. what is there in a girl if she can’t be everything a mother has ever wanted? you ponder as if no one’s taught you how to think. i believe in what and what i shouldn’t be, but be there empty pill blisters under my mattress and in between the haywires of my own mind. i ruin myself to feel real. and i hurt myself to know that i still can.

absence takes the shape of shadows in a lit room. it is sometimes in that leftover silence where you find the words you wish you could have said before drifting apart. it is odd to understand something more clearly the moment that it's gone; somehow, the heart recognizes what it had through identifying what had been lost.

grief is what sits in the emptiness of things. you know you held them once, then the memory stops there.

you know that the love existed there, but it no longer owns a place in you.

happy birthday, mom. i still blame myself for everything that has happened. you didn't deserve all the terrible things. i miss you and i want myself gone.

mornings make me feel like my sickness is something so physical despite it existing only within the vacancies of my mind. the sun soaks my limbs and instinctively, i dream of fading away into its daylight. i dream of an embrace that erases my shape and form. i dream of a heat that burns me enough to disappear. how unlovely i feel inside my body that sometimes i want myself gone more than the desire to be wanted in all that i am.

i wake up and the first thing i do is grieve for what i've become.

what is there to love in all of this awfulness within me?

i am not easy to adore. i am rotting like i've chewed my fingernails enough to make them bleed and every word is a sharp tooth that bites me back each time i try to explain myself—and i am so terrified of the fact that no one actually sees me for who i am because everybody wants beautiful and tamed and well-groomed; so i shrinked to my tiniest, i promised to grow my hair after cutting it too short, and i sucked my stomach in even if it meant depriving myself of air. i'm afraid i've only learned to be bearable. i still don't feel pretty despite the nice things. i still feel ashamed despite the kind gestures. my flesh tastes like cherry soap, but my chest is filled with fruit flies. the bottom of my insides is covered with mold and the softest part of me is what disgusts me the most.

i am not easy to adore—by this i mean come nearer and have me raw, then tell me what's there to love in all this awfulness.

i am the eldest daughter who had seen how things are always meant to be taken away from her—the wounds i've incurred take forever to burn and more than forever to mend. i have cared for things once only to see how my hands are capable of unintentionally breaking them; despite trying to be careful, despite trying so hard to be good—at the end of the day i will shout. i will yell the most terrible things and then regret it. i will say sorry and it will be too late. i feel like i owe everyone a degree of hatred for myself, like i don't deserve to be forgiven. i will hurt people, even when all i ask is to be loved properly. no one understands me, simply because i feel like i am not the kind of person who's meant to be thoroughly understood. (perhaps i am not worthy of such privilege.)

[...]

but i hope, i hope you'll wait for the day when i'm stripped of all the pain and ugliness, when the demons that haunt me are exorcised from my soul, leaving only the raw, unfiltered version of myself. i make no vows of rebirth, yet each day i strive to embrace you with the same tenderness you bestow me.

growing up, these hands have only touched the sharp edges of life, but i managed to salvage the scant remnants made of softness, and i'm learning how to share those delicate fragments with others. still, i am perpetually afraid that i am excessively intense or that my desires are excessively grand. i am incapable of engaging in love with a half-hearted approach. you'll have it all, or you'll have nothing.

i hope you patiently wait for my liberation from the burdens of anguish and ugliness, but secretly, i also wish you would still find me beautiful despite it.

i'm too late, i always am but, i'm sorry, happy holidays.

The olives unfurl their petals in December, on the brink of breaking into fruit. The sunset that draped across the sky seared into our bodies, the orange sinking into purple. I asked you with a lilt to my voice, "Do you have a favorite sunset, Yeshua?" You didn't take your eyes off the sky and answered, "In every sunset is its own pocket of beauty, Judas. There is no sunset to be branded as a favorite."

Perhaps that's where it all began.

You are a sheep branded for slaughter, your head destined for the knife right after you got out of the womb. Perhaps my hunger for you was my first sin against you. You could feed five thousand people but my own hunger you could never satisfy. I want your limbs, your spine, your ribs, your thighs—beneath me, above me, your weight against mine. You remind me to breathe every time because I forget to, because I believe breathing you in would have me swallowing you whole until there's nothing of you left to devour. I compete with all of the bigger mouths out there for you.

Out of all of these mouths, you've closed mine shut with a kiss.

Do you count all of the feet that you've washed with your own hands? I wonder about the bottomlessness of your heart; how there's enough room for every person in the world in it. I wonder where I stand in your heart—if I stand in it at all. "I love you, Judas." You always told me, when you can, your nose against my own. In my mind, I didn't believe it—the world comes before me. I wanted to ask you if you would look for me in a crowded room. I wanted to ask you if you'd recognize the sound of my voice amidst a million others. I wanted to ask you if you could be capable of knowing me not when the world falls silent, but when the world clamors into the most noise and all you can hear in your heart is my song.

I know the kiss I left on your cheek didn't burn your skin, not one bit. I know that the spit I left on your face in my dreams (or nightmares, perhaps) didn't sear the skin off of their hinges.

"I love you, Judas."

"Stop lying."

"You know I'm not."

"You know what I did."

"And I forgive you, Judas."

"Stop lying."

"I love you, Judas."

"Why?"

"Do you remember when you asked me if I had a favorite sunset? I told you every sunset is its own pocket of beauty."

"I'm no sunset."

"That's the thing. You don't have to be for me to love you."

I was never your favorite, Yeshua.

At least let me bring this lie to the grave with me.

warning!

i have this certain longing to be held in my bruises despite knowing how terrible i would flinch

hi, i'd ditch the saga of dreams. i'd keep myself awake and sober; i'd rob myself of sleeping hours to think and write more about you. because to lavish the extent of your phenomenon makes loving such a stirring thing to do: i am not good at keeping things for too long, but your very few words could last decades in me. i have named moments after you: the first time we were breathing in the same room; the first time our eyes met; the first awkward wave we gave at each other; the first night i wouldn't stop remembering the way you laughed.

and i talk to you in my head all the time. i ask how this plethora of sentiments are integral pieces of my feeling now, and how i confirm that there is a heart in me because it is tearing up for the mere reason that you belong at this same juncture of occurrence. i know your name like i can hear it in songs. i know your face like it's the only thing i search for in crowds. i know colds in your absence. i know the sun in your warmth. i reach for you like i have never moved past our first shared glance.

it is a little like angst; a little like forgiveness for my greed—in wanting to have more of you put upon the lesser bits of me—in this system of disorder as i hold my breath when you are away.

you, you drive me in this constant madness—though i doubt i have even ever crossed your mind. i feel so happy it turns back to sad. you make me want to try, and i confess that i am so terrified of how hard i've been trying, but you know that i'd do it again at any chance given to me, right...?

my madness is a radical aspect of my entity. the curtains are curled up in blue mist, things are grey, and i miss you suddenly. terribly. there arises an urgency to be ill when i come across this static current of quietness—i was never just numb. i am rather a damaged circulation of systems i've obtained from my youth; a broken record of the same stutter. my activity is yearning, my main imprint of work, and when i'm at rest, i care less about myself. to love you is to feel you profoundly. and if to feel is to care for my own self, how can i curse my thoughts when they circle back to you? how can i despise what enables me to root for existence?

“i am electric. a romantic cliché.”

certainty is a trick, but i am convinced that i become a little more humane when i am riveted by your atmosphere. i fall under the weather's feet and the earth disappears. you are almost unnatural, a brand of vague fiction. and all the beautiful things are fragile, so i worry that i might destroy you solely by thinking of you this much. i am absorbed. i am skeptical.

i miss you as early as this: when the dawn starts creeping in the holes of a sunday proverb i've heard last week—i ultimately remember how i can't figure it out. there is a stressed desire to have a closer look of you; your absence had me searching everywhere. i love you in everything. i see you in nothing.

#Spotify

you make me anxious.

and you. you have a way of making me feel all messed up. i've spent my entire life trying to tidy up everything before me, because i've been used to just loving everything first before me. and i, i usually know when and how to smile, or what to wear in specific occasions—because i am a tragic person who cares too much about how others would perceive me—and how i laugh is already fixed a lot earlier than a joke gets thrown at me. i am calculated, like an absolute, a perfect circle, but i love you like i am seven again: a kid cluelessly coloring a book character way past the intended lines. i love you like i am finally tasting the carelessness of youth after being wronged by my own childhood. i love you like greediness could be the sweetest thing to ever offer somebody; and you would be the first thought that occurs to me when i wake up, then i would long for you at the end of my longest days. you are the city lights blossoming in nights and the loveliest songs i've heard. and. and. and you make me anxious. you make me bite my tongue and look away only to come back then stare too intently again. you make me want to use up every beautiful word that i know. you make me want to cry and never speak to you again—because i love you like this and i am afraid that you are not someone who could endure people like me.

i am afraid i'm becoming too much to hold, and your hands are... full.

often, i vanish because i don't deem myself worthy to exist in anyone's life for a much longer period of time. i consume space, then i feel guilty for belonging to something; i crave it, but i don't think i deserve to have it when it's there, so i decide to leave. isolation is a convenient choice when you believe that you have nothing substantial to offer them: i only bear my lightweight heart, paper-thin and easy to tear—because i break apart with little to no force, but i try to need as little help as possible. as a child, my parents have always served as my living testimonies to prove that i am not worth the risk—they haven't stopped bleeding ever since they killed their dreams to have me; as a compensation, i learned to cry alone in my room. i wore my hair down to cover how my eyes constantly burned. my mouth became a graveyard for the conversations i've annihilated before they could even happen: i talked to everyone in my head all the time, but i never really gave myself the chance to speak.

i imagined the world to be a brighter place without me, so i remained to be a dead thing for people; often i'd wish i could simply disappear just to save everyone from the burden of knowing me.

i always have to earn my heaven by running away.

i am terrible at being alone, terrible at being together; caught in this liminal space where my body becomes a limbo of unbelonging. how does one measure the distance between wanting connection and being fundamentally unable to sustain it? my loneliness is not quiet—it screams in the spaces between my ribs. it is a violent whisper that reminds me how inadequate i am at inhabiting my own skin, at creating the tender margins where human touch might actually survive. i am always either too desperate or too distant, never finding that threshold where vulnerability meets genuine connection. and in this constant oscillation, i have come to know that my greatest fear isn't just about being alone, but mostly about being seen as someone incapable of being anything but—a walking contradiction of desperate isolation, where my hunger for intimacy becomes the very thing that pushes everyone further away.

to love is to accept that you are going to be a bit fucked in the head. to love is to overcomplicate the simplest gestures, to clash against logic, to be a fool every now and then. hello, i am curious about what your current thoughts are—and if it's possible to rent your entire body for a day, i'd gladly do it just so i can know you better. i feel giddy and borderline insane—but maybe in a silly “i-listened-to-the-songs-you-talked-about-and-i-am-trying-to-figure-out-why-you-named-your-playlists-like-that” way. to love is to be a little dramatic, haha, why are your knees bleeding and why do i feel the need to kiss the bruises on your body? i want to know if this makes sense, but i clearly know that it doesn't work like that—because love is built around this kind of absurd mysticism, a sort of enchantment, a pull where you're completely held facedown to the grounds of earth.

i love you. i don't understand this at all.

i am writing this because there are days when i feel like i am not good even at being lonely, despite this being the habit that i most frequently practice. in days like this, i am not sure where exactly is my place in the world; i don't understand where to stand in people's lives: am i really getting too close or is everyone just too far away from me? i can't seem to get it right, the balance is always off with me—and my gruesome intensity leads to withdrawal from everybody else. and for my intensive longing to be loved, is it wrong to desire something so much because it was rarely given to you? this deprivation, they always want me to keep it to myself. to shut it behind doors. to walk like independence is the highest form of relief.

BUT, GOD, FUCK, I AM SO LONELY.

solitude is the curse obtained from growing up with the threat that all i will ever become is the kind of person that is easy to abandon. why do i always have to worry about being too much even when there's no one with me?

i'm constantly afraid i'm being an inconvenience each time i ask something for myself / you'd ask me if i need anything and i'd respond with silence / you tell me you know me well, so i always hope you'd ask again.

they say that you instantly become more comfortable in places where no one knows you, so instinctively i dream to withdraw from everything—every once in a while—to feel completely anew. i feed the fire my bits of being a person, then i abandon the self as this nameless, barely tangible entity devoid of any actual definition; i do not understand what and who i am: sometimes i am the few memories of being found, but often i am my terrible need to disappear. i've been the most scared when i am loved by people—i'm constantly worried that they are yet to dig further into me, then hate me the way i do. i strive to be seen entirely, but all i can think about is the ugliness that i foster within.

(and perhaps it is better that you couldn't love me the way i love you / because if you did, i would have to devastate you by destroying your ideas of me / you don't wish to know me, so maybe i am better off as nobody.)

mom has the eyes of a wretched god and i think of her in all the destructive ways that the light flows into the fragments of things; how she drags with her the heavy weight of her fingertips everyday just to hold more, how she smiles like the gray morning gloom right before it rains, and how she prefers to cry alone. i attach her with grief more so than rage, because i am never angered by her—i just think about how she would have loved me better if she only could. if she understood what it meant to love better, kinder—she would have done it for herself, and then for me. there are moments where she becomes the most beautiful thing that sometimes i wish i never had to be born at all—simply so she could have the life that she had always dreamt for herself as a little girl.

mom, this is how i shall miss you: like regions of pain intersecting in one softened flesh, dissolving imaginary borders—something very compact and dreamy and earnest that when i hurt for you, i hurt for everything else too. i don't know where to find you except in the drawn lines of my open palms, in the cuts of my fingers, in the silhouette that follows after every source of light dims. and my heart houses this quiet sadness, this long death in trying to live through your absence. this is infinitely lukewarm; hungry, too unsatisfied that it burns a little but never enough to completely kill me. it leaves just the right amount of poor courage so i can crawl back. because i always come back. i am here and you are somewhere, and i call you in rooms filled with other people. they say that the grief will not last forever as long as i grant it my recognition—but i cannot savor it without tasting your warmth, without enduring a rising farewell, without opening the drawers containing these older wounds. memories create perfect moments; so the more i remember the ache, the more it resembles love and the lesser i hate you.

i miss you terribly and i want myself gone.

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