Melancholia runs through my veins;
My father loves me
in a language that I do not speak.
I faintly remember
begging him to teach me, desperately
trying to hold on
to the words that resemble my own.
I gave up around thirteen — he was too old to change anyway, like an old dog
incapable of learning new tricks; I saw him only twice in my teenage years.
I am my mother's doomed delusion;
the gasoline running through her veins
passed the fire into my genes —
she brought me to life
like a dying prayer
cradled me tightly in her arms, an obscured warmth flowing through her fingertips
pleading that I would soon stop crying;
but I will never be anything comparable
to the hope she dreamed of.
When she wished for me
to have an open heart with all forgiving
love wrapped in gift baskets and a soul
destined to see
the sentimental sparks in every corner,
I worry she forgot to tell
whoever is up there above,
that a fragile heart without proper cover
will chip and crack with time
until it shatters from the pressure;
a soul so passionate and alive
will simply start to burn inside
when there is no more space
for it to roam the sky.
It took no more than a few years
for me to settle down in my own exclusion; quickly finding placebo confort
in the shadows scattered around.
I wonder if I have ever once,
maybe somewhere in the distant past,
wanted more. It would not change anything,
but I often wish I could remember
what came before this; for I wouldn't know.
I have never seen the sun.
The psychiatrists are surprised that I made it this far,
they couldn't find a cure,
although they tried
to find The Magic Pill through trial and error.
But my suffering has roots deep below
the surface — there is no cure.
My lover believes I am his salvation;
In the day, the light of him is enough
to make me believe, as much
as I am capable of,
but when the night swarms me
with its velvet poison,
tangled between
every tree, filling every road,
I am left to my own man-made despair;
the moon grins at me in a mockery.
I am a walking metaphor,
a string of tradegies, and
at last, a breathing corpse;
This is my Archive,
but I suppose, in the end, it's nothing more than a secret sideblog for what I don't want to go on main :)
Archive tags:
Posts that are not mine:
#¡_found_entries_¡
Original melancholia:
#¡_melancholia_in_my_veins_¡
My own rambles:
#"local clown seen yelling at the wall"
Mental breakdowns:
#☆–psych‐ward‐favourite–☆
Anything to do with my favourite person:
#《♡_always×about×him_♡》
Date Archive;
All dates are written in tags, following the same template:
#[day/month/year]
(exception: #[~~/month/year] for a longer period)
