in between the spaces

my heart still bleeds on to the slightest things

[poetiics]

headlights

it was before I even had you

that I knew I was going to lose you

I can see the headlights,

I saw your bags packed by the door–

half-opened, and your car engine running.

I saw the unfinished note you left on the table,

and how your handwriting didn’t make sense

by the end of it.

I saw most of your shoes

in the trunk of your car.

you were slowly erasing yourself

in this home I built,

and the house you stay at

because to you, our home

is just a house.

but to me, this house

is the only home I’ll ever know

I was going to lose you

despite, inspite, and all throughout

this was an inevitability

that has awaited me

for years.

I saw the headlights,

and I can hear the soft

humming of your engine

as you slowly drive away.

[poetiics]

you know this

Mom.

Mom, I told you this,

right? 

I told you about the guilt,

the selfishness,

the hoping, the lies, 

the anger.

I told you, right?

Well, I’ll say it again. For good measure.

To make sure whoever’s up there is listening this time.

I feel guilty; to wish you alive

and someone else dead. 

Is that how this works? I have to 

wish death just to bring you back?

Is this some fucked up horror movie? 

Is this some nightmare I cannot wake up from?

I don’t know, but I told you this, right?

Six feet above you, I sat on the wet grass and cried.

I cried about the guilt inside my chest, 

that I wish it had happened to someone else.

I wish it wasn’t me, wasn’t you, wasn’t us. 

I wish I were born into a different family,

one without so much grief. 

Then I feel guilty for even thinking that.

But I told you this, right?

About how angry I feel when I’m back home,

I don’t know what’s keeping me angry, 

I just know that I am. 

There’s something about that stupid fucking house,

and that stupid fucking garage, with the broken metal thing in front,

that makes me so angry. 

It’s still ‘home’, in so many ways,

just not my own. 

But you know this. You know because I told you.

You know this, Mom.

Now, tell me what you know. 

Please.

[poetiics]

shame in the morning, devotion in the dark

I would never tell you this,

even if you had begged me

to tell you the truth.

To tell you what’s killing me.

I would fantasize about you and me; 

in the dark, telling each other things

we never could in the daylight. 

You’d tell me you love me

and that you’re sorry it took you

this long.

I’d tell you it was okay

because I never thought 

I could have you,

anyway. 

You would make a guttural sound,

and lean in to kiss me.

You wouldn’t miss, even in the dark,

because I know you’ve been waiting, 

too. 

I wouldn’t hesitate to kiss you back

but I would hesitate to fall asleep

because it means the sun is coming,

and we’d have to face the daylight again.

Is this what all this is?

Shame in the morning, 

devotion in the dark

Is this all that this is?

[poetiics]

i linger

i linger

by doors

you won’t even

open

i look

through windows

you don’t even know of

there are a million things

i’ve done

that you wouldn’t do

even after thinking twice

there’s no comparing you

and me

i loved you

you loved, not me

but, that i loved you

it’s unfair to compare

everything i felt

and everything you

wanted to feel

i linger

in hallways

you won’t even

walk in

i’ve looked back

twice, thrice

i memorize the

sound of your footsteps

whenever you’re walking away

such tender flesh you buried your

dagger in

now, i ask

did you purposefully

try to miss

my heart?

[poetiics]

you ask me about love

and i'll tell you about how

i willingly threw myself into the ocean

in hopes i’d drown somewhere you’d see

it was when i was eighteen

that you told me love

is not synonymous

with destruction,

suicide,

anguish

i smiled, thinking you were joking

but it was all real to you

my pain and my anguish

were real to you

it was at twenty-two that

i realized you were right

and now you ask me about love

and i'll tell you about how it finds me

on my loneliest nights

and cradles me until i fall asleep

i’ll tell you about that fight we had

and how i pushed you away

and told you that you don’t have to deal

with this; with me

and you said "i know,

but i want to"

i’ll tell you about how

i found myself in the depths of hell

in my own home; as one does

and you came. in a minute,

without an ounce of doubt,

you came.

this time,

i’m willing to throw myself into the ocean

if it means saving you

[poetiics]

by your hands

here we are, you said

and i almost laughed, you were wide-eyed

and clueless

i was half in love with you my whole life

did you know?

of course not! is what you’d say

you cared about things like money 

and what people thought if you wore the wrong 

type of jeans

instead, i said here we are

i echoed your words because there was never

anything else to say

i would attempt to hold your hand

as we walk across the wrong end of the tunnel

you only ever let me touch you

when you knew no one else was looking

i think, in my own fucked up way, it made me want you

more

there were nights all i could think about was

how your fingers would curl into mine

or sometimes, into the dagger you’d stab me with

i think it would be romantic

but not in a candle-lit dinner type of way

in a you were always going to kill 

but it just had to be me

i wonder if you’d be tender about it

or if you’d be harsh and cruel and unkind

but you were never that

at least, never with me

and i know you wouldn’t start now

you knew that was what i wanted

to be within your reach, your hands

whether it was through death

or the moment we finally kissed

i am sorry

that this isn’t the story you wanted me to tell

i’d see you sneak glances when you thought i wasn’t looking

did you know?

of course not! is what i’d say

because i know that’s what you’d want to hear

and if i’ve lived long enough to let you stain

my clothes, with my blood

then i could live an easy death

knowing it was by your hands

then maybe, maybe. maybe we’d finally

fall in love

[poetiics]

a retelling

I.

I want to write this without having to admit all my faults.

I was never good at apologies and the niceties that came with life.

You wouldn’t know, but it sometimes hurt to look at you. 

Even today,

I cannot understand if what I feel for you is love or such

pure intense hatred that I cannot keep at bay.

My friends tell me I’m crazy and I think maybe I am

You had green eyes,

and I wanted you. 

I was fucking insane, and I want you. 

II.

My skin felt tender when you would do as little as look in my direction.

The worst part was the world seemed to know how much I wanted you

because it would send you my way,

even when I was trying to rid of you.

It gets even worse. I wanted you and all I am is tainted by the mistakes

I made.

I heard your defense once, that I didn’t know what I was doing.

I think that’s the type of thing we tell ourselves

when a mistake runs the course of the rest of our lives

It felt stupid and hopeless and completely foolish

to want someone the way I wanted you

III.

My mother once told me that I was lonely

I almost laughed

hysterically 

but before it could get out of my throat,

I felt the loneliness drown me.

I was gasping for air, thrashing my arms, but she couldn’t see me

I love my mother, but she never understood what it felt like

to be the product of my father

I always thought if we tried hard enough, you could

understand the parts of me I’ve wanted to leave behind

my whole life.

Funny,

you were with me in all my dying moments. 

I’d think about how I’d die from a wildfire and you’d save me.

I’d see your green eyes vividly from the red of the burning fire.

But this time, I was drowning

fast! quick!

and all I could think about was fuck,

I never even got to touch you. I never even got

to kiss you. 

IV.

I imagine you’d punch me in the face

and break my nose in the process

You’d give me more reasons to hate you

All because I wanted to feel what it would

feel like

if you loved me

I imagine I’d hate you for a bit

because my face would be bleeding and bruised,

because it would be the rational thing to do

but I’d look at myself in the mirror

and touch the bruises harshly,

gasp at the pain,

and romanticize your hands on me

You have green eyes,

and I want you. 

I am fucking insane,

and I want you. 

[poetiics]

they say our love was built on loneliness

they say our love was built on loneliness

and that if we were placed in a dark room,

we’d end up with bloodied fists and broken jaws.

they think i’d kill you the first chance i got

but do they know about the things i’ve told you

in our dark room? 

there were times i was convinced that

you were merely a figment of my imagination

because of how much i loved you. 

there were nights i felt my tongue go numb

and my knees shake

from how much i prayed you were real

let this be real, let her be real, never take this away

do they know that if they placed us in a dark room

and gave us silver daggers in our back pockets

i would know where to find your heart

even in the dark?

do they know that your life would be under my mercy

but i would choose to trace your lips

against my calloused finger

and hear your heart beat to the sound of my want

there were moments i felt all i had was you

and there were times i was right.

yet they would place bets

on when you would find another

and on when i would get sick enough 

to fuck everything up

but do you know

that if i were given a choice between loving you

or feeling the sting of the blade one last time

without hesitation, i would offer you

the silver dagger in my backpocket

and forget about the metallic taste in my mouth

we’ve fought tooth and nail against loneliness

more than bloodied fists, more than trembling teeth

and they say our love was built on loneliness

[poetiics]

the gem of finding out

I’m not a good person

This has been a realization I’ve realized about a hundred times

I couldn’t explain it to you even if I tried:  what it means to not be a good person.

When I think about the life I’ve led, I think about how many times I’ve cried to celestial bodies,

I think about how many times I’ve tried to escape this reality I am in, in hopes of finding a better one,

a kinder one. A reality where love and loss are not synonymous. A reality where I don’t have to lose to learn

what love truly means. I try to envision myself in a reality where the tides have been kinder and calm,

do you know how much it takes to get out of a daydream? You wouldn’t understand, I was told

I was too imaginative for my own good. So much that it made me most ungrateful.

I wouldn’t know how to change, all I know right now is 

I’m not a good person.

[poetiics]

in two different universes

i like to think that in another universe

we buy that apartment we’ve always wanted

even if it means leaving behind

the people we thought could love us most

you’ll tell me how your day went

and i’ll learn to be good at listening

even if i was always taught to nod along

and not ask questions. 

i’ll tell you how mine ended

and i’ll avoid all the bad parts

because i have this dream

that we could just forget if we choose to

you’ll love me for what i am

and you’ll never wonder what i could be

i’ll love you like i always have

because i forgive time for passing

*

i like to think that in another universe

we buy the apartment we’ve always wanted

even if the walls are blue and peeling

because you know how much i’ve wanted to call a place mine

somewhere along the way,

i learn to be good at listening

and i ask the questions you’ve always wanted me to ask

 and you’ll fall asleep as i read a few more pages

in this universe

i speak to you in the right words

and you’ll finally stop wanting

too much

you’ll want me as much as i need you

and you stop changing your mind

because you know how it hurts

when you only want me when it hurts

— two different pieces

[poetiics]

dreams

In a dream that I’ll never remember, I put your arm over my shoulder and my face in the crook of your neck as I tell you all the things that have made me wish I was back home with my head on your lap again.

In a dream that never comes, I am okay with people touching me, hugging me, and seeing me cry because I’ve had years & years of comfort from you, my Mother who tells me that it’s okay to be weak from time to time.

In a dream that doesn’t exist, saying the words I love you wouldn’t feel like swallowing barbed wire because you’ve taught me that love and loving is not the disturbance that I think it is.

In a dream that I wish would come, you hold my hand and touch my cheek with your calloused hand (from years and years of caring for me) and you ask me to forgive time for passing on us. I’ll ask you, then, if you have lived the life you’ve always wanted. Maybe you’ll say “yes, I have loved and held my daughter enough to know that—this time—grief will be your friend and time is no longer against you.”

In this dream that mimics reality, I would mourn your death, but this time you are in your 80’s and I’ll have more to say in my eulogy for I have, finally, loved you a lifetime.

In this dream that I have created, I wake up so violently, clutching my chest right where my heart is as if someone traipsed in my room in the middle of the night and clawed it out of my chest. I imagine blood, everywhere, for I have not stopped bleeding since the moment I lost you.

[poetiics]

time and grief and time and

how are meant to endure time passing? i’ve never been one to know or want to know, but how are we meant to forgive time for passing?

am i allowed to feel angry about all the moments i lost and all the grief i carry? time has not been kind, they said it took time but i still carry it like a newborn baby.

i cannot seem to let go, and time has not helped me. how do we forgive time? how do i forgive myself?

how are we meant to endure time passing?

[poetiics]

understatements about you

I told you, “I feel like if I killed myself, no one would bat an eye.” I felt the tension coming off of you, you hated it when I said things like that.

Hating it, however, never made it less true. I expected you to scold me or tell me off in that millisecond of silence, then you said “I would bat plenty of eyes.” A joke. It was meant to be a joke, I wouldn’t know how to tell you—maybe years from now, I’ll figure it out—that you somehow removed the ache in my heart.

To this day, I cannot tell you that I stray away from writing about my own death and how I envision myself dying—in 6 different ways even before breakfast—because it upsets you in ways I cannot take away.

I cannot tell you that you’ve saved me from myself more than I could count. You don’t need that pressure on your shoulders.

Do you know I’d choose a simple boring life with you?

Well, I would. I would and I will. Again, and again, and again.

Thank you for batting an eye, thank you for getting upset at the prospect of my death, thank you for worrying. Thank you for loving me in ways I cannot comprehend.

To say thank you for saving me would be an understatement, instead I’ll say thank you for trying to right me (as I write about you.)

To say I love you would be an understatement, instead I’ll say I’m choosing a simple boring life with you.

[poetiics]

something to leave behind

do you know that i flinch whenever i read literature about a young girl losing her mother?

but i don’t flinch whenever i hear your name, at least not visibly

and i’m starting to think that your death was more about what it made me than what it had cost you.

i apologize if i had made my loss bigger than yours. there’s this sickening realization that maybe if you had stayed i’d be less selfish, less cruel, less heartless.

but i wonder if i’d be the same if i wasn’t as grief-stricken and bereft.

as it is, meeting you will become the first and last thing i will do alive.

— and they wonder why i’ve spent half my waking moments wishing i were dead, i simply cannot wait to meet you.

[poetiics]

richard siken once said personification is good in a poem

So, I'll compare you to Sunday mornings.

In truth, Sunday doesn't hold the appeal that Friday or Saturday has.

But I wake up on Sunday mornings happier and relieved. I still have a whole day ahead of me before Monday comes. I'd like to believe I live Sundays a bit more extravagantly than the rest of the week.

There is something about the loss of Sunday that I cannot put into words.

If I were to try, I’d say it feels like that split second where we both realize that we are about to part but don’t say anything. In that single unspoken moment we share, I like to think we hold each other a little bit tighter and a little bit longer.

Sunday mornings are relatively closer to how I feel about you. Such reprieve is only ever offered on Sundays — the knowledge that I will lose this tomorrow so I have to make up for everything today.

Sundays do come back, however, but I hold on to it so tightly that the bone in my wrist juts out; my knuckles white as if I will never have it again.

If 24 hours was all we had, I hope we begin on Sunday morning.

[poetiics]

did you know there’s a ghost in your house?

my sister, 30 and allergic to shrimp, has left home a few years ago. she always told me she'd take me with her once she does, but i find that older sisters will always promise you something they want to do but are incapable of doing so.

i have never allowed myself to think about this fact for too long.

today though, i did.

i thought there'd be more things to be thankful about — having my own room, not having to clean up after someone else, having my own bathroom, inviting friends over without the anxiety of being too loud, having the chips all to myself, and maybe even getting to pick the movie to watch.

as i think about it, it turns out the only good thing about her leaving was we could finally eat shrimp.

— i miss her, but not enough to wish her back in this house.

[poetiics]

heaven exists

i feel sick to my stomach whenever this haunting realization dawns on me that i feel no different from a stranger looking at my mother.

no familiarity, no memories, no attachment, no warmth.

just like to everybody else, she exists merely because pictures tell me that she does. she exists because some old photograph has captured her existence.

but just like a stranger being handed a photograph on the street, i do not know her. i have no memory of her, i have never held her, and i have never met her.

i am no better than a stranger, i am nothing more than a stranger, she is nothing more than a stranger. this sickening realization visits me more often than i’d like to admit, and when it does, i refuse to acknowledge it as a fact despite it being truer than anything else. 

even then, i love her and trust that she loves me back a thousand fold. in truth, my mother taught me faith more than religion ever could.

heaven exists simply because she died.

— god, what could i do to change this? maybe that’s why i’ve wished death since i was 8 years old.

i was never strong enough to lose a mother, even at 22, i am not strong enough.