Seaside@11pm

spilling thoughts over here.

[seaside-at-11pm]

I'm scorched, dry, and broken /Too young, too dumb / Look the mirror in her eyes / Shield too heavy. I sink to the floor / Scarlet that numbs/ Hold your feet to the ground / Do I crumble? / Am I / Strong/er / Than us?

Where do I find abyss? Does it lie in surrender?

[seaside-at-11pm]

Its funny how aching is a feeling synonymous to empty as empty is to lonely.

We're no where near close to lacking. We have so much love to give, barricaded by fears. By mistrust. By insecurities. We have so much love to give that we're grieving before it ends.

[seaside-at-11pm]

"You are fam", and my heart swelled with a warm, ache.

Is this love, or is it how it feels like?

What does it mean, when you don't say i love you Or call me by those honey dipped, sugar soaked nicknames

But instead call me your family, does it mean warmth or inseparable pain?

Have we become a love so deep, we can't resurface? Or have I just finally learned what it means to love through the pain?

[seaside-at-11pm]

I.

The car swirls, my eyes blurs. We're twenty minutes into this dream again, we've crashed into my childhood and there's a world that's crowded with blank gazes and an absence of one too many minds. I sink into the sofa after a long day of school but she never sits down, goes to take a shower instead. Steamy mirrors and hidden cabinets, stolen pills and secretly bought pepper sprays later, we storm out of the house angry about things we've left unsaid, the things they let slip away. So we're slipping through fingers again and I'm in that park where I'm not alone anymore but trailed by this pair of eyes and she finally sits next to me but to tell me to leave and never come back. So I leave, my footsteps frantic and I tell her there's been a guy that says he likes me. Away from the four walls we call home, she won't talk to me, she doesn't look me in the eye any longer than three. I take it out on my friends, my hands unruly. We're back in the bathroom, rusted metal and locked in. That guy who likes me, talked to me today but guess what, I tell her, I've never been more scared. She stares me point blank for the first time in days, her face is contorted with bubbles as her hand pushes my head into the tub and lets me fret for air. When she finally lets go, my body is more water than life, she looks back as she's leaving and tells me to run for my life.

[seaside-at-11pm]

I'm a derelict building with shut doors

not a dollhouse, so why do you fiddle with my tottering emotions. what's making you leave?

I ask you to leave me alone now, dead tired of checking time on your clock because mine seems broken, twiddle my thumbs for the sound of your shuffling in the empty hallway up front as the elevator opens

I'm tired of letting people into my heart because I can never kick you out completely, so you keep stirring my feelings

even as I look at you with ransacked eyes

I know I say I've been healing but it seems I still can't see people leave.

[seaside-at-11pm]

I love you to the point I'm afraid of etching you with me. You're art, needless of me. I'm a bystander, in awe.

[seaside-at-11pm]

I'm afraid of all the things I want to say. I'm scared of how they come out, because they're the loudest in my head and I worry my voice doesn't do it any justice.

So I stop before I begin. My fingers write them so they echo in yours like it does in mine.

[seaside-at-11pm]

Darling, dedicate yourself to people who dedicate to you. Loving and being loved have a thin line - dedication to loving selflessly might actually end up exhausting your self till there is too less to give.

[seaside-at-11pm]

Look, I'm sorry. I feel there is a need to apologize because I realize I have been half hearted these days despite the part of me that wants to give without expecting to take.

But you see, I'm trying to heal from things I'm not sure I know how to repair so I build walls around my heart taller than a tower because I dont have hair to throw down that you can climb nor a place for you to stay at when i'm trying to escape.

I had so much space in my heart to love but now I'm afraid my inability to give when I'm dissolving has made me a coward. I'm afraid the person that loved you like she'd fight by your side on the battlefield has been thrown off her horse and cannot summon the will to help you nor deal with the heart wrenching guilt of loving you, yet letting you brave the storm alone.

I'm sorry for loving and giving in, living and dying at the same time. I convince myself now with more reasons to flee and take back my outpouring love each time I find myself care about you because a love like mine, from a vacuous heart is probably something you're better without.

[seaside-at-11pm]

It seems no matter the circumstance, I am afraid - of people and their inability to mean what they say and say what they mean.

[seaside-at-11pm]

When you see an artist's composition, what do you make of it?

Was it created to be tattooed into eternity or did he but merely, want to be understood?

I hope you read the nuances between my lines, these words become hollow in absence. Forgive me, for I prefer abandonment to remissness; both tormentous but even if I'm forgotten, I'd rather I was once a worthy encounter.

[seaside-at-11pm]

Your slender hands are the only place I feel home at when I see myself too big of a burden.

[seaside-at-11pm]

How is it that when I think about you, I feel your fingertips first before I picture you?

[seaside-at-11pm]

Through poetry I've talked about more hearts and love than I've ever seen. I've burgeoned the humanity in people and drew bloodlines as I drank my own. My poetry has outgrown me, the fragility I encased became a strength, the words on paper were more than I could ever say. Now, my poetry has a heart, pumping blood of its own spilling onto sheets - my voice that remains stuck in my body has become a pen that stitches bind pages, books, and open wounds. Together, we're bound by my pain and its strength. Now, we love in one language.

[seaside-at-11pm]

The beginning of healing is a feeling that is akin to absence. At the heart of it, is realizing that there are wounds you haven't yet opened yourself up to because you're waiting for something to scoop in and save you. The start to that cold, lonely journey is going in to save yourself.

[seaside-at-11pm]

My mind is stuck in between a 6 year old's wall scribbles and an artist's canvas he wants to throw away but can't / I love like a child whose definition of it is anything chocolate, hugs or kisses / love to me is also you, a sketch I've drawn with my eyes closed and still cannot capture the art of it completely / I am afraid of abandonment though its no longer just the thought of being alone in the darkness or what hides under my bed / My mind gets scary sometimes, so I made a room for you in my mind / Staring away into space, I lock myself inside with you, a figment of my imagination / Art or poetry or anxiety? / The answer is somewhere in between those messy scribbles and terrible color palette mixes / The one thing I cannot love is this.

[seaside-at-11pm]

There is poison and poetry. I bleed on paper while I ache. The horizon is too far beyond my reach. The thin line that separates the sky and the waters become blurry, light plunges into darkness.

Fall into my irises, depths of obscurity and blunted swords. Vines spiral over daggers, there is conquest hidden in that jungle.

Is pain in the dark or is it red? My body has succumbed to stillness, lightning crashes into tidal waves. Chaos is in a sudden flash and no more.

Unblinking, I stare at the velvet blue curtains; even as I'm dying, my breath falters over paper. Suffering blotches paper like a stain, kisses on tissues. In the end, there is only scarlet.