like a tear

one.

i was once told i have a thousand faces

so i try to have a million personalities

in order to distract them

from noticing

the one permanent feeling i can never change;

the one lump of frozen emotion at the pit of my heart

weighing me down and

painfullyslowly

digging open a hole i once

managed to heal with

ice and solidity.

it is an uncanny feeling

at the tip of my stare

as they walk past me hand in hand

like a monochromatic thought. Without

a care in the world, their happiness

drowned me

with questions as to

why

i never could keep the life of such smiles

in between our hands,

before, when i had all the care

in the universe

to try.

two.

i am aware of a self-wounded tangle

i dwell between

but it is a comfortably

numbing realization

that no one else but i

can create such an extent of pain

to myself, now.

i am my own freedom

i am my own cage

there are sleepless nights

etched beneath my eyelids and

torture streaked across the way i

stare at spots for too long

every other ten seconds.

three.

i conjure with every blink of my eye

an artwork of pain

and it becomes more vivid

and much more tasteless

with every exhausted breath:

faded memories of a face familiar

who once stuffed so much into her heart

she forgot how to exert

the glow on her cheeks and sparkles from

her pupils that would

trickle down from

the deepest feeling within her

like a tear.

photographic smiles

i stop in the center of catastrophe

breathing in the stench of failure

capturing in the palm of my hand

the halt of a future

i once saw so clearly

but now cannot find.

there are a million shards of glass

reflecting my torn

rippedandslashed state of

being

and i cannot hold on to the passing of time

the passing of life

a proportion of stashed away

soul

shouts for my recognition but

i cannot hear what can perfect

a long ruined situation

i call myself

it is not easy picking up the pieces

that taste like smithereens and look like

nothing.

my mind is dead

and it is not for long

before i blind myself with

a colourless truth

that perhaps i am not as great

as i hoped to be

because greatness became

non-existent ever since the day i

picked up a razor blade

and smiled at it.

it is a cruel world

with no place for me.

welcome home

i cannot deal with the numerous repetitions

of me breaking down and

always having somebody

pull me out before i could

taste the full plunge into depression.

selfish

gross

ungrateful

i could find a thousand adjectives to

suit me.

it is a sick mind i own

one of black paint and

gruesome stories of

a dying soul named after me.

crashing through a world of coincidences and

timing

i found a world where everything i do

affects more than just pain

and ruin;

a direction i cannot stray from.

i miss touching the bottom -

at least i was certain of my situation, then

a comfortable relief of

tasting the dirt of the dark on every

internal scab i owned.

the repeated nights of

wishing for the moment when i was

sprawled across the floor

tasting the end

kills

but i prefer keeping the routine to myself

because pity is not the best gift

they give

and i hate those eyes that watch me

knowing me more

than i know myself.

there are many ways i can

escape all this

but none are possible without me

knowing where i stand;

without the certainty of place

how will i know where to move from?

the seventeens

There is the hollow taste at the back of my tongue

centered with bitterness

the taste of cigarettes and a long gone pain

revisiting like the after-

taste of pepsi

minus the sweetness/add the tendency to

dry up the length of your throat like

a gasp of fresh anger.

It is a song I can't erase from

because the lines are punched in like

memories of a story I tried to end

but ran out of strength to

along the way so I

let it be with a trail of ink and

torn out pages of a once favourite chapter,

things I pray will fade

things I know will never

fade, eventually.

And I taste the chill of

a restrained tear on the

graze of my cheek

like the finality of what I have once again become.

Weak.

no blankets

the plaster on her index finger

is a clasp of smoke

a familiar scent of

settling calmness;

an aftermath of an aftermath

when pain no longer feels like pain

but a habitual routine

of sleeping without blankets

because they no longer hold protection.

there are pieces of leftover thread

from attempts to

sew herself whole

a 1000 bruises beneath her spine

the cause and effect of

straightening herself out.

the flamboyant scars etched like artwork

but she feels bland like paper

but bland is better

for one night of nothing is heaven

considering the other 364 waking nightmares

she now knows by heart

and can tell you how many times

she will scream the following night

muted.muted.

an explosive mind.

there are pieces of leftover thread

from attempts to

sew herself whole

but the neat lines of

her self-perfection

are nowhere insight.

a slit in the mask

there are days when i want to

eat my guts;

days when i need to regurgitate

but the words take too much

to push through my throat

so they stop midway and

ruin my appetite.

it is terrifying when the feelings

remain frozen at the

wrench of my heart

despite the number of times

i change my hairstyle

or scene

or friends

or way of living

like a permanence i try to rub off

until it becomes an obvious scar

i try to hide

with bracelets

tattoos;

layers

and layers

and layers

of cover.

an end

the unhealthy hollowness under my throat

absorbs every dry breath I take

searching for a taste that is not there;

I have run out of substance

and ink-

hmm.

every intake is stale

the aftermath of yesterdreams

that leave me swallowing

and biting hard on nothing.

pain.

like a fingernail ripped apart

too close to the skin

raw like an ugly, unholy, filthy truth

i-

I miss writing about nothing

and everything

forgetting how it started

making up how it ends

as I tumble along

because things that don't exist

(yet)

are the best to alter,

like life before it went

terribly wrong.

like a beginning.