learning to breathe

they tell me the same things.

first it was the boy who never learnt to love
then it was my mother and third
was the look in my father's eyes when he realised
everything was wrong.

i know what it feels like to
wear the same clothes and forget the days of the week
dressed in my contorted rib and layers of fresh skin
where cigarette buds and pain once sought ground 
like friction.
i get uncomfortably warm
and sick in the gut
when i remember this
for i remember everything else,
like the seconds it took before his eyes went blank
and the hate from his words hit my skin,
the nights spent under my table with the lights turned off,
like the way everybody tried to remind me
i was not alone and eventually
it worked.

i will remember what day it is
and how long i have felt like
nothing, and i will remember my mask,
which i left on a pile of better-looking clothes
and light conversation.

i resent the smear of a smile that creeps up
when i digest the irony of them telling me 
she should get some help,
so ignorant to how i need it
just as much.

and i feel hate for them,
them who think they can understand what it is like 
to be broken.

i am transfixed by my own mood swings
and wonder what a constant emotion feels like
without the sudden urge to push inwards and
destruct from within.

they tell me the same things

first it was the boy who thought it was alright to hurt a girl
then it was my mother holding my head up
asking why i wanted to die
third was the look in my father's eyes
over my drained and wasted body

first it was the boy who continued to hurt the girl
who wanted to die
then it was my mother on the other side of the bedroom door
hiding knives from my view and screaming at a depression
she knew so well
third was my father giving me pills i never took
and pinning me down in a room as i screamed at his
yearn to understand my pain.

they tell me the same things
like they know better than
what it is like to piece your own pieces together.

first it is the boy who deserves hell,
then it is my mother wishing her years away,
the third is my father wishing me well.

the fourth came in good time,
searching for the love i was capable of giving. the fourth
shelters my pain from a world too big for me
and taught me my own strengths. the fourth is a boy who 
knew what it was like to be broken
and respected the importance to think
different as he told me the same things. 
the fourth is a boy who understands
the only way i can get through the hate and hurt
that aches inside me is to love. the fourth changes my mind
and wishes my depression away
in ways he is not used to
because he knows i do not deserve it.

i know what it feels like to watch disasters from afar
and up close,
i have done it for years, 
from the day i understood the pain in my mother's eyes
and the comfort in understanding something i will grow to inherit.

if i remember the motions through it all clearly,
i promise i will turn out alright.

the hatch is open

i dress up in yesterday's clothes
and feel the weight of the pain i left on my sleeves
the bane of my mind on the loose strands clawing on my skin.
i am tired, in body and mind, my entire rattling being,
hearing whispers that seep out from my sleep,
from the core of my thoughts when they are unshaken and still.
i do not respond to them
because something will break, otherwise.

i speak to my mother, putting her mind in place
to feel like i am still capable of healing broken souls.

i cough up my regrets and too many words said,
trying to retch out enough until there is
nothing more left in me to dispose of,
and begin from the outside in.

sometimes, you need to deconstruct matter
to allow creation,
and as i look out the peep of the window,
i find a world not meant for me
looking in
and decide that the only way to forfeit this pain,
is to forfeit this world,
collecting the leftovers of its leave,
to fit under my shoes.

only then, will i be able to lay new skin
over the wounds that are now
stark and open,
like the truths i never learnt to face
in my reflections.

no place for a tarrorist

sometimes the air will thicken and compress on my skin
locking me into a most shattering fear
by the emergency exit of a bus or a tram
the backseat of the taxi back to you
or walking around the corner
that a stranger will leave death for me 
to endure. i will remain restless and scared for 
the "i love you"s and "i'll see you soon"s 
i forgot to take with me that day.

i will think about death again
and remember the last conversation i had with him
whilst i lay on my mother's lap wishing it all away
as she prayed for all the love and protection in the world
to save a wretched child like me.

i will wonder if the world would've carried on
or slowed to catch a breath at my leave,
realising things will be as black as it is white,
for the lives i have touched,
for the lives i have not,
and the greys will seep into the lives i will touch with my journey on.

the trees will still grow to greet May,
the day will still remain grey,
in search for the sunlight it promises,
the nights will continue to steal
the warmth of our bedsheets and it will
leave you cold and shaken.

passer-bys will mourn the morning news
and forget it by evening for their own lives to lead,
friends and family will weep and soon find a time
and courage to share stories of a girl who they once shared life with.
they will lay their heads down to sleep a good sleep
but you will not be ready and feel the most
indescribable pain i would never hope for you to feel.

so i learn to watch my steps
and get angry when i trip on my mistakes
slowly grasping the importance of life and
and the permanence of impermanence
and the beauty of things that can be misplaced,
misconstrued, misheard, misjudged, misled.

many wept on the twenty-second of december last year
because they still saw dawn and felt cheated
but i woke up with an embrace of the sky
that shone on our three hundred and sixty-six days
we built from our own two hands.

death can be a friend
if you know he is a fickle one.

i haven't spoken to my mother in days
and this is wrong
as wrong as smoking five cigarettes too many 
before six in the evening.

i have forgotten myself
by a bus stop or under a streetlamp somewhere,
therefore i have forgotten my place,
waking up for thirty-six consecutive days from dreams
that make me dislike what i see when i see myself,
so i rely on your eyes and everything it touches on
when you look at me.

the rain is pouring again,
because my soul is weeping
for the strength it needs for the both of us.

for the strength it needs for the both of us.

alone with four years ago

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.

My most productive thought so far
was counting the seconds somebody will call for help
if a car ran me over.
And if nobody did
will you find me?

These thoughts are familiar, they have plagued my mind
many nights for a long time
until I met you, until I was given more to think about
instead of car crashes, of late night wanders, of escape.

But these thoughts scare me, they push me in
and make me weep like a child with scraped knees.

I cried for all the beautiful things
still trying so hard to shine a light on me
sitting in a corner where all is shadowed and refracted.
I cried for the moments
that make my heart skip a beat
and my insides erupt with ecstacy,
the moments I feel so strongly
every now and then
like the hint of sun in these ungrateful Manchester days.

My body is drained and metaphorically
out of proportion but I cannot sleep
because the sheets feel different this morning
and the walls are breathing down my bones
giving me shivers even the coldest night out
could not.

I cried for a day of
too many cigarettes and
too little food. Of nausea, of strain
of weakness.

The side effects all seem too familiar
and I feel them just from watching
the healing process of a genuine soul
slightly jaded and restrained
and I feel them so deeply
because I cannot contain my emotions in a box
even though at times like these, I should.

I learn to steer my thoughts for my own keeping.

I cried in greeting to the next six days of the week
steadily turning into a blur of selflessness,
of commitment and obligation, the next six days of
not enough hours to lie in bed
and wish for nothing
because even my days are now not my decisions to make.

The best of times are when I am in your arms
shaking my head at everything I feel now,
because we promise each other things always get better
and they do. Always.
But I cry today because you are not here
and things are not better
and no leaflets or photographs or cigarette buds
or mantras can shake my momentary loss of balance.

I weep for the happiness we bring to each other,
scribbled on crumpled paper and locked in glass bottles,
for the hurt that it all mistakingly latched itself upon.

I have to remember the ability to recycle these useless waste of feelings.
I have to remember the ways of an expert healer,
of closure and of resistance.
I have to remember how to withstand feeling sick and tired.
I am sick and tired.

So fucking tired.

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.
Four times for good reason, three times for
all the pain this world brings with life.

the days we never wait for

these are melancholic times,
wrapped in dried tears and torn laughter;
a sincere smile, a beautiful stagnancy,
like diamond drops on cracked windows 
after rain, heat rising from beneath earth,
the aftermath of a stretch broken,
lingering over like a constant hangover.

my mind, it ripples like stoned water,
musing on how perceptions shift with
waves of emotions, but never time. 
my eyes are tired, the blackouts blazing past
the shine of my light,
greying everything in sight.

a parquet soul, linear but easily scarred,
i sit in the centre of all that touches me,
a mural of my memories,
and i watch from afar,
when you touch me from the inside
because our happiness is sometimes worth
standing back for to admire;
i believe that much that it won't just
wilt and fade away.

this is the beautiful stagnancy resting on me
altered and obscure,
and i get scared sometimes,
like a sleeping child in reach of colourful dreams
because everything else is so
goddamn monochromatic.

i watch our struggles through the best of times
from afar, counting back fourhundredandthirtyseven days ago, now
fourhundredandthirtyseven days on, feeling as tested as the twelve cuts on my hands.

carry me with the strength left in you
for i cannot carry the weight of our entirety,
but i will carry yours, and set mine aside
for you, 
because i trust in you to believe, too.

this is an uneventful feeling,
what twenty eight days can do to us,
with a string of bad sleep, bad health, bad timing.
bad thoughts.

i can sometimes taste the fear
at the back of my mouth, dry and
uncouth, teaching me familiarities
of the fallen like a second-timer.

the things i gather start to ache
and stain the hoards of happiness
i bring in baggage, so tried and pushed to the limit.

the shadows in the day have begun to shadow me
like mirror image. i am sad,
mind as blank as the road i stare down,
forfeiting all thought, raging a war that is so
sickeningly and obviously self-inflicted.

i look into your eyes,
and see myself, worn out and stripped down,
knowing i will never see 
the better version like you do, because you 
make me feel stronger than i really am,
even through the harshest gush of unwelcoming friction.

these are melancholic times, like a mother's weep
and my shaking hands.

tell me,
will it only lift up from here?