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.
missed.

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.

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