Tears as ink
Memories as papers
Blood as the pen that describes our ailments
All poets cry
Is what I think
All poets cry
To have something to write
Nevertheless, the don't do it out of smite
Only a means to comprehend their fragile minds.

You were my child,
my priority,
my responsibility,
my spouse,
my delightful melancholy,
my breathtaking Christmas,
during moments of despair.
What perfect misfortune
would bring about
the same terrifying nights next to you.
I missed you.

My lord,
I decay,
Then I flourish,
I collapse,
Then I sprout out,
Wounds,
Chasms,
split open,
Rupturing,
Overexposing The virtuousness,
Ripping it out of my flesh.
I am in agony,
but I love you.

it’s been a while
since I wrote something—
something to name
the numbness in me.

I haven’t gotten better,
but I haven’t gotten worse.
days blend into each other,
work blurs into static,
time marches on.

I don’t feel a thing—
or maybe
I feel everything.

a numb little mouse,
trapped in my room,
I wake up fine,
then spend the day
trying not to fall apart.

a text from a friend—
and I smile,
like maybe the day
won’t drown me after all.

but then night comes.
I stare at the moon
and wonder:

what is this feeling
boiling inside me?

emotions—so fragile,
spinning like yin and yang
but blurred,
lost.

and still, I wonder:
why is it
so empty
inside?

Here I go,
once again—
cigarette smoke,
empty page.

Romanticizing pain,
self-destructing on my own.

“Your words are so pretty.”
“Thanks—they’re a cry for help,
you know?”