“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
-Pablo Neruda

not in love, not in like, not in infatuation. just waiting for the same feeling Neruda had.

people who have the gift of sight are thankful for it, but are not kneeling down on ****** knees thanking God for such a beautiful gift of sight
if there was a way that i could thank God enough for sight, i want to know what it is.
i am beginning to appreciate all my senses but especially sight throughout these past three months
you may question what has happened
what did i see
what did i sense
what did i perceive
and i will tell you
but words cannot fully confess the magnitude
of beauty and love that i have discovered
when we sit down to think, we remember that the adjectives and words we use for emotions were created thousands of years ago and used to generalize feelings, and if i say i'm in love, you will never know what that means, because all humans love differently.
but i believe i have discovered my definitions of love and beauty, and they all pertain to you.
i never thought i would use the word beautiful to describe a boy, but that was the only way i could describe you, no other word matches up to what i think when i see you.
my eyes cannot drift away from the beauty of who you are, and while sitting there with movies on the screen i can't focus on because you're next to me, every moment i look at you i think to myself, i have found beauty.
i always questioned myself to what beauty was, what could beauty be defined as, where beauty can and cannot be found
and looking at you i am reminded of what it is
because you are pure raw beauty
a human who inside and outside is natural and real
who is effortlessly pretty, in every angle, emotion, or light.

i remember the feeling of weightlessness.
i wonder if you're up there experiencing it too,
suspended into clouds and hanging gardens,
veiled in beauty beyond my understanding.
there are moments when the weight of my heart knocks everything down in sight. when the lids of my eyes feel so heavy, when the words my mouth can form are not enough, when these keys are the only thing my fingers yearn to touch.
i miss you even though you never existed, and my eyes create rivers i wish i could teach you how to swim in,
to watch you grow into another piece of the fractions i am built upon.

she was the most draining thing i have ever known
arms made of paved streets, no potholes, no stories,
identical freckles aligned across her face
similar to zero-lot-line houses

clothed in green,brown,grey, no city billboard neon,
her breath was humid, her body radiated warmth,
her eyes resembled those photographs of the sea
her skin tan, rough, dry, grainy like beach sand

she would never leave, a tight grasp around your neck is what she felt like, her constant security of what will happen next, where we will go soon, like a body guard who told you that you could only go to two or three places. those who had the strange desire to be with her were lured by her blue eyes, the tan skin, and her constant "i'll be there for you"

she whispered ideas of smashing the window and running away,
or drowning in the bathtub
my first dictionary vocabulary oozing out of her glossy gossiping lips,
words of a braggart, spewing, spitting, sputtering on how beautiful, advanced, polished and intelligent she was,
when in reality all she was, was ***, drugs, blood, cuts, aluminum cans of alcohol, and suicide.

i could lay awake trying to solve expressions, equations, puzzles and mazes
as to why things never worked out between us,
between a whole list of people i had become temporarily mesmerized with,
a short infatuation in which my mind convinces itself that these people have no fault, that their actions are pure, that they mean what they say, that they yearned for consistency.  
the incandescence of the person they portrayed in my head dies out, and soon enough they turn into a silhouette i brush by, a figure i used to know, someone who knows the bits of me i could give away, a little bit of my light fading away with them.

my mind soothes the trembling thoughts,
and reminds itself that these people were not for me,
we did not speak the same language,
we did not sing the same song,
their fingers did not trace over keyboards lovingly,
the sides of their hands were not smeared with ink,
their bedside tables did not hold journals that housed pages lined with emotion,
they did not yearn to caress they keys of a typewriter to create a sonnet to soothe the soul
their thoughts simply superficial,
sentences with no structure,
a pathway toward something strictly physical,
not enough to feed my hunger for words.

It always happened around two am, with the illumination of the moonlight seeping through the cracks of the blinds that could seemingly cover the sunlight but never the moonlight. The feeling of wanting to stitch tears back together. Tears falling, his sleepy voice questioning motives for crying. My reply, always “I don’t know.” It was everything all at once. A flipbook exposing every possibility of problem or memory, every significant, stitch able event. It was reality staining the once blank muslin pages with black ink, seeping into the fibers. Fantasy kicking, screaming, denying, tearing pages into pieces that would take eternities to sew.

Summertime last year
I remember nothing but rain
nothing but tears
nothing but shame

headaches
long winded text messages
and tantrums of pain

I learned that out of every terrible situation
comes that silver lining
that the wise folks talked about

poetry came flowing into my veins
my words began to create something
that was definitely better than what I could ever say

poetry began writing about heartbreak and suffering
those cliche poems of being angered with that one boy
the basic writes of "drowning" and "falling"

but poetry nursed my pain
poetry opened my eyes
cracked open my brain

into another world,
another way of thinking
into something i enjoyed at every hour of every day

I began to feel free
unconfined and confident
talented and useful

soon flowers bloomed
the rain cleared up
the clouds moved out

I began to write about the beauty in life
the beauty all around
the things people miss
the metaphors people never realized

poetry and poets have nurtured my brain
your beauty radiates throughout the world and my life
and shines through me everyday.

I could not take it any longer,
all i wanted was sleep, but that would be unhealthy
to sleep with all these thoughts, worries, anger, and sadness bottled up inside,
i don't know what to do anymore.
they always told me to stand up for myself,
to say something if i dislike whats going on,
to do what makes me happy.

its more like
stand up for God and religion and honesty
say something if its against christian morals or is ******
and of course, do what makes you all happy.

it makes me wonder how often you realize your contradictions,
your irrationality,
your irony,
and the fact that you don't even make sense at all.

so now,
do i chose what pleases you?
i'm stuck in a chasm,
and there is a ladder made out of mazes on the way out
my patience for mazes is not enough
i do not wish to stay

one hundred and ninety two hours
one hundred and ninety two hours where all i wanted to do was sleep
because in those moments,
you never existed in my dreams
you were not there to make my knees knock into each other
or my anxiety to pulse higher and higher
or worry of you becoming a screeching tea kettle over the phone
but also to make me feel like the butterfly that just opened her cocoon
and the little girl hugging her prized stuffed animal
or the core of your world

one hundred and ninety two hours
every single hour thinking about when is the next time
i can see emptiness
you're all around
and you still remain in my skin.

they say you tend to create art in times of pain,
times of shame,
when you flick the light switch and forget the bulb has been dead and you can't reach high enough to change it.
when you call the one who runs laps around your mind, and those empty dial tones feel like the steady waiting in your life, wondering who, if anyone, will pick up the phone.
when you hold the pen up to the paper and forget the words to the emotions oozing out of your being, and paper was your last resort, in hopes someone would listen.
these moments tend to become reaccuring, repetitive, circulating though blood and marrow in my body, becoming a force made to stop time,
hoping I'll look back and understand why every puzzle piece is shaped the way it is, and I'll be the one picking up the phone

i'd like to tell myself it didn't hurt at all,
that nothing was sorrowful, and you were transparent,
i should've listened to the overpowering insecurities in my head,
who devour the moments of beauty i manage to collect,
the sound of your words became deafening and all i wanted was to hear the magnitude of your thoughts,
i stared at pictures of her and tried to figure out what made her more alluring, seeking reasons for me to be less compelling, questioned if there were pieces i was missing that you found in her,
i retraced steps and wrote out maps, built bridges and came crawling back,
i was lost and there you stood,
creating and collecting temporary bliss and falsehood.

i didn't need visuals to survive.
skin trembled in need of touch,
ears empty needing voids to be filled
it was hard to believe i'd set myself on fire for someone who consumed me,
but ashes piled up into a being made of fragments from previous fires and burnout relationships,
hardening into the chills that skimmed skin when i heard beautiful words directed towards me,
the way music transformed my soul, each different melody something so eclectic, the feeling of finding unlimited rhythms that moved my core,
initiating thoughts that each person was as unique as these songs, and i was endlessly discovering them like the harmonies ears fell in love with daily, individuals will come in through one ear and out the other, but some will synthesize and tremble my reality, and i will eternally seek the one who will stay like the song stuck inside my head, the one that rings in circles and plays perfectly behind every situation.

i told myself i would never take the time to write about one person in particular again.
i told myself that i would never write about one being again because it allowed them to become significant.
i wanted to be as cold and distant towards these people so i did not rely on anyone.
i wanted to convince myself that i didn't need specific people to make me feel confidence and joy,
that one person didn't matter more than the other,
because i knew people walked in and out, like passengers on elevator rides, some engaging in small talk, others exchanging gazes not knowing one day they'll be lovers, and others just side by side, staring at their feet, in hopes they won't have to interact and just arrive to the floor they pushed the button for.
i spoke these words to myself because i saw what i didn't want to become, i saw a wreck of emotions, a wild hurricane with a drink in her hand, a ***** tonic one night and a stella the next.
the way she lived was convincing herself she was put together, living for herself, and nobody else, but in reality she clung onto people, hoping they would go along her windy journey,
and when the people with potential left, rain came out of her eyes, storms so heavy, tropical depressions at the steering wheel, car seat covered in tears, a cloud over her head for days, and drinks became medicine.
i was a spectator, sitting on sidelines, listening through walls, hearing storms at midnight, witnessing side effects from her self medication, and i clung onto these thoughts, telling myself i'd never be like her, remembering everything was an elevator ride, and no one was here to stay, and it's nothing personal when someone gets off at a different floor.

empecé a ver me en el espejo hace un ano
verdaderamente buscando y efectivamente encontrando
cosas que podía cambiar para que me quisieras más.
empezó con mi cuerpo y siguió a lo diminuto, el número de pestanas que tenía y lo largo de mi cabello.
me acuerdo sentir que no era suficiente para ti
que tenía que rogarte por tu atención...poniéndome como las chicas que veías en tu celular o la que estaba en tu wallpaper del teléfono. un día sonaba ser ella. pero nunca fui...entonces me sigo viendo…tratando de encontrar que me falta para que tu corras detrás de mi
para que sienta que soy la única que quisieras mirar por la eternidad
para que sería fácil que me digas que me veo bonita….sin tener que preguntarte.
lloro por no ser suficiente, lloro porque sé que hubiera podido tener más de ti…sé que no te esforzaste, lloro por el miedo que sientas lo que sentiste por mí con alguien más, lloro por imaginarme como se verá ella cuando sea que aparezca, lloro por saber que tus ojos nunca fueron ni serán totalmente para mí

consumed by the thought of love, the way i used to think of it, what i used to think it was, the blind spots that came along as side effects.
the touch, the way eyes met in a different way
i was so afraid to write about love, feeling weak in the knees, the way it provoked me,
the way i melted into it, how i became a puddle in the midst of such a powerful emotion.
a connection i pushed away, biting away and itching my skin,
i wanted to feel good on my own, to feel the greatest peace on my own, to rise in love with my own life instead of falling for another, to ascend and never descend.
the pool of vulnerability, something so hypnotizing, the shade of blue it portrayed, yet the aftertaste of blood in my mouth, from the times i bite my tongue to not say those three words. to not use that four letter word.

My parents still ask about you
And I roll my eyes
And pretend I never think about you

but every time it rains
you reappear in my mind
It brings me back to the day you left

When the clouds cried along
And the sky turned pale as my skin
On the fridgid June day

I don't know how to feel
angry or sad
and I'm still as confused as I was back then

i told myself i would not stain these pages with words about somebody else again
leafing through old writing reminds me of the countless people that have provoked feelings,
that make my mind string together words that become stanzas as long as the time i spent thinking about their being,
pages i wish i would find in journals of others, printed with letters dedicated to my name,
a way to bandage cracks that have insecurities leaking through,
an oasis of words to caress my soul in the middle of this desert,
and i continue to write about those who will be temporary,
those who will never feel the same,
those who will never fall as hard,
those who i look at through the rose colored glass,
those whose faces i seek in a crowded room,
those whose eyes meet mine and my heart meets its peak,
those who i will never get the courage to tell how i feel,
those who will become another chapter to read,
those whose beauty will live on between the ink and the lines, between crossing my t's and dotting my i's,
forever captivated in a wave of infatuation, kissing the shoreline of their essence.

Ants on my windowsill
Electric vibrations of music playing
Sounds of motors outside
The feel of blood flowing through my legs

I feel everything more beautifully
It's only been less than a week
But flowers have started growing in dark places
And all that I can think about is you you you

giving myself away was the worst pain i have ever gone through.
i remember being caught in a web of words, trusting everything you spoke was true. staying up when my eyes begged me to shut them, to comfort you. giving away time like it was never mine in fear you'd be angry it wasn't spent on you. you knew i was naive, innocent, inexperienced. you told me i believed life was a fairy-tale, that i trusted everyone too easily, and that you never trusted anyone but yourself. you knew i gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, believing everyone was innately good. you heard my aspirations, and when i met them, you kept a straight face and discouraged my excitement because it would mean distance between us.
you got me my favorite things. things i always wanted, but you held no interest in. a record player, to play music you never allowed in your car. a polaroid...which later seemed for only pictures of you and i. i will always be appreciative of the thoughtfulness, but i believed these items did not buy me. they seemed to be there as a reminder, for all the "things" you've gotten me. as to say the items were a trade, and you expected me, entirely, swallowed up into your world in return.
i remember crying after a year a half. i had gone through the greatest physical and emotional pain simultaneously. my first surgery and my greatest betrayal. i'm pretty sure the neighbors heard. food didn't enter my system in a week. there was so much manipulation and mind games racked up from you, and to this day i learn more and more that your love for me was far from perfect like you claimed it to be. you put me on a pedestal and tore me down every time i stepped down from it. but you never even came close to what you held yourself up as. i lost myself. it was a difficult and confusing way back.
you crawled to me a couple times later.
giving myself away is something i will never do again. i have never felt a feeling of vulnerability or intimacy with anyone because of you. i built up a wall so high, being afraid that the world is just like you. i never want to find another you. so i wrap myself in me. hoping i'll be enough for now.

i used to get flowers every month. they sat at my table and withered away but at least they made me feel something. it's been almost two years since dead petals grazed the table. i stare at an empty vase and wonder if i am capable of being loved. the way i love you. i feel so heavily but you are not there to balance it out. there are empty words and looks that mean nothing. i haven't seen love in your eyes in months. you may think its an over exaggeration but i've seen it many times in others. so instead i feel heavy. every tear swallowed like the two ton weight that anchors confidence. instead of feeling empowered and independent i feel belittled. not worthy of admiration, looking in the mirror, bending and ******* in pieces of me i wished were different so i could be more for you. the absence of your words i searched for was deafening. i became immune to others compliments because if it did not roll from your tongue it did not matter. i told you everything about me, undressed my stories and untucked my fears. but you are still buried, clothed, a wall and a guard between your soul and mine. at times you still felt like a stranger.
a stranger i love very much.

the hands of emotion were able to eat away at my heart
the eyes of longing were able to scare away the ones fearful of commitment
the tongue spoke languages of affection that drove away the ones who enjoyed the cold
so i stood alone,
creating my own warmth
with hands to myself, eyes closed, tongue on paper.

you walked in and I realized the purpose of every frustration I faced over a failed relationship and people who faded away,
And even if you might not live onward in my life I'm thankful for the tiny moments that carried heavy weight to bring light into my eyes and remind my being that there were still people that felt like fresh breaths of air even after one single person took your breath away.

the same people that planted flowers in my garden were the ones who were leaving me in drought,
digging holes and dropping seeds, leaving open insecurities, never coming back to tend or water,
forgetting about the beauty that could've grown

the same people that had made me feel happy and significant were the ones that tended scorching sunshine that created questioning and dispair weeks later.

empty promises and unfulfilled plans,
faded memories, withered people
and dead flowers

i remember the way you fell asleep.
the pattern of your breaths would turn into my peace

i wanted to feel submerged.
the feeling underwater when you hear nothing but its song.
when your eyes are closed but you know exactly whats around you.
the serenity of water coating every beginning and ending of me.
at that moment all i could think of was breathing.

you think you’re in love and this is the one and this is it. you may be right, but before you move heaven and earth and split the sea down the middle to make it work, take their hand in yours, turn the lights off, turn your computers and phones and the tv off. shut yourself off from the world. is this someone you can sit with in the darkness? is this someone you can sit with in silence? is this someone you can spend hours doing nothing else but counting the distance between lightning and thunder? because life is more than a forever of picture perfect moments - it’s darkness, and silence and interludes in which you hold your breath. forever should not feel like forever, it should feel like no time at all; it should feel like a blink of an eye; an interlude between the lightning strike and a thunder.
-marina v.

like a turntable,
your voice spins like a vinyl inside my head,
the vibrations of your laugh echo a melody,
my smile becomes a reflection of yours
i'd wish to paint you the way my eyes envision you,
you'd admire such an art in the midst of not knowing the muse.

the words could never come out of my mouth,
and as much as i have written them over pages, and laid them down millions of times, my mouth cannot seem to utter anything close to what i think of you. hands cannot seem to reach for what i've always wanted, you became something made of glass, something i only admired from a distance, glistening. fingers could not fan out, i could never seem to risk seeing reality, fearing to fall out of this dream. the nervousness of failing on something my mind has daydreamed about for ages. the silence that was projected, caused by a mind of flying thoughts, of whether i'd regret doing nothing more than regretting making a move. i lived in fear for every wrong move i could ever make, trying to solve the mystery of what your mind really thought of me and why there were moments you disappeared. i tried to search myself to see if pieces of me were wrong, if maybe there were components i was lacking, if being beautiful like the girls with the glassy eyes and structured faces would've given me an advantage.
my mouth became a cage for the words i'd never say to you, and my hands will lock, eyes scared to fix themselves upon you and create more feelings that will be jammed into lumps in my throat.

bottles sprawled, linen sheets, old mascara, crumbs and leaves
i lived in a mess.
every week came a time where it drove me to places my head couldn't hold onto,
but every time i tried to fix things all i could do was sit frozen,
hands fidgeting, eyes locked, legs tingling, mind on overdrive.
the hollow feeling inside desperately looked for people like you,
knowing i didn't need to be completed, rather, complimented.
no prescription worked better than you, someone that made me feel so at peace with my life, whom i could sit in sand in silence, and feel so full,
a new breath of life into lungs that have been struggling to cycle old air.
made me feel brand new in three days, spoke words that made me work my brain, made my stomach feel like a maze, made my body feel like treasure, made goodbyes something i'll hate forever, knowing miles were the murderer of these lungs,
back to choking on old air and silent tongues.

once you're gone people will remember things they were blinded to before, but one thing will resonate, like sound waves that never fade. its how you made them feel. what you stirred inside of them. what you provoked that not every individual could. i'll wish my remembrance to be echoes of laughter and vibrant emotion, thunder full of passion, an outlook resembling fresh air. a melody full of rhythm and soul, i wish to fill lungs with winds of tenderness and mouths with sweet gooey nectar. ears with flowers blooming so rapidly they become hanging gardens. eyes fixed on the one above. a new perspective, heights i'll forever wish to show you.

there are poets that sing you to sleep and there are poets who ready you for war and i want to be both.

i had tried to turn to ash every trace of you,
every trace of anyone that made me feel less,
any person that made me feel like a crumb out of the bites they had taken from life,

i ended with a pile of ashes and dead flowers,
purple marks, slices they had taken from my being,
an empty call log and bible verse text messages from my mother,
someone else's t-shirt in my drawer,
and a hoodie and jersey in a packing envelope under my bed.

i had to constantly remind myself of the way we all lived our own lives, and we each had our own veins and arteries, and we couldn't share everything like him and i did.
there were things that we all shared, like the same stars and the same sun, which we could admire when we were apart from each other,
but we couldn't give into sharing blood and heartstrings, sharing the power to control each others emotions, sharing seconds that turned to hours that continued onto months.
we had created an unhealthy system of burning each other out, we claimed each other as I'm yours, and you're mine, to the point that we looked back and were raveled into knots.  
i had to recall what i was before the entanglement, and scurry back to pick up pieces of myself i had left behind to be with you,
and now i rebuild myself everyday, telling myself no one completes me, we never needed each other, and i myself am whole, with no missing pieces.

they say you become like the five people you are around the most.
i was constantly scared of finding undesirable pieces of me that were originally from someone else, their constant presence creating opportunities to create a magnetization between bodies, intertwining energies to create a few sparks, either benign or destructive.

the reason why my mind spent so many years on you was because of the admiration i held up to the way your mind appeared to function. the way you carried yourself, and the perseverance and joy for life you captured within. the knowledge you perused and the curiosity that fueled your interest in the beauty of cultures. the passion you cradled in the smile that spread across your face when you talked about something  you are passionate about. your qualities were pieces i would be delighted to find in myself, if our energies were to dissolve into each other, i would not be quick to separate myself like i have done with others. i did not want to romanticize you, and at this point there was nothing superficial about this infatuation, i did not want to write Shakespearean sonnets over your flesh, i wanted your soul to be the influence and muse to write like pablo neruda and paint like pablo picasso.

love held a different definition in the tongue of each individual,
how did we fully understand when the word came out of a persons lips, often being spewed and overused,
a verb, a noun, and common phrase held commonplace to their language.
to love an object, to love a place, to love something that cannot be seen, to love a breathing being.
a rite of passage, a word used for manipulation, to make way onto physical touch, an Eros type of love, as shallow as the feelings that come along with the word,
my mind created puzzles and algebraic expressions, trying to decipher the meaning of each individuals use of the word "love", if it was fools gold or simply overused, if it created a set of expectations that came along with duties, to become a possession instead of a partner, to be completed, rather than just complimented. actions never seemed to match the weight of love.
in a world where love held a different connotation in every culture,
i wanted to love freely, i wanted love to be a word that was part of a language we saved for each other, where i could see who you are today, and could not wait to see who you are tomorrow.

I wish I would have spoken.

everyone was so into into everyone,
but the apathy towards each other outside the screen said otherwise

so i guess everyone was so into seeing everyone fall?
yes, that's it.
everyone wanted to see that the rest of the population had faults,
sometimes worse than their own, so they can be convinced that there is someone out there as bad as themselves

some simply yearned to get a taste of what those peoples lives were,
what secrets they held,
what things they've done

and here i too was pleading guilty,
but pride, or strength, or maybe morals
were weighing me down.
i did not need, but i so wanted.
the temptation of the dog-eat-dog world seeped into every one of our veins.

I am a tree.
a tree goes through season of blooming
(and seasons of death where leaves fall off from sadness)
a tree is deeply rooted and steady
but winds can sway its branches.
and tree has delicate flowers that are frail
and need to be taken care of
a tree stands there and doesn't scream for attention.
people often don't appreciate the beauty of trees
but some special people that don't come around often
appreciate the tree and its flowers, its dying leaves, and imperfections

most of all a tree isn't perfect

i could write till my fingers locked up and i'd still never make sense of this feeling

it was getting harder to find the light

i used to write about people that provoked me to feel a specific way,
no matter if that feeling lasted a week, a day or a year.
there were people i'd see in waiting rooms in doctors offices that ignited pages of words i had never unveiled.
i don't know if it is part of becoming older, this feeling of nothingness. losing hope in the spark of others, realizing they all are figments of what we hope for them to be, an embodiment made of illusions.
blowing out candles yearly has dimmed the lights,
the loss of wonder for the ones around me and the ones i have not yet found diminishes.
wondering if what i dreamed of is even alive, if all i ever wanted was drowning every second i got older.
love used to feel like the pain in your face from when you've smiled too much. now it feels like a home with no furniture, full of echoes.
i hear lyrics written out, about these girls who mean so much, who make a man seem vulnerable for the one he loves. saying if life was a movie, she'd be the best part. and i doubt myself, wondering if i don't possess what it takes to make someone feel this way. if i'm lukewarm and halfhearted, if i would ever experience a love that would change a person's heart. if someone could feel as sublime as i did, a grand optimist bursting with wonder, instead of the bitter realist i am becoming.
coming of age is not something i asked for.

we untie the strings of our hearts in hopes we'll learn to tie each others tighter,
yet we end up in knots,
knowing each month will tie a little tighter,
thinking it will make us strong,
but before we know it we forgot what its like to be strong on our own,
and we are forced to unravel our knots,
but our strings have become tired, crimped and frayed,
and here i am splitting, into smaller pieces of what i was before

i remember the nights i prayed for things i have now.
each time my eyes open in the morning to see the sunlight kissing the blinds, i know its a step closer to whatever is held in the ink stained pages of my story.
i tell myself i would rather focus on falling in love with my life than falling in love with a person,
that love was a word so overused for one another,
that i was not searching for my other half because i'm not a half.
but i know one part of me yearned to be cherished,
and knew falling in love with the journey included falling for people that made you feel risen.
people that make it known that my presence and absence means something to them,
individuals that make me forget yesterday and dream about tomorrow,
a person who will forget about checking the time when i'm around,
grace and mercy reflected off god,
because i belong to a patient god.
not to a hurry up and fix yourself god,
but a be still and let me heal you god.
not a why do you keep doing this god,
but a god who gives me the keys to break the cycle.
god is patient, and he is pleased to take his time with me.

someone who will be so soft and gentle toward my loud heart,
i'll be glad i kept it open,
and they'll even make me wonder why i ever thought of quieting it down.
a person who will see me, not who they wish me to be,
not the version of myself that makes them the most comfortable, not the one that is the most convenient to them,
but the genuine book without bindings, without edits, without covers.

somebody who could think about seven billion people experiencing this day differently, but would never want to trade places with anyone else after living a day by my side,
someone who i can turn to and truthfully tell them "out of all the things my hands have held the best by far is you"
a person that will tell me everything, not just talk about the weather,
someone who will make me their muse, pages smeared with words directed toward me
someone who i can write to at the end of a lifetime and mark the paper up saying
"i fell in love with the way you touched me without using your hands",
and i know that there are all kinds of love in the world but there is never the same love twice,
and i will be sure that ours is my favorite kind.

and when we meet, where can I find the words to tell you that this couldn't be a one time thing,
because my body could no longer accept fragments and blinks,
peices of emotions, chunks of hearts, files of information,
because I wanted to find a symphony, not just a few notes to create vibrations,
wanted your fingers to become magnetized to me; and mix up something other than butterflies

so i breathe freely again,
slipping back into my old flesh,
discovering the places of myself i had missed.

i had been finding it hard to let myself sleep.
my body has asked for it, eyelids turning heavy and letters becoming blurry, a mind slowly melting into a liquefied puddle of what i was feeling, trying to describe what i was experiencing inside constantly.

i remember when we did not sleep all night, we stared at each other and only blinked to shut our eyes to listen to a song better. you spilled words of admiration, knew how to unravel my strings and convinced me that i was beautiful. you told me you could've treated me better than exhibit a and b. our voices continued until sun mingled between the blinds, but for me that was the least of my worries, because that was a conversation worth sleep deprivation. you pleaded for me to leave the person who was not treating me right, and a couple weeks later you turned out the same.

i remember exhibit a. he also kept me awake, we stayed on the phone every night until the patterns of our breaths were peacefully asleep, and i heard him rustling around in sheets, our dreams intertwining into a life he chased with me. he tried to wrap me around his finger, and had a ring to prove it, and i guess mom was right when she said "everything happens for a reason" because it was lost one morning in new york. many hours of delayed sleep developed into the "love is blind" syndrome, and i lost myself in a cloud of fog which was your grasp. at one point you returned the ring and i keep it, dreaming of a coming of age moment where i throw into the ocean, to be calcified with meaningless treasure.

i sleep with half shut eyes, wanting to expel the memories, rewind a tape and push everyone away, grab sheets and bury my head inside, hoping these clicks on keys can sing me to sleep.

he told me to do what i did best, to stain pages with ink, to give chances to my words, to write as if i had never ceased to write for a year, after my creativity burst because i was enveloped in a world of warmth and his skin.
the only art i created was in chaos and newfound feelings of love, art was only there when i began with infatuations, and when the blinds were shut to block out the light of love.
i wouldn't know when was the next time i could spew out words, forming sentences that rolled off fingers and into my tongue, sending shivers of emotion down the spine i bend forward in times of burning fires, flames from peoples mouths sending your head into sparks and melting my being. trying to shield myself from the ashes of others, sticking onto my skin, clinging on. ashes of rumors and past words, ashes of mistrust and judgement, ashes of the thoughts people had when the saw me for the first time.
there was one thing that stopped the pain that caused writing to happen, and it was consistency with you.

the holes in me felt gaping like the darkness that i laid in, an indistinguishable black that could swallow everything around into nothingness.
and there i was, so afraid to feel again, remembering how "i love you" felt like a rush of blood to the head, and you used these feelings to pry holes into my being.
and here i lay trying to sew myself up, with no thimbles nor light, and i continue to poke myself and bleed