(a tribute to C.S. Pacat)

on a bed
of white flowers,
etched on my wrist,
I wear it as a vow,
above the place
my pulse
tenderly blooms,
forgetting to lie.

her soft handwriting
is a reminder of a journey
I had once taken
between the lines,
forgiveness forming,
from lashes to petals,
on bruised pages.

I carry her with me,
their story, her essence,
kingdoms folding into skin,
her words marking
not only a change,
but a becoming —
the slow-burn
of identity
I can finally place.

beneath the frog’s soft belly
i found you —
not grand, not loud,
but cracked open
like a peach too ripe with truth.

the city spun on,
drunk on ruin bars and ghosts,
but we stayed low,
where quiet grows —
thick like moss —
and hearts speak
without permission.

i didn’t say it back:
i love you.
as though feeling was a crime.
but i regret it now.
baby, i’d serve
a thousand sentences
for something so divine.

your heart
didn’t pour —
it flooded.
and now mine —
is finally open,
mouth full of your name.

i’ll let the fog burn
bright above us,
and we’ll watch
from our underworld
of whispering soil —
wine-warm,
thinly worn,
relentlessly soft.

on the sun-soaked terrace,
with the stem
cold against my fingers,
I raise my glass to your laughter
and the wind tousling my hair.
we are gleaming golden,
fermenting a quiet kind
of sweetness.

your presence
slips past my guard,
softening the stains
of our past,
like sunlight
through old glass,
faintly blooming still.

you’re a risk to me,
to my sanity.
asking me to walk
barefoot through hell —
not to escape it,
but to understand.

i’ll happily drink to the fire,
to this dauntless
absurdity
building a shrine
in shades of dangerous red,
stirring the fallen ashes
our burnt-out flickers
once left.

she calls me by my name,
and i answer without words—
only an offering:
a silent prayer,
bare skin,
a breath held,
a promise kept sacred,
to worship her.

she calls,
and i answer with stillness.
like dusk slipping
into the night—
utterly, completely—
pulling me apart
under the tears
of moonlight.

she calls
even as i soak
in her waves,
as they kiss my collarbone,
make heaven blush
when i fall to my knees,
laced around her soul.

her intention to claim me
was there from the start.
written in her whispers
******* my thoughts.
she never asked
what broke me.
only reached with rippled hands
to take my weight,
press it into the riverbed
like something malevolent,
already forgiven.

the peasant girl
who once brought water
from the well
in cracked hands
has returned.
she didn’t mean to
leave her home behind —
it was just to escape
the silence between
what she needed
and would be never given.
she left with nothing
but a hunger for life,
so she started living,
and never apologised.

a ring of embers—
with my heart
gently dancing around it.
my face is flushed,
damp with tears,
as if they’ve started
boiling in the mist.
I miss you—
but you know that
already.

in my mind,
I’m still running
through the churchyard,
over stone paths,
stepping on yellowed leaves
that gave up weeks ago.
inside me:
homesickness, awe,
anger, grief—
a hundred hands,
all pulling.

you’re a morsel of bread,
bird-snatched, half-left—
carried home in my satchel,
like a labourer
at the day’s end.
you are what you say you are.
and more.
a frame around my soul
I can’t keep building.

I cannot call you mine.
I have a homeland.
you gave the exile shelter—
but she, the other,
birthed me, shields me,
and one day
will cover me with earth.
I cannot betray her.

for what you made
and left behind,
I owe you still.
I’ll bury your legacy
like treasure
in the quietest parts.
it’s mine to guard.

and maybe one day,
when time has vanished,
I can return to you—
shed a tear for us
on a rainy evening,
wipe you clean
like an old photograph,
and place you gently
back into
a quiet corner
of the past.

I find it unnerving,
hearing my voice out loud,
after being branded, growing up
the quiet one, who’s a bit too shy.
small talk is pointless.
the weather is the same—
too sunny, too windy,
everyone’s always
baffled by rain.

we exchange ‘y’alrights’
to seem polite
when no one really cares.
but where i come from,
we ask, dig deep,
we share.

talking is personal.
intimate and sacred.
we ask how your day’s been
with space designated
for your words.
we don’t pretend
sharing doesn’t hurt.

it does.
standing on a stage
fearing becoming
too repetitive, too boring,
running out of stories
to share.
i focus on the words in front,
not on the people who stare.

but it still wrecks me—
and my voice does tremble.
i’m not used to strangers
in moments so tender,
it fills me with dread.
but instead of rotting away,
i’m finding i shed.

i shed the heaviness from inside,
and beneath the words,
i’m fuelled by fire
outweighing the hurt
rubbed reeling.

i’m using it in lanterns
on my journey of healing—
however long it takes.
it is my becoming,
it’s never been a phase.

sometimes it gets dark,
but do witness every line,
observe every spark.
i’ll be here standing—
voice trembling or not.

the space in my mind
is occupied by your entity,
merging with mine.
you pose as a false god,
painting me the enemy –
demanding a sacrifice
each time I resist
your quiet reign.

I enabled it.
let you have your fun.
called it inspiration,
called it love.
called it anything
but what it was.
of all my failures,
you were the most toxic one.

I gave you everything –
piece by piece.
you’d cover my mouth
to silence the plea
whenever I sought shelter,
with hands, trembling,
still tied to a bottle
you call the cure.

you smother what’s left of me –
dressed in ebriety,
hiding the abuse.

and I need to say goodbye.
not because I want to.
but because I’ve had enough.
of you hurting me,
of you driving me
to hurt myself.
you’re costing me everything,
and the loss is exorbitant.

I’m not just saying goodbye to you.
you’re exiled.
your velvet threats,
your sugar-coated grip –
banished.
it hurts me more
than you think.
but this time, it’s final.
because I’m not ready
to see the aftermath
if it isn’t.

i saw a stranger sing one night.
the memory still lingers
years after the high.
mute swimmer,
a wordsmith from berlin,
brought silence and fire.

he wrote a song
about self-worth and doubt —
the kind we all wrestle,
then bury in our minds.

he’d hear his voice
softly pulsing
with each heartbeat.
instead of leaning
into the dread —
you’ll never make it
you’re worthless —
he’d counter-attack,
asking us
to push them back.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

we’d chant until
it wasn’t about him,
but about us.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

she’s standing next to me
the riffs crawl slowly
under her skin,
tunes reaching
something long buried
within.

the sky thickens
with sentient air —
as if we’re sitting
in a drive-through
watching us on the screen.

even the town
is under her spell,
its nightlife dimmed,
and out of the way.

she smells like
imponderable winter air.
with a glance,
she lifts me up
and breaks me
in one breath.

her eyes —
the sea after storm.
my gaze drifts
to her mouth.
her words linger,
honey-crumbed,
after a bite.

a phone chimes —
mine.
i know
i have to go.

‘find your way back to me,’
i think.
i hope.

my heart aches,
she feels it, too.
i’m not ready
to say goodbye.

but i do.

i stood before the mirror,
pale as a powdered lie,
with strands the colour of fallen empires
and dignity rubbed dry.

the bleach had no mercy,
the dye had no aim —
i emerged from the wreckage
with only myself to blame.

my scalp, a battlefield,
my pride, a powdered wig.
i whispered threats to heaven
with a plastic comb so big.

the townsfolk fled in silence,
the moon refused to rise,
and even my reflection
looked away from my disguise.

somewhere between brass and madness,
i found a kind of grace —
the lord of bad decisions,
with toner on my face.

so let the ships keep sinking,
let the storm winds howl and hiss —
i’m lord cutler beckett, darling,
and i was born for this.

I watched a grainy film once,
through blurs of a stolen light,
words dropped like crumbs.
I picked them all up,
kept them safe
tucked away in my mind,
until I had the puzzle pieces
to give them back their shape.

years later, I etched
a number on my hand.
not for him,
but for the girl,
who mimicked the words
before knowing what they meant.

now I wear his language
like a second skin,
slightly flushed
from the heartbeat beneath —
pulsing with all
once chased,
and incomplete.

I didn’t know it then,
how far that ship would sail —
how it would anchor me,
then leave behind a trail
to places only dreamed,
with a way back for when I was ready.
I didn’t know it then,
how it would lead me
to chart entire lives
into maps of unfolding,
guided by a compass of poetry —
all of it
once borrowed
from a screen.

my cat is crying,
crying still, and always loud.
his mouth is grief incarnate.
what name could hold you,
you feathered fury,
you opera of complaint.

i say my name
out loud
to an unfamiliar room.

i can’t contain
my worn-out lies
burning through the truth.

they don’t flinch,
they’ve heard
this script before.

“the lower i sink,
the further i stray,
the harder i hit the floor.”

but they’re all ears,
offering silent company,
unravelling their past.

survivors of guilt,
hurt and poetry,
society’s outcasts.

our stories stay,
still shining bright
in sheltered wounds,

as i say my name
out loud
to a familiar room.

my wounds
are ocean-deep.
caution advised.
even seasoned souls,
spotless and sure,
could easily drown.

sometimes i wake
from a fever-dream
spent with a mystery being –
evaporating too quickly
to savour
leftover feelings,
and hidden benefits
of a midnight affair
with someone
that doesn't exist.

when the day
is half gone,
i'm still lovesick,
incapable of
stopping my mind
from hoping
there’s a button somewhere
to hit re-wind.

you called me
the cure
without
ever reading
the fine print.

now you call me
a curse,
despite my explaining
that healing
comes with a burn.

in the future,
call me
however you like,
just don't come back
when you miss the high.

for years, i turned a blind eye.
sweeping caps beneath the rug,
until first light cracked,
then by morning,
it still wasn’t enough.

i drank, after greeting the day,
sometimes with coffee,
often just straight,
took a taxi to work,
then drank more on my break.
customers adored me,
or who they thought i was —
my second self
with blurred edges,
slightly louder than the dark.

some i crossed paths with
tried so hard to help —
to drag the demons out.
but the deeper they dug,
the harder i pulled away,
instead.

i’d sketch pretending on my skin
with ink from an earthy red.
dressed up for therapy,
clouds trailing like a veil —
midnight fantasy
chased with violet gin.
i called it survival,
but it tasted like sin.

spelled my sorrows on the carpet —
each drop a false reprieve.
and whilst they dripped
like honeyed mercy,
no one asked about the burn.
now bare, without prayers,
i’m an offering at your altar
after swearing i’d never return.

i dreamt about us —
a forbidden touch,
where hands met,
souls intertwined,
shirts unbuttoned,
drunk on wine.

i dreamt of the slowest burn —
sparks from your lips
merging with fuel from mine
tilting my entire world
upside down.

‘did you sleep well?’ you ask,
stirring your morning coffee.
i smile, face flushed with heat.
‘i had such an angelic dream.’

been wearing the truth
up my sleeve
for ten whole years,
yet people who've known me
for half that time
stumble
when it gets revealed.

inside and out,
time has sealed
those battles fought in vain.
we're like family now—
truth and I.
but when they flinch
at the unconcealed,
I still don’t know
what to say.

it’s your birthday.
once, I swore I’d never forget —
yet, it just appeared on my feed,
when it used to linger
quietly in my head.

you have a family, children, a wife.
time ran off, and left no trace —
am I allowed to wonder at your life?

those strolls under the moonlight,
the midnight dates –
it’s now her looking at the sky
as the stars cascade.

your memory rests where it used to burn —
quiet, soft, asking no return.

look what you have left on me –
a bouquet of stitches,
still-healing scars,
fine lines I can’t conceal
etched across my heart.

and what of your voice haunting me?
I hope to God it disappears.
someday, I won’t even remember,
that all of this was ever real.

Is it too late to tell you how i feel?
honey, don’t answer.
I couldn’t bear to hear
all the things you’d have to say.

So keep those lips sealed,
and let me silently pray,
that one day these scars heal,
and fade into nothingness
along with your name.

this poem, honey, is all you’ll get –
not out of cruelty,
but fear.
every time I opened the door,
you’d flinch,
step back,
and leave me
with unsaid words,
and cruel bitterness.

i was always the kind
with a toothbrush to spare
reserved for only you,
not knowing who you'd be.

a friend, perhaps, in need
of a soft bed and duvet,
a midnight love, leaving
just as sudden as it came.

maybe i was always
hoping that my sanctuary
would be enough,
and maybe, just maybe,
you'd peel the old love away,
like paint from a windowsill—

but you never stayed.

sleep-heavy eyes, my hand reaches for you
then flinches – you’re nowhere in view.
the imagined shape only a breath ago
fled like a bandit
into dawn’s dissolving glow.
now my waking mind falters,
disappointment finds the door
through which you chose to leave –
once more.

you are
a burden
I carry
in every breath —
a firestorm
destroying all
ahead.

you are
a monster
waiting for me
to sleep —
an anchor
knotted at my neck,
pulling me
to the deep.

you are
an echo
of my voice
caught in a fight —
the lurking dark
that smothers
all the light.

you are
a void
consuming
the best self I had,
leaving nothing
but the throbbing
in my chest.

and yet,
you are
the question
I can’t answer:
why do I still hold you dear?
that remains a mystery —
even to me.

I tidied the corners,
stories simmered in the chilli,
scattered petals on the grass —
rose-red, next to a single lily.

I’d chosen the music with care,
but laughter co-wrote the score,
each chorus pulling us closer
to something warmer than before.

We bathed in rain, clouds, and sun,
each one carrying a moment,
where secrets come undone,
and quiet truths are spoken.

The fairy lights lit up,
as the world flipped slowly —
a circle of soft goodbyes
turning intimate into holy.

As the solstice faded,
and it struck twelve once more,
a day like this feels sacred,
as the season shifts the shore.

This night won't conclude us,
though the dusk will surely dim.
We are only at the beginning,
on the edge where stories swim.

echo island
invites me to dine on its shore.
the wild orchid, hidden and torn,
begs me to linger,
weaves gold in my hair —
and claims me,
its trophy,
unaware.

(on the ten-year anniversary of leaving home)

without looking back,
she boarded a flight,
concealing that piercing anxiety.
to soothe the ache,
packed her language as a guide,
weeping quietly for her country.

recognition came in tears,
stretched paper-thin—
that her home couldn’t yet grasp
that love begins within.

the early years, under flickering lights,
were spent seeking solace.
with inner voices softly humming—
inhaling cheap wine,
books as her compass—
enough to outweigh not belonging.

some nights,
she danced until her heels
worn the skin away,
bleeding her truth into tile,
whilst friends, thick as thieves,
melted into laughter, and gin.

she loved badly,
lit candles to soften the silence
that screamed louder at 3 a.m.,
scribbled poetry
on the walls of her soul—
long forgotten, left forsaken.

her twenties were a strange gift,
she never thought to ask for,
memories scattered down the hallway,
like spilled drinks, laced with honesty.
sometimes the weight is still sore,
and yet she’s walking,
barefoot,
unfolding.

It still hurts.
Your memory’s radioactive.
It’s no use thinking about
how much I lost
as the script of my life kept rolling.

You caught me as I fell,
I was searching for a way out,
and found you instead.
But reaching for you
only pulled me deeper down.

Looking back is hard.
Toxic dust I breathed in,
a chemical romance
that burned through my lungs,
your atmosphere seeping into everything.

Maybe fate turned kinder
the moment I left.
what I might have become
is folded quiet, neatly kept.

But it still stings.
Not the loss—the time I can’t reclaim.
You weren’t a lesson.
You were a delay.

So take the version of me
you once believed.
I won’t ask fate for mercy,
nor beg time to rewind.
I’m done with your ghosts
that never tried.

Velvet-soft touch,
a rainbow sunrise,
naïve smiles
reflected in your eyes.

Caribbean lightning,
words written in sand,
goosebumps rising
up my arm, down my hands.

Tropical jungle,
a caressing breeze,
sun-kissed freckles
spilling over me.

Sweat-drenched longing,
a turquoise bay,
your quiet glance
burning like fate.

Scorching sunlight,
hunger in flames,
a mariachi chorus
dancing 'round the blaze.

Spanish murmurs —
'Vamos al bar',
your family waits
with mezcal in a jar.

Bare feet wandering,
a crimson sky,
the sea kisses shells
the tide leaves behind.

Seductive darkness,
a star-scattered dome,
the high-risen moon
spins legends of home.

A gentle touch,
chestnut-brown eyes,
beneath the palms,
desire comes alive.

Laughing gulls,
a tide that won’t part —
and in this sand
I bury my heart.

Say something.
I’d love to hear
how your voice might break
the ice, that’s formed between.

Say something.
Say it out loud.
Let it quiet the war
raging beneath my doubt.

Say something.
Say you carry my scent home,
etched into your skin,
weathering the rain and storm.

Say something.
Say you see the hurt—
that this wandering heart of mine
is heavier than any witch-cast curse.

Say something.
Say nothing will change,
and I can follow you blindly
to where love is a leap of faith.

Say something.
Say this is enough for you.
That my pure-hearted longing
was only borrowed, not owed.

Say something.
Say that when the years have passed,
you’ll be no more than a forgotten weight,
and I won’t ache for you again.

it rests in a box — unworn, untouched.
a pink medallion on a thread,
carefully guarded, like a best-kept secret.
the tale of a flame sparks a sudden wonder—
pillows, scents, a shy, sweet blunder.
I’m haunted again by a senseless memory
of wine-soaked evenings—pleasant, temporary.
we were never anything at all.
no debts to pay, no love to call.
and still, your trace remains in my mind.
a bond of secrets, the silent kind.
I could throw it into the river, set it free,
so I no longer feel its weight on me.
but part of me still leans into the ache.

there’s a necklace in my pocket.

I said your name last night,
to no one—just my shadow on the wall,
softly, a suggestion of a whisper,
pretending it didn't hurt at all.

I carry you like bruises,
and although I swore I wouldn't beg,
here I am, on my knees,
inside every text that I don't send.

It's not the act I fear,
but the breath before the yes—
as our worlds begin to unravel
like silk, shredded by violence.

If I break, please, break with me,
let's fall apart together now,
let's cry, as we burn to pieces.
I expect you to break me right.

I fall in love, like it’s a dare.
No helmet, no warning,
like being in the middle of nowhere,
when it starts pouring.

My hollow heart, unprotected,
waits to be washed away
with echoes of the silence,
that grow too heavy, until they strain.

The flood begins within,
soaking through skin, through veins,
tainted by you, to my core,
with a weight I was never built to bear.
The water rises, inch by inch,
but I don’t gasp.
I’m prepared.

I drown quietly, without struggle,
as if this ache has earned its place.
The tide carves out my ruins,
leaving nothing, but empty space.

And maybe that’s the mercy —
not the saving, but the cease.
When the water stills inside me,
there’s a moment of release.

Dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
If I had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
I would’ve tried to explain who I was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay—
structured, unsure, incomplete.

But you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
I hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

Did you get some of the things
I’ve spent years aching for?
Answers to the never-ending whys—
why I keep repeating patterns,
why I stay when I should leave,
why I doubt what’s already mine?
Did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
And love—
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

I don’t expect letters
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please—
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when I could’ve turned away.

I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Not for answers—
but just to see who survived.
If you’re still standing,
then maybe so am I.

I'm an efficient mover
My first time was at seven
My mother woke me up
Before the sun could rise
Hush, "csitt", quick
The moving van arrived.
The furniture, a few,
Landed in the back,
My father crying softly,
Kissed goodbye to the cats.
My friends, neighbours,
And all we knew
Slept, as though nothing happened.

The next time I was eight,
Not much wiser than before,
My mother said she'd made a mistake,
She couldn't care for us no more.
This time there was no van,
Belongings were sold
There was only my mother
My cat
And I.
My brother left behind.
And also, the cat.
I lost so much more than it seemed
That I didn't know back then.

The third time I was twelve,
With my father stuck at work
We snuck out during the day.
I didn't change schools,
It was the same town,
A street away.
Hidden, under a tree
Hoping to never hear the fight.
My brother returned,
A girl followed,
That was our new family.
Although crowded in the same room,
For a moment,
I swear,
We were happy.

The fourth time I was fourteen,
Back into the nest we flew
Teachers said
Education is the future.
So to help with school,
We listened to the pressure
Of child services,
"A family that is together is a bigger help
Than anything else."
Except, what are you, ******* blind.

The fifth time I was fifteen,
I was put in an institution
Against my will.
It was for the best.
"Stop being selfish,
We need to save money."
What a burden, a child,
Its currency expenses.
At this one time I returned
For the weekend
My mother was gone,
She had left.

My sixth time was at eighteen,
Jumped into the arms of a boy
Who gave me an out.
A learning curve, a lesson,
One of the great mistakes of life.

My seventh time at nineteen.
Back into the house,
Helping my father get over
His drunken accidents
Tending to his scars
Trying to earn the great education
Everybody was preaching about.
It wasn't until later
My mental health came crashing.
It was time to skip
Earn some cash
See what I could make of myself.

That was my eight, twenty
Such a grown-up number,
Lived with boys,
Then older boys,
And whilst they cared for me,
I cared less for myself.
The era of failing had begun.
It took me less than six
Trying to scrape a life together
With someone I called friend
Only realising I wasn't strong enough,
So I ran.

My ninth, back into the house
My mother was back as well
Surprised her when I showed up
With a suitcase and backpack.
But in they took me
Left me to do my thing,
Let me wallow in self pity.
Ignored the demons that slept
In my bed.
They feasted on my dreams
And got stronger by the day
I carried them with me
Wherever I went.

My tenth, at twenty-two
The things I did for enough to escape
This great country of mine,
The ****** abuse, the hurtful words,
Boys will be boys,
You're too sensitive, said work.
Thank god for Tumblr.
For online friends, for all those chats
Headcanons and theories
That gave me confidence
To arrive in a country
That didn't speak my language
Despite me saying, 'sorry, what'
For the hundredth time
My love happened right on the spot
For theirs seemed unconditional.

My eleventh happened at twenty-three,
Different people formed a bond,
Late night talks, lectures, fun,
I was meant for this house.
Incredible
How much happens in a few years
For all that is worth,
I failed and grew at the same time.

My twelfth, at twenty-seven,
Bittersweet and new,
With a boy I loved and thought,
Could help me endure.
A short-lived memory
In the distance, that is.
A quick escape,
A step
Towards adult life.

My thirteenth, still at twenty-seven,
What I'm living now,
Exploring a new area,
With its medieval town.
The next season of
Something Beautiful
With the added spice of a cat.
I'm hoping not to leave.
I'm hoping not to move.
Not to make a move.
If I do, I might stir the darkness.
I shall let it sleep for now.

The melody can be heard again.
I know the notes by heart.
I try to rip them from memory —
but I can’t.
The rhythm’s different,
but the tune’s the same.
As a possessed demon
it chases me underground,
And yet I sing.
Sing along to it
The entire time.

Over the snowy mountain peaks
A star is gliding through space
As I’m strolling, embracing the breeze
On Saint Anne’s frozen lake.

Icicles have crept up on the trees
All the living have run away
Sorrow lingers in the silent eve’
Dimming prayers at Winter’s gate.

The cold flurry of air penetrates the bone
Reeds wince with the chill.
A flock of birds pass by like ghosts,
their shapes trembling in fear.

Oscillating wings carve the way
as they fade away in the sky,
a new thought is born I can’t shake:
This is my home. I’ve arrived.

These days, my soul feels heavy,
bursting with a secret still untold.
bearing it, it scorches steady,
but you broke our dream I’d hold.

Your cruelty lived in me raging,
I long craved what you’d denied.
It took an age to stop the blaming –
I, too, had darkness inside.

And yet, to this day, I’d circle back,
turn the bitter wheel of time.
re-play our teenage soundtrack
with a sip or two of wine.

Knowing everything, I’d hit re-wind,
see where our road leads to,
appreciate you, with a mature mind,
and undo all of your wounds.

Maybe we’d stay ‘in the zone’,
maybe we’d claim the world.
wander every corner of our home,
or England’s cold and grim shores.

We wouldn’t be so far away.
Pretending, frigid strangers,
I’d know all of life’s mistakes,
all your whispered prayers.

Defiant thing, the past.
It offers less, than what it stole,
My heart still pulls toward
A time when yours was whole.

I’d know you’re not tormented by
neither the past, nor the present,
I’d know you healed with time,
and wish our sorrow never happened.

But if one day, you still look back,
Know, my heart is pure.
As you turn back, breathe for me,
then don’t look back at all.

Sometimes I’m asked if I have siblings.
And I don’t mention you at all.
Inadvertently, I always tell a lie.
I don’t mention you with those still living,
because the hole you’ve left feels sore,
And I know I’m erasing you from life.

But you don’t exist.
I don’t speak your name,
who you are to me.
I don’t need their sorry, so pathetic.
What am I to say?
“I’m OK. You don’t need to worry.”

I don’t need their questions,
the “oh, no”s, “what happened?”
the regret that they had asked.
I don’t need a reminder of how different
it’s been since you’ve left
all so sudden, and so young.

You know you don’t belong here.
you’re a mismatched memory
amongst the living.
Like a puzzle piece
of an awkward family,
and now the piece is missing.

And now I speak ill of you.
And it makes me feel uneasy,
causing my head spin.
Because I do have siblings, I have a few.
And I don’t know them completely.
And you, Attila, I never will.

I can't seem to wash you off my skin.
Yours accidentally touched mine.
As shadows fall onto the eclipse,
my heart turns into a landmine.

Exhausted it lays, beating faster,
whenever you're on my mind.
Breaths, drawn in sharper,
I can't seem to shut you out.

It's ridiculous, I say to myself,
the power you have on me.
Thoughts of you send splinters
throughout every inch of my body.

Your presence itself feels like a sin.
you're all I think about.
My wishes, never leaving my lips,
could cause the stars to burn out.

It all weighs heavy on my chest,
like ruins no one came to save.
So I leave it there—forgotten, rotting—
just wishful thinking
digging its own grave.

I've put you out of my mind.
Pages, chapters were turned
We've carried on with new lives.
But seeing you stirred
Something in me I can't quite comprehend.

We were so good for a while.
Overwhelming and grossly fun
I remember the shivers that ran down my spine
Whilst you opened up my heart.
Why you stopped, I'll never understand.

You were taken aback by the chemistry,
The almost could have beens,
You called me the Enigma, full of mystery
A work of wonder left feeling cheap.
Words off your mouth like ambrosia I drank.

And now I'm having dreams about you
When I've filed you away.
I would have been yours, if you'd asked me to.
I'm sorry you realised too late
That you ****** it up right at the start.

I'm drinking a lot.
Forgot why I started
One excuse, it seems like
became a hundred.
Quietens the demons
You say, with a knowledge.
Always unsatisfied,
Life bleeds on a knife edge.

I'm smoking a lot.
Unsure of the whys
Trying to piece together
Sane parts of the mind.
They used to help
But keep dragging me down,
Just like we do each other
Deep underground.

Help me smother these chaotic sparks
you’ve fed, fuelled and let grow
whilst gasping for air, my bleeding heart
submits quietly to your soul.

I always thought the darkness fed on me.
Hunted me, like prey.
Made me weaker, made me lose control.
I realise now, darkness did nothing. I did.
I offered myself up on a plate,
Heading down the paths I have already walked.
It's all my fault. It's all on me.
What a freakish thing,
Blaming my wrongdoings on him.
If anything, darkness is a mate
I owe an apology to.
I didn't mean to bad-mouth you,
When you're the only one carrying me
On your back, when I get deep, dark blue.