"an auction of hearts,
a play of words,
and a house of cards.
                                                                ­                             do you spar?"



                                                      ­                                           infection

breathe. you have to breathe. / parasitic infection in my lungs—it calibrates, taking over. / the tendrils grip at my oxygen pipe, don’t let me breathe. / i choke, cough, rasp out the lies. / there’s hands pushing me down underwater. / they tell me i’m all they care about. / the sycophant lurches outside, sensing external support. / it checks upon smiles, a hollowing way— / notices the presence is there to throw me back. / and like always, it finds a way back in. / i’m being attacked on. / i’ll try to describe it for you, the way it terrorizes me during the nights, especially. / they stand, surrounding. / i close my eyes—i’m back in the drowning. / similarities of the mind aren’t so on point. / you wouldn’t know what i talk about. / just don’t smoke the arbitrary joints.



                                                      ­                                      suppressing

i hate when smoke fills up the air, people pretending there’s too much / you just skip to the artificial flavors / i can’t say i haven’t done anything / you see the expiration dates on everything / i’ve had things beyond, used them when it’s crossed / it doesn’t always hurt or hit me in the back / i think some expiry’s alright, even if they’ve gone bad / not serious, nothing major, simply to remind you—“this thing needs to be cherished” / so i hope you do / some don’t last, they leave behind in a haste / the kind of feeling you have only for a while / lessons for a lifetime—accept, love it whole, as and while it exists / when you might, expiration and possibility of it developing even after crossing the beyond / i think they’re necessary / so i don’t really focus on them all



                                                          ­                                     pretending

the noons are a grand jolly mess, where the familiar lonely meets my bright / they collide, beautifully—a mess of broken neons and heavy shadows / and i lie, curled up, surrounded by softness and blades / the speaker plays the mystery of love, perhaps about you—the voices speak: nothing’s gonna hurt you baby / and i drift, in and out, the pleasantries of themselves faking it aside / emptiness in the echoes of beats, seekers speaking the truth they’ve seeked / it seems it’s going to last for a bit longer / while this is a pure acoustic mess i try to undo, yet it only proceeds, cacophonous to the ears / there’s blood in my tears, felt so much there’s nothing left to feel anymore / how can you be numb all of a sudden when all you knew was to feel, and let it encompass you whole



                                                        ­                                         surrealism

it's in my bloodstream, i'll plead to you to put it out / ignite the lighter, let it burn what surrounds. / memory is an unreliable narrator— / it whispers, this has happened. / i look back, find it unclear./ my ribs are alive with fluttering butterflies, / they speak of infection, of ache. / and they are all lying, i know so— / cause i've been through the same./ there's red at the corners of my mouth, / scratches on my knees, and cuts from where i bleed out. / a voice stuck in my head, telling me to stop / the creation of distance. / but the site of the wound of expiration / contrasts with the tender of existence./ it's a fever dream, / the one where everything goes hazy. / you look around, feels unreal, / but it's all decaying at the edges, it's coming down./ the perfect act, measured love, and spoonful of kindness— / the mixture's gotten stale, i'm yet to leave it out. / been bad at reading signs, / but this time they've been way too direct./ so i read, and i pull, / tear through whatever remains. / could you wait a bit / while i rip apart myself / for trying so long despite—



                                                     ­                                              attacked

bite my tongue, you're wasting it on—obsolete / sad, oh i'm sorry, i'll encourage you / please go ahead curl up, put your head on my shoulder / dig the knife a bit too deep in my side / i won't say a word, or say your name / catching up, i'll murmur "i'm okay" / if my grunt is noticed i'll hide the wound, the red / did you know i bled in black? / don't worry, no one could stop you / from knee to neck deep in flattery / it's shameful and embarrassing / the way they still don't blame / i'm about to do something you'll regret / and no it's not **** myself / only a little paranoid, i've seen them look over at me when you're around / they fear and make me agree / it's hard—hard to live despite cowering / and then the storms hit / i'd have asked to save but there's nothing that remains / can't bring back someone from the dead / can't even ask for love, it's all cult-led / i think i'm lowkey obsessed with writing whatever hurts / but never putting it down in genuine words / cause i wouldn't know how to spell "it hurts" / is this how i'm meant to do that? / i circle it, the thought, like trying to catch on a prey / but it's my own heart, unknown to the plans of this brain / trying to attack, more to stab / i just wish to get rid of it / been meaning to do that / pointless, the existence



                                                    ­                                             drowning

why beat, when you’re going to end up dead / why seek, when it’s all in your head / i’ll admit, or more like i could—just once though, i need to grip this ***** like i should have a long time ago / tight enough, coil my fingers, drain it out, maybe sponge the punctures while i’m at it / and why’d anyone stop when they’ll barely get to see? / it’s a sight, i’ll agree—like the haley’s comet, or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity / what? selling a heart? would it be better in the hands of someone, or on the streets, even as a child’s long-lost memory? / i think i’ve written about my heart before, given it lists of metaphors, berated myself for feeling / but it’s insane, to think of just being / i don’t mind, i do not, we could do whatever, i’ll get along—it’s easy, easy unlike breathing, that one thing i’ve been finding hard / but it’s just been like that lately—dying. dead. deceased. / funny stuff, the same meaning, different words, like: i’m sorry, i love you, i hate you, i can’t help it / get it out of me, will you? whatever holds me down / there’s something, i tell you—a shadow, somewhere on my shoulder / it’s been whispering, i can’t even write bolder / and it’s almost as if it awaits, right when the clock hits specific times during the day, or when i see them, and suddenly it’s too loud / so i drift through crowds / i don’t think it’s visible—never on my face, it’s clinical / maybe she was born a stuck-up, ****-up, but she’s lived and loved, and neither of it is regretted / maybe one day this string of emotions will find a way out / and maybe that day i wouldn’t have to resort to closing my eyes as i let my fingers type, as i let it take over me



                                                                ­                                  delusion

and it's taking over me right as i put down the final stop / it's gripping, shadowing, curling, too tight, too much, can't breathe / hold it—hold it—remove it—I don't think—I can't think—I can't feel / it's here, it won't let me go anywhere / i'm sorry / like body kept bare in the stark cold / the pain of feeling too much, with no way to let it out or hold / the reminder that something’s wrong, but exactly—there’s no solution / wanting, needing, requiring a hug so warm that it'll fill up that hollow / give in enough warmth to seep into the clogged veins, make the blood flow again / and maybe the hollow will surface again / i've always suppressed it / if i were shot directly at the chest, unknown to how deep the bullet went, would it perhaps cure this hollowness? this empty? / i need a bulletproof jacket, with a bullet stuck deep in my core / want to let it hurt—but please, no more / i'd like to rest for a bit, if you're sure / save me, hide me, protect me—i can't do this anymore / keep me away from all the needles and stones, even they hurt enough to have me stop breathing / i lack so much on this oxygen—how can i perhaps continue to live on?



                                                          ­                                                cycle

i tend to scare them off when they've reached up too close, / when it's just a layer away— / all that i am, and all the "cause." / but i can't let them in, can't throttle the gains. / they'd be far too scared if they truly saw / all that resides in my veins. / "i'm all alright"— that's what i'll tell you, / and myself, glancing in the mirror, / the same look in my eyes, watching it flicker. / but every single night, i open my notepad. / the things of the day, and all of the ache, / are brought down by the pen / as it glides over the empty page. / it's like painting a canvas—except i'm no artist, / so i scribble and scratch over the lines, / at least the ones that don't seem to fit, / or find a home for themselves in the prose, / like i never did. / it is messy, and i can't romanticize. / i've never been good with words, / or expressing how they brought this hurt, / so i let it antagonize. / playing the protagonist in my story, / hoping the cameras are recording, / i lie down on my bed, some sort of hollow within glistening. / there's no comfort, there's no comment. / i term myself as to what they'd call this poem— / broken people call themselves poets. / it is with immense pleasure that i bequeath and plead, / to let me keep the title. / but without the broken part, / i'm not sure if i'd be left entitled.



                                                    ­                                               insomnia

it is 3:58 am / there's no fancy striking of the clock / just the glaring screen of my phone / and me on my bed / solemn not sad / not in despair / not hoping / not dreaming / there isn't really anything / and yet i feel so bare / i'm not supposed to be thinking / no, i've been lying with my head on this pillow / the side of which is warm / for what seems like a few hours / but in reality, it's been only a minute / i'm burnt out / at least that's what i tell myself / i haven't worked or done something worth enough / yet it's been a while / since i've rested / and moved agile



                                                        ­                                                 numb

my head’s empty except perhaps for what i’m writing / everything is a dull silence / what others would term as boring / but this peace from the voices surrounding me from within is welcomed / and even though it’s new i try to let myself get used to this particular feeling / need not get back to the default should i / i’ll stare at my ceiling / find no meaning in how the light falls from between the curtains and bathes the fan in an almost sparkly glow / or the way the glow falls over and forms a shape of something similar to my ghastly soul / there’s this track in my head somewhere at the back and i’ve been humming it whole evening / even while i was meant to be focusing / for its phrase seems to be the perfect choice to die with a smile / it won’t make a lot of noise / it’s hard to hold their weight / my head feels too heavy / where do i go with this ache / before this i sat with my eyes closed / watched this movie i’m not so sure anymore



                                                      ­                                          expressing

oh, a new fact! have you heard? they say cheese is similar with its effect to that of a drug! / won’t lie, i did wonder why it felt so familiar / i’m not medicated, not sick, not sad, nothing at all / i’ve been trying to make myself tick these things off / at least in the manifesting / cause life feels too short / i wish i could have another turn / and another, and another / if i could be sure maybe i’ll be happy in the next ones / and not wake at 3:58 am, no more / there are days when i can’t watch the world walk / days when i can go outside about my schedule but can’t seem to stand tall / days when i wallow in self pity, cry in my misery / through seasons it fades / this feeling of disappearing into nothingness / it stays through and through / as if a friend long gone visiting again / one whom i thought i’d lost / in peace, there was / except it’s back and staring right at me / with a grin that seems to be holding depths of melancholy / and a sadness so profound i can’t seem to turn around / this world that’s come to a pause / my being that can’t seem to live at all / i drift through the sleep cycles / hoping to find something akin to a warmth / one that could perhaps set my lungs on fire and make me breathe / all the things i’ve lost during this period, it’s worse than pain / ache in its wake, everything is a cycle / i sleep later, wake up almost never / can’t eat without curling upon myself / hoping to find the turtle-like shell / to just disappear and not be termed as rude / i could be perceived as sensitive / but i try my best not to delude / into the glimmer that stands at the edge of this darkness / one that awaits my presence / as if it were the lover to my forever / but alas i know it’s a cycle / one that i’ve gone before / and again, it doesn’t seem to end / mirrors become foes, love becomes hate / attention is like one big monster that’s quaking every inch of myself in its wake / being told off for not noticing is like trying not to be / feeling at all, nothing at all / freedom becomes a chore / can’t go out, can’t sit still, can’t dream, can’t smile / or hold the till to where i’m supposed to manufacture everyday’s worth of emotions or expressions / the masks i’ve been wearing are exhausting / as if i didn’t fill up on them again / perhaps this time i missed to pick up the stock / from the station that stands somewhere in the lost haven, or what i considered / it stands like a hawk / watching, waiting, disappearing in the same routine / as this show goes the tickets don’t run out / i get the first seat despite not wanting to turn up at all / and the seatbelt suffocates, the blinds decorate / the light flickers as hope disappears / the movie begins, the monologue sounding familiar / the prologue is all up and about / my screams die at the tip of my tongue / in the very beginning, it’s condescending / trying to rake every corner of this brain / to pinpoint that one location that’s bringing it up again / and who even gave birth to this mirth towards oneself



                                                      ­                                         surviving

i preached of self love all the while only to end up in the shelf locked away all away from those who could possibly care / might be worth telling them but how do i pull words out in a chokehold the excuses slipping from my mouth / and i might be lax for the couple next days perhaps maybe i might disappear but i'll be back here someday and it'll all be normal / i'd have up on the masks and i'll hide just to not gain missed / this once but i'll mark the date on my calendar to never have this happen again / i promise that i will won't miss one day will surely act up and all happy satisfied with this life as if i'm not drowning again / will talk and walk and laugh and dance and i'll make sure none of you have to ever see this again / currently if you will all i ask is for a witness to not stand still just be present stare at me like i'd stare at my reflection and find this state of being not relentless /



                                                             ­                                      deceased

i’ve written this and it usually thrives in silence, but this—i’m sure it won’t. you might have to reread it again. \ this isn’t nothing, won’t be nothing. \ promise me you’ll spectate without telling me off or forcing up the dose. \ i’ve long since been told off, and for my next magic trick, i shall pretend that it was all what i believed. \ reality, as it touches my lips, i’ll take sips until the glass empties. \ i’ll imagine it so well, overwrite all the bad, and even though it’ll be fake, i won’t remember the originals unless triggered. \ once broken through, i wouldn’t even know if the happy are the real ones, or figments of my imagination.