there's pieces of me.
well, i'd like for them to be.
like with a big butcher's knife,
i'd carve myself out like a cake
and hand it over in plates
to all the comers
in the party of my life.

i think i'd have a sour frosting,
a bad bread—perhaps even a bad smell.
i don't think i'd be of good taste,
of any good matter,
for that same sake.

a couple long, repeated bad nights of sleep,
ugliness etched in my skin
like sprinkles on the dark frosting.

what flavor would i be, even?
with all this blood and muscle,
i'd dissect my brain in half,
perhaps find the anti-matter.

i hope by the time i'm carving my heart,
it gets to be in the mouths
of all those who tore it apart.

my bones can be handed over
to whoever tried to reside by them,
in there—
when they couldn’t find places,
or simply chose to stick to the rear.

i could be bitter,
i’d admit.
it leaves me to wonder:
perhaps if i were a dish served cold,
would their hands pause?
washed in guilt
as they chew away at me—
would they realize
i taste exactly as they made me?

the irony of the hands that cooked,
the hands that tasted,
the hands that brought me up
and down
to my very ruin.

if i were to leave myself on the table,
sliced and silent—
would they pray before digging in?

maybe i’m not made of cake.
maybe i’m spoiled rot,
sugarcoated with whipping cream,
one that turned black—
the kind of dark your eyes
never really adjust to.

the mask over decay.
i’m still palatable, i believe.

they never asked
what it cost to be served.
but then, it was my choice—
in the end, at least.

they needed the softest parts.
i offered them,
sweetest pain and all.
to get some, you have to lose some.
lose yourself—
find me.

never the full truth,
just fragments i promise
will indeed satiate your gut.

i wonder if they’d spit me out
if i finally stopped the seasoning.
would they ever let a second glance
go my way—
on me, on the plate?

what’s the etiquette for eating?
accept what is served.
and what for eating someone alive?
do you pretend to care—
pray, ****, or just cut it up?

they stitched poetry into my skin.
had me sewing my wounds—
the antiseptic: my own blood.
only to tear me apart
just to get a read.
a glance
at their own work.

and then they wondered
why i never held it together.

my ribs have poison—
the kind i breathed in,
never out.
second to oxygen,
to the air they stole.
air meant for me,
and me whole.

enter if you must—
through my eyes,
down the pipe to my lungs,
and perhaps my heart.
there’s no angels.
no glow.
no butterflies.

i peeled my skin
as if i were stripping bark from old wood—
but who could’ve accepted
the still-rough edges?
no matter how much smoothing i tried to do.

they drank from my brain
like it was grape wine.
told me i was divine,
worthy of memory,
of residence.

and every single time i found myself
in a heart—
it locked me up,
bared me apart.

i carved my way out
with a rusted hand,
my body on the line—
and to prove i had one,
what all did i not do?
was it ever enough?

if i were a mausoleum—
would they leave flowers,
or taste the stench hidden
behind the sweet of my grave?

my veins: strings,
messy and burning
with the desire
to ache and spill out
everything they carry.

my teeth: chewing on bits of my own chest,
hollowed out,
worms crawling within.

this self—
a cage.
a cage of muscle and bone.
enlightened, maybe.
reached the world beyond,
if that’s what they call it.

madness personified.
grotesque, but tender.

all these bruises and wounds—
a decay so glittery
i perform it.

one horrifying nightmare,
mentality gruesome,
pain bespectacled.

they romanticized
every time i bled—
on the steps,
on the hands
that never cared
for the pretty red.

cynical,
pathetic little monsters.
each one shapeshifting
into others.

selective consumption,
their art form.
watch my performative sweetness,
and fake the fake
out of them all.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

pleading,
crying,
begging—
wanting to be heard.

watching, writhing,
burning in agony.
dreaming a nightmare,
hugging solemn innocence.
aching—
in despair, in desire.

once an angel of life—
now a demon of death in disguise.
her wings were torn, brutally,
and she couldn’t even scream one last time
before they threw her
off the landing.

nowhere to step, nowhere to stand—
barely able to sit,
and yet she ran.

kept running, far and farther still,
only to be pulled back
every time she thought she'd made it out.

they were always there.
watching.
waiting.
hoping.
to catch her,
to tear her—
hands on every part of her.

disgust piled with the blood in her mouth.
she scratched her skin,
tore herself apart—
knowing it’d hurt less
than being caught
by the counterparts.

and yet—
oh, look.
isn’t the moon pretty?

the death: beginning

last night
a part of me died
and i hadn't realized it was taking its last final breath
until i finally couldn't feel it anymore

no amount of music, no amount of talking would blur it out
once again, a death in silence
i couldn't even cry or remorse for what i lost

such parts have died before
but this was my last try(i said so)
and it just hurt so much

i slept with a hollow
woke up with overwhelming numbness
feeling so, so blue

like you could hit me, and i'd cry for what of me died
not because of the pain
because it didn't even hurt—just went numb
and by that—
it hurt so much i didn’t have words

i laughed, went for a walk, listened to music, tried to talk
nothing.
it wasn't going to return.
it was gone.

the urge

like when light leaves the dying’s eyes
like when you watch someone take their final breath,
realize it's never going to come back

like a candle flickering for one last time—
the spoiled wax, of no point
like a bulb going out, its ligament being torn
like a child growing up, having seen oh so much—
they just don’t have any dreams anymore

a part of me died
and today i organize its funeral
with no watchers, no stand-bys
just like always

and to think i'd gotten anywhere
with understanding and accepting—
nowhere.
not even with people,
because they're the ones who killed me

the urge to make the call, ask—beg—why’d you **** me like that?
but just—who would even understand?

i can't even see the screen, writing this with a vision so blurry
eyes so swollen—i even breathe funny
i woke up
wanted to sleep
chose to get up
wish i could’ve slept, because i’ve been crying since

it’s been hours
i was lying curled up
begging for someone to listen
to hold—to just tell me that it’s alright
that i still can be loved like i’m whole

and the funny thing—
i’ve reached the number of deaths
no one in one lifetime could have caused them all

but i let people do it—
the same way, the same streaks


the acceptance

no hopes anymore
no positivity—
it’s just difficult
how do you suppose i can just get back up?

i taste the salt in my tears
find my nose runny

i went back to where i fought so hard to get out from
i felt it—
the death

how it went from barely breathing
to not breathing at all

how it went from staying still at the edge of hope
to crashing against all borders and falling off

how it felt like i’d been drowned, thrown, teared through, broken, dissipated
i—i just can’t

i’ll stop crying in a bit
and just go back to living
except with another part of me dead

i don’t even know how i shall mourn her death
too dumb, but she just had hopes

i’ll wipe my nose, wipe away my tears
get the ice-pack to bring down the swelling
for once drained, once it’s all out

either way, i’ll be a shell of what i’ve been all this while
a bit more hollow on the inside

this time it made no noise
the fall seemed to be never-ending
usually i heard it break, scatter—
the fragments and shards—i picked them up piece by piece

but this time—
it just fell
freefall?
i’m barely alive now

as long as this body exists
with the slightest of life on it
there will be no mourners for all the parts of me that are no more


the questioning

i’m a museum of everything i’ve ever loved
and there’s graves within me
of places where i lost a part of me

and often i don’t remember them all
but sometimes, when a situation asks one kind of mine
i step by the graveyard of my own self
and often mourn them myself

i meet people
and i give them some bits of me
ones i didn’t know existed long before i’d met the person in front of me

and then that part stays with them
they decide—often unknowingly—that it’s in their pocket
on their shoulder, in their fist
somehow never close enough to reside in their mind or heart

and yet sometimes
these parts get lost in people
watching them leave

often they’re simply handed back
sometimes they’re killed

and i need no understanding of how i end up giving them out
like handing candies to children on a halloween night
uncaring who gets which one, no favoritism
blindly trusting, i just head straight right in

always unknown what and how much they hold of mine
i didn’t even plan on trusting or attaching
and yet somehow i did
and then i’m left with nothing but the mere spirit

feeling the hollow
and the lost
how do i not cave in to death
and keep going on like a fool?
how do i live on when i'm barely alive anymore?

the dreaming

grief is sickening, like long aged sour frosting
numbness woven into it, disturbing and devasting and what not
it breathes like something real, coils in the pit of my stomach leaving my body to ache in silence, to reel, feel, and fear

sometimes i feel like i'm stitched together by borrowed light
but then i ain't any moon—perhaps a starlight?

there's parts of me made of people and moments that weren't even meant to stay
and in return all the pieces i gave of myself
so it would be right to say i'm a mismatched puzzle, always missing, never complete

this light burns, seethes, flickers, garbles, echoes
this grief doesn't scream, it lingers
like the perfume that i once used to wear
and that old teddy bear to hug
on nights when i used to feel hollowed

it wraps around my bones
around my muscles and my organs
especially my heart and my lungs

and it squeezes in tight, like a rope that's being pulled from both sides
the knot just seems to grow in size, blindness coming around my eyes

only i know it exists, this grief—
as it breathes under my laughter, only i can feel it

it splinters every single breath i try to take
ghosts all my memories, makes me want to forget
like a constant static—this pain is immense

i've got invisible bruises, oh so many—
you'd see them clearer if you were to see the way my eyes lie in their residues

the death: end

i carry my dead
like folded crushed paper notes that i don't wanna let go of
from the maybe's to the it's never happening
it seemed to be something, now it's a sad little nothing

oh so broken, everywhere i go
i offer parts of me like i'm a free use and throw tissue
but what can i do?
when they never ask for how i am—
only ask of me, how can i help?

went down the lane of thoughts—one that busied my mind and made the voices stop
they blurred, i held the blade in my hand, even my mind stuttered
you've been away and strong for so long, not again
but the pain was immense

yesterday a piece of me had died
and today i was told to

how could i possibly accept all this sorrow
and feel my heart do the free falls again and again?

i have three cuts
not proper—the blade was too weak
i tried to write 'loser'
got stuck at the e
lost myself
returned to and wondered:
perhaps i've got a thick skin

disgusts me—my own head
i still keep on wondering
why can’t i just be dead





this could go on and on
i live in a paradox
despise, wanting to still be alive
deny, wanting to die, despite my tries
a misfit in the world of those who seem to be natural
at finding their own places
i have no one to call my own
why would anyone even want me as their own?

i don't agree all at once,
having to visit the spiritual corners of this earth,
for they make me see a hope—
one that's been long since buried,
one that i dropped like a crushed piece of paper
aside, a random evening.

and yet, every time i find myself surrounded by the presence of his,
the almighty, the gods that these people cherish,
i look at them, feeling withdrawn—
yet somehow, they call me back in.
(almost like a pied-piper, am i being hypnotised or beckoned forthwith?)

every time i wander,
find myself surrounded by his devotees—
multiple gods, yet just one single feeling:
devotion.
i'd add the adjective 'blind' before it,
but i wouldn't want to disrespect—despite all that i carry.

they cherish him,
surrender at his feet,
beg him for forgiveness,
plead to him for their wishes,

almost like carrying hopes resembling bells ridden with stars,
twinkling, resounding the beats of their (often rotten, mostly pained) hearts.
there's a mix, i know, in their crowd—it's a mix of all those who walk the ground,
except they're equal in here.
perhaps that's one of the powers he carries,
visibly hidden in the plain old sight.
i'm sure he'd be a lot too merry,
seeing them murmur the same chantings,
despite all the differences, they still harry.

my mundane self, surrounded by the divine—
here's what i saw with the same eyes that once shined:
i wonder if the steps of the temple know
who walks upon,
who waits for his own.

i could capture it through the camera,
but to write it down would make me feel seen.
so here it is, kind of like a monologue—
i'll pray upon him, so you won't hate me.

alive with color, motion, scent, and sound—
isn't that the four senses working around?

the man behind the sweets,
who knows which ones vanish first,
which are opted the most—
and the ones people go for.

those who buy—
i, wondering, watching my own family enter,
are they getting the sweets to offer to their gods?
should i too try to please him, to make him listen to me?
is it bargaining—being too cheap,
or is it silently offering him a price to make him believe in my honesty?

there's a child—i'm sure he doesn't even understand.
he spins, in circles,
creating illusions of dreams and stars in bundles,
not knowing why he's happy,
only that he is.
i miss when my innocence had me still.

a father—hair tugged gently by tiny fingers,
trying to steer him through the crowd.
of course, he knows better,
but he'll listen to his son
and his own memories of being carried around.

the same way—
a mother who lifts her child,
the one who carries the world within himself.
he's her world, yet to know his own disguise.

a priest, giving into the glowing screen
while sitting in front of the one he preaches day and night.
i'm sure that's considered minimal,
considering the world out there is built up
of more such people, giving into the illusions
of what the ones around are to offer.
i wonder if they realize the grave truth in its simplicity:
their bodies, which their souls inherit,
are also rented as temporary.

there's many more
that surround—children, aged, middle ones—all of them around.
to zoom out and narrate from their perspective—
i wonder if i seem to be fake?

i look at the feet of people,
showing ways they've walked,
ways they've lived,
and ways they've continued to trot
to find their peace in this world.

as they climb up the steps, in crowds,
holding hands and not missing anything out,
i see it in their eyes.
as they dream, almost child-like,
their hope symbolizes their life.

and to put it in the entirety towards one single entity—
the one who sits at the top,
is flowered, crowned, gifted upon.
i look at him in the eye,
and something about the moment makes me smile.

"alright," i whisper, as if i'm talking to a friend.
"i'll wish this once, once again."

and i ask for something simple, something that i've needed,
something i'm sure he'd understand and agree
and listen to with an intent:

"keep my hope alive,
to you, and to the life alongside.
and i'll return again and again,
be one of the ones surrounding.
i'll pray and hope to you again."

and that's how i leave—
calmer self, lighter chest,
a bit better than before,
maybe with a newly found hope.

i turn around one last time,
knowing i'll be back before long,
and i smile.

instead of waving, i touch the steps
that have carried thousands, including my own.
"i'm leaving for now, but i'll return—
right when i need to be with you, not just by myself."

this was all from the eyes of a hopeful ordinary.
i walk among you. i am one of you.
the lord does reside within me.

"are you contemplating? did you observe enough?  
have you surveyed them all?  
have you scanned me, inspected my wounds, and scrutinized me whole?  
did you see—view the noisy entities that lie around me?  
thanks and regards, i hope i helped you with your study."


would you go ahead and just cry, baby?
i told you before—i've been poisoned a lot.

snakes, ghosts, waning moon in the shadows—
breathing slow, i gasp for more.
someone plays on the drums; the night feels alive.
my skin thrums—there's something under it tonight.

i've traced paths, points on a corkboard,
placed tags along as i go,
walking in the direction that leads back to the very center.
traps—traps—oh, so many.
they’ve set me up too many times—
i wonder if even they found it uncanny.

like a spider's web—intricate, yet messy—
it knows what it’s doing,
yet sometimes makes unsolicited errors
in the repeated counting,
as does the world around me.

long in motion, trapped, all of it a lie—
a plot, so humongously tried.
something about the way they speak,
how the smile almost always means the same thing,
how it reaches the eyes that carry a darkness so queer.

truth has always been one breath away—
i took that one—gasped, coughed, choked it out,
watched the mask slip.
they didn’t fall—i did.

viewers from the third eye, melancholic stillness in their sight,
piece by piece, watched me crash.
saw me bury the upturned corpses of all that i’d had,
crestfallen under the weight of secrets—
too many, too layered, too loud to ignore.
never meant to carry, never meant to become
merely the pawn, the bug stuck in the web—
yet desolated, they stained it mad.

there’s blood on me—
not theirs, but my own.
as i rasp out to repeat:
withered flowers still had the same old thorns,
as if sharpened by hand—like a dagger against stone.

you don’t realize how much it *****
when you have to pretend the lie doesn’t hurt.
and when the lie is you—all of you—
it’s like smiling a wisp away from the hug of death.
perchance, if anything’s left,
add it here. leave it be.
the texts, the calls, the hidden clues play on—
you dare cheat?

leering through the red trees,
the sparks of the stars that once whispered memories—
it’s so cold in this place, like being stuck in a maze.
every turn, a version of you exists,
one that i didn’t know how to name.
i’ve met enough to barely remember how to count—
or which number i’d reached.

no escape clauses here, just sounds of glass shattering.
trust is what lies on the ground beneath your feet.
i’ve seen the graveyard where all my hope lies,
sleeping since forever—
it’s been quite a while.
maybe the betrayal isn’t always the worst part—
maybe it’s the quiet.
the silence of watching the lies be watered,
brought up into flowers.
ones with thorns—
the thorns that ***** the same hand which had sown
the seeds—
it always comes back in a loop.
and i promise it’ll come back to hit you.

i’ve been poisoned enough to know
when it’s mere liquor,
or when it’s laced with sweeter wine—
the one that carries all the enzymes
needed to make me curl up,
squeeze the inside of my guts,
choke out my heart,
watch it be torn through
by hands that resemble claws.

you’re like an eagle—
beady-eyed and grinning.

they’ve said love comes with a price,
that bonds need no ice.
this setup, alas, was stitched with rot.
i walked into it willingly.
though i wasn’t the only pawn—
unknowingly so.

check the board again, my love—
who all stand? who made the rules?
i store it in a vessel—
the tragedy i have become.
you didn’t follow all the runes.
all you need to know,
even as you watch my corpse fall:
poison has come to know its own.
and despite all—you were all that i needed as an antidote,
to stop the black that visibly spreads through my veins.
you and i watch it reach up to my eyes—
one last glance.
the board shall remember:
i'll take your name.
you.

i remember
a memory —
it isn't mine.
someone else's.

being the kid we used to be
(yes, i'm writing it in their pov)
we drank lemonade under the summer sun,
watched the bulb in the sky brighten,
heard the promises of forever
where no voice resonated.

echoes of my woes
learned to yearn within these walls.

it's a contrast: sweet, distant, aching.
have you ever heard of feeling nothing —
like the silence after chaos,
a void so deep,
there seems to be nothing it's composed of at all?
an absence that has screamed louder since its presence.

i listen to skyfall as i write,
and no, the sky hasn't fallen —
but it seems it would have felt better if it did.
a way to express what i feel deep inside,
since the breaking.

there are regrets.
like a flower blooms under the sun,
my regret bloomed under the skin of love,
whispered between lines,
composed of all the maybes it could have been —
the ideas, the fantasies,
versions of you that never came to just be.

perhaps i'd dreamt different —
not of someone,
but of how things seemed to me.

but it's nighttime, and i sit,
and like a building collapsing, i think —
stars falling, heavens opening, illusions crashing,
my heart strengthening.
it rubs painfully against the chest — or so.
i wish it hurt just a little bit more,
for i feel it tends to lack intensity.

how you simply waved a goodbye —
i felt it like waves in the sea.
yours was late, brief —
mine drowned, delivered me to the ending.

i have my window open.
i'll try to describe the night sky.
it still seems impossible,
like it did that night.

the stars — they watched me silently.
maybe they witnessed the fall as well.
and then i wondered —
did i even know it all that well?

maybe they were the lovers who never made it home.
maybe they were the parallels to what was meant to be alone.
i kinda hoped it'd be one way —
either you'd become a star, or me, or us together.
and whoever remained would have watched it
as we grew old together.

alas, what remains of it now?
the memories, the hauntings —
are they simply the nothings in between the heavier things?

wave after wave,
they take me with them,
bring me back
to where i began.

we were kids once,
with lemonade hearts —
not the sugary kind,
but the one filled with zest and a spark.

the sky remembers all that i've forgotten.
the same track on repeat —
i wish i'd heard it the night that brought me to hit rock bottom.

i want to write and write and write
and let it devour you and me
and all the eyes that ponder over these words whole.

for that nothing
felt like everything for a moment.

and i can't believe
you missed out
on becoming the lovers —
the ones i dreamt for us to be.



that was indeed just the end, then.

like the sounds of tires on gravel
when the track twists just right —
hold—wait—stop—
i need to catch up to my memories.
but what of all the ones you left with?
bled into them: the last gaze, the lasting wounds.
oh, look — it crumbled.

had you promised to stay
and followed it through,
i'd have torn the sky apart
with bare hands,
set ablaze all those who came in our path.
but alas, easy way out —
i saw nothing (that was enough then),
never saw beyond you
(but now i see all of you).

and i shall wash away,
off the shore, at the edge of the boat.
i shall let go and watch.
you've slipped from my hands
like dust in between fingers.
the sandglass broke,
so did the beats at which my heart spoke.
i wish you the best.
i shall hope you find rest
in places that aren't filled with me.

it's a closure,
it's my closure —
turns out,
that's all i've ever seeked.