complexities of us:

the unfamiliarity to it
comes off as uncomfortability
in the beginning.
but then i look back,
and i stare, zooming in and out,
grasping—this is the reality.
suddenly, it doesn't feel so bad;
looks okay, feels alright.
only, please, let me keep it all hidden
for a bit longer, bouts of while perhaps,
just for tonight.

what's the perfect opening?
to begin with it—
is it picking out a line from a list of prompts,
or playing music when the shadows swarm?
i believe it's hope and faith misplaced,
out of scope, of happiness and of exacerbation.
some words come to me,
like someone in my head plucked them out
of a locked away, hidden library.
and there are sentences, feelings
that are yet to find their place in a dictionary.
so i hold, and put forward
this ultimate piece stitched carefully.
a proclamation, if you must—
i hope you don't deny
that it indeed was poisoned, misspoken gust.

she's the precious kind
do you mind?





galaxy of masks:

masks upon masks,
just so the real ones are never visible.

where do we plan on heading,
hiding who we are
and watching ourselves disappear?
why cement the original, the real,
to show an illusion people'd like?
we lose our own shadows of individualism,
and still become whatever they continue to despise.

actors are lucky—
can be anything they want.
and even though it's all fake,
that's their job.
people dismiss them,
preach the characters they own.
they can become anyone,
and i can't even be myself.
now that's just forlorn.
they get applauded,
while i get cremated.
i do just the same—
they earn, i protect.
they flash, i burn.

and when you think you're late
that's when you're actually late.
so easy for them to say,
like they didn't need to struggle to live.
despite it all, they continue to pretend,
and so do i,
that i like them.
the smile that can hide everything for me
is something i'm thankful for.
is this the gratitude i'm meant to journal down,
or a selfish gift that i grew up with?
should i not talk about it?





cosmic revelations:

we're all stars.
stars on a big star,
surrounded by many more,
creating galaxies, preaching astronomy.
what were we made for?

i often don't know what to wish for.
is it health, happiness, or taste of the unknown?
so i stand in front of the lords,
hoping to find some quiet.
and peace does exist,
only it slithers away, as if washed off by the mighty.
i bow down, offer my all,
say i'm here, let me keep it whole.
i glance through the mirrors,
little somethings at the back of my throat.
adrenaline promises the thrill
of what living should have felt like—
if life wasn't so dead, furthermore.
the only moments i feel it pulse,
the blood thrums under my veins.
it sulks.

the sun took birth
after a collision and collapse
of a molecular cloud—term it star.
the brightest in the sky right now,
a miracle, like us.
and in your life,
as the biggest star of all,
yet you choose to fall down
after the slightest push.
wear and tear and suddenly we're misunderstood.
the world could end,
the galaxy could burst open
any given day—
you'd wake up, turn into dissipated matter.
and you worry about
that one thing,
or a list of multiple,
and claim this is the end
of your life and your empirical?
loathsome towards the sky,
have you seen how it looks during the night?

observe it through documentaries:
such a small piece of matter,
surrounded by so many
that are alike, yet destruct and differentiate.
even if they don't understand,
you could always.

it's only at a distance that spring seems green.
up close, it's floral, filled with allergies—
and they don't always mention
the bouts of issues that it comes with.
it's only at a distance
that it seems worth boasting.
does spring even exist,
or are we permanently a part of stark winters?
then why does it always melt off the skin—
all that we hide, and all that we wear?
mayflies live for a day,
it's their whole lifetime,
while you waste away.

when you drift through the night,
speeding up, watching the stars align,
you can almost make out how it isn't all too real.
surreality exists in the traffic lights
and cars drifting by.
it's bound to stay all up in my head this time,
so i need not write about how it was to kneel
and claim enjoyment when it lasted for seconds.
i've lived enough—enough to understand
when i've become unwanted.

from lorde's david,
to laufey's lover girl,
the kiss of venus,
and summing up the life of the one—
everyone in this party's a vampire.
so i've put on their teeth,
ready to bite.
except mine barely break through skin,
while theirs leave marks along a rhythm.
they can tell when it's a mess within your head,
but they wouldn't do anything.
make it a ghost town.
they'd **** the marrow of life.
like the blood moon, you'll be looped into hellfire.
i didn't even know how bad it stung,
until i saw the red turning black—
all over my arms, now they account for places.
all the spots that shone the brightest
are now dimmed.
brown spots, burnt.

a person with many thoughts makes fewer mistakes—
that's just a lie, cause the thoughts give out stories
of the what ifs, and of all that is fake.
and i look back a lot.
most of my own
count as actions questionable,
even though i've thought about it a hundred times—
enough for my head to explode.

the tale of nonchalance leaves me bereft.
isn't it like—
you're afraid to be read,
cause what if they don't like what they see?
but what if them not liking you
makes you dislike yourself—
and that's all that you believe.
the moon has craters.
up close, it looks like a giant ball, imperfect,
filled with marks and depths.
and yet every night you sit,
praying, admiring
the same moon, the same hollows that you carry.
if you could preach self-acceptance,
then maybe you wouldn't grieve
someone else's ignorance.
the codependence lies within yourself.
they could or could not—
you're left with you.
that's all you got.
so live a little, baby,
even if you make mistakes.
if they love you,
they'll correct and still accept you the same.





weeds of hope:

often saving up stories, reels, images
that i'd like to keep in my memory.
i don't read it all,
instead promising that one day
i'll either use them
or take inspiration to write my own.
except all that i've learnt,
the crazy crashing innocence—
there is hope within,
even though i might not see.
i could say i wouldn't want to wake up,
i'd want to sleep forever.
but all the saved up diaries,
waiting to be written into,
and through all the saved, shared, linked posts—
hope exists.
doesn't really show in the way it must,
but in other ways,
like saving the cheesiest bite
for the last take.

hope is beautiful,
even though it is never sure—
like the real home is with the right person,
the walls decoration, accessories on bodies of them all.

you don't look back—
that's the key to keep going.
but i do it often,
a way of letting go
and moving.
i've looked back,
when i was sure no one would be waiting.
and i saw tiny figures in the mist of dark—
they were leaving.
for the first time in a long time,
it didn't feel like the ultimate ending,
yet it was the closure for me.
done, complete.

i've been keeping a track of all my greens—
the plants, the flowers, and how they stopped blooming.
the prettiest of extras, weeds they call them.
i watched them grow, unsure if i should crop them.
now they've taken over,
grown to heights the plants could never.
and they seem more in place than the originals—
except in the long run you and i both know
they'll ****, no matter how we look.
weeds have to be removed.

i removed the weeds off my plants today.
prettiest, shadowy, soft, almost as if they belonged.
and now they lie on my desk,
drying away through as the sun sets.
perhaps they'll be stacked among the pages
of my books, as bookmarks, memories and stages,
as people who've drifted in closer and walked away.

even though they weren't meant to stay,
the weeds gave me an idea:
phantoms do stay,
so the leaves as well.
and they might not have belonged in the plants,
but they did grow, and it isn't all too bad.
the plants are alive still.
the flowers might bloom again.

you could sit at the highest of buildings
by the edge, always at the edge
legs dangling, undone shoelaces
staring at what is familiar
but no longer close
groups of people
casually drifting by
as if they aren’t taking what was left of me, whole

and the irony stares back
laughing as if it finds the situation hilarious
i’d known it all along
and yet i played right into the arms
of all those who didn’t mean
what they preached to aim
it has and always been
one-sided, delirious
stemming from want
ending in hurt

the unease gnaws at the surface now
crooked teeth waiting to harm
they bite, leave scars
i nod, obey, let them think i’ve forgotten
but it’s hard
hard when it seeps into my dreams
in the folds of fabric
i sense the sharpness of the blades
the taste lingers
at the back of my mouth, it hinders
can barely breathe, so i try
heaving a sigh
a voice so calm, it could make the hurricanes surrender

they haven’t seen me so far
on surface, and moments when i let it come undone
all the ties, and all the threads
the doll-like puppet with broken strings
versions still exist
messy, violent, trembling and quiet
and yet, flinching is no longer there

anger sizzles, singes my own
never out of control
dies in the borders
even if all that remains is soot
and the sole will to direct
comfort vs control
a safety too intense to trigger

you’ve been so good this far
and you’ve told me so
that nothing could go wrong
and i ain’t made from a broken mould
then why do i melt
when the temperature goes high
why do i swell
with all that i haven’t said or put out to light
why these bubbles
of wanting to escape
from the same arms that have carried
and brought me out
why do you push me back down
to where i came from
it’s almost as if
you’d like it
if i were to become your sole
based on the fact
you’d mould me back
into whatever you’d like
and you say i wasn’t my own?

i sit often
staring
but i zone out
out of my body, blocking my thoughts
suddenly i look back
and i see me
sitting there, she looks relaxed
i roam through the rooms
finding and catching onto souls that could
help me, perhaps understand even
but barely any exist
and those who do
are out of their bodies simply because
they couldn’t persist, too loud

so i shake this feeling
of being watched
they could, but they’d never know
what i think and how i know
they’ve rubbed love on me
disguised lies as happy memories
there’s midnight’s empty felonies
that i didn’t even commit
but the board carries plague
and it holds up posters
i sleep, with a prize on my head

this was what you wanted,
i guess
prize on my head
and once with you
you could exchange me for anything you’d want
anything you could have
and the funny exchange here
i was the one who set up that alimony
fooling me became a passion for you
the fool in real turned out to be you

how can
i be the star
when you’re out and about
every single time
behind my light
telling me i need to dim down
and when i do
you speak of fake promises
oh i might be the wrong one
victim play, all you're is empty premises

if you lie to the ones that hold you close
you’re the biggest fool
why’d you simply let them go?
and how can you live even — that way
pretending, double-faced
is it not hard?
i get tired mainly by watching you mask

it’s awful
makes my breath go a little too breezy
and for seconds i feel it
the world slows down
and i look at you
the image i’ve had of you
it shatters, the screen catches fire
the building burns down
and i go cross-eyed
trying to explain, to express
it hurts though
would you care enough to leave one last caress?

fake as it might be
could you look me in the eye and repeat
i haven’t lied

but you did

it’s not fair
i repeat that every time something goes wrong
i could put distance
but they’ll term me as the one who stood in the long
that i was rude
but i misplaced all my secrets and all my trust
and left them to you
but i see you go
you speak ill of me with those
who stabbed me not so long ago
and you were there, looking at the wounds
you watched me bleed
and now i see what came out of you

i imagine
bloodied hands over my body
the hope to see some inkling of regret
that you got and lost me
but i’ll continue
for i can’t play the role as well
and i can’t deny that the soft spot i had for you
turned my life into a living hell

i’ve been poisoned before
the first time — right in my nerves
through my brain, down my body
poisoned by the particular ones

took over my heart
seeped into my veins
refused to let me live

antidotes were rare
with the lucky ones
and i had no clover or charms
when the toxins came from my own
slipped into my being like kisses exchanged during farewells
that’s when i found the way

twice being poisoned
i ingested the venom myself
fell head first into the vat of chemicals

the third time, it didn’t hurt as much
just left me reeling with an impending numb

the fourth and the fifth — and so it continued
ingesting what could **** you, i took it in varying degrees

different ways — sometimes inhaling, often through my hearing
and god, did it leave me searing

i’d screamed at first, cried during the second
the helplessness, the forced resilience — visceral
but i brought it on myself
then i admitted, looked into the eye of the holder
who gripped the vial tight
offered them the kindest inkling
hoping they’d catch onto the feeling
poisoned or not — i’ve lost to this existence of mine

i’m poisoned often still
every now and then, i notice traces of it
it’s there in my being, in my body —
sometimes i believe more than blood, it’s the venom i bequeath
and yet, i’ll say — i’ve trained enough
to be proud that the poison doesn’t make me so weak

and there’s still strength that remains
despite the nights i spend crying
and the moments where i feel like dying
there’s hope that one day
it ought to stop or i’ll have become immune enough
to not drop to my knees
no matter how new the way,
how strong the feeling


could i come up to you
face you—meet it headfirst—
ask why you did that
and why it had to be me?

was i too reckless?
were my ways wrong?
maybe i never gave you
what you wanted all along.

but i tried—god, i tried—
and still, i let you hold me,
even when it felt stained.

now, i can’t wash it away.
this—however it is—
stays.
and i think it will,
as long as i keep seeing you
and pretending i don’t know
the truth—
and how i once promised myself
everything i never had
and never could.

i’d ordered a belgian dark cake
the worst kind of bitter frosting they could find
i received it, packed like the perfect delight
opened, scanned, the outsides a lookalike
except i ate the borders, an odd way
devoured the corners
the centre held buttercream
with the note
i hope you pay no mind

flaws could be accepted
i’d have done so
but knowing you left it
as it was, knowing it despite the promises
you could have changed,
could have exchanged
despite knowing, you still brought me the same
and now i sit
with the centre, having reached so far
i see the core and how it’s rotten
and all this long, close i think you are
enough to admit, that it hurts
etched into my tastebuds
it *****, but i’ve tasted this before
and the right order, it’s never really been placed
never heeded to, thus i never had it
what i believed to be the final try
might as well go ahead and say you’ve lost it

i’ll accept it, but i don’t think time and fading with it works
so i sit and stare and look at you, and let it hurt
it's just a cake, i know
i wish you had noticed,
only when it mattered to me the most.

she's got fluttering keys in her ribs,
ones that'll open the locks to whichever treasure you wish to seek.
but to get the permission
or be acknowledged,
you might have to give up the key
of all your knowledge.

i've got a thorned flower stuck in my throat.
it blooms usually, and i see beez buzzing around,
trying to get close—
they'd like to.
except butterflies are the only ones allowed,
for they wait, and i deliver
the petals and the cores
they'd like oh so much
on a silver platter.

august is bittersweet,
and then there's nights like these.
i've the right, perhaps, to smell like cinnamon
and honeysuckle—
candied apples dried in the sunsets.
burn the candle that says autumn.
the color? i call for brown.
i hope the leaves shed,
and all the images imagining myself as ruthless— drown.

i'd love the crunch,
love the music—
’cause it's scarf season.
and if it gets cold just right,
i'll pull out that one sweater,
the one i like.
peachy-fuzz almost, like a carrot cake—
enough to hide, enough to comfort,
a warm hug in all its wake.
and perhaps a combination of wildflowers and wine
would go well that one evening
that i ought to spend with love's seasoning.

and we might be dead by tomorrow,
having missed out on all that we planned—
all the things we couldn't do,
feelings we couldn't share,
or the pictures they banned.

but i'll walk with you by the sunset.
these are the good old days,
the golden age,
the future will talk about a couple years further.
like we do—talkin' of time as nostalgia runs through.
perhaps the present is the past.
every second lost is a new one cast
upon the light of our souls,
like the sunshine in the morning—
watching the sun, feeling it bleed through the sky
and fall upon you, sole.

i do not look out the window anymore.
face down in the moment,
wondering, reliving, rethinking, desiring—
the way it shapes you.
a newer tomorrow, for better or worse perhaps.
you ought to respect and accept,
merely ’cause we signed the time's pact
when we first joined in—

the circle of humans,
being termed to be alive.
we listened and followed,
all the rules, abided by all the runes.

it might have brought us to the ruin—
the time's doing.
so i flee into the night to feel
and return back before the first white light,
pretending i wasn't reading
or speaking out loud about all that has vanished.
i sang and committed felonies,
but during the day, i'll wish for the autumn.
look at you, with eyes and words bespoken,
and share the thoughts and this one playlist
that i made to live through the summer.

midnight's a dream many wish to live.
i just hope we were somewhere better to believe and give—
hands full, hearts empty, souls bespactled,
but eyes like sweet ’n sour candy.

there's a before and there's an after.
there's a cord around my throat as i picture
and tell this to you—
the secrets of the world and of our beings.
we weren't meant to live and see.

let's step out,
even as the cord tightens, and even as i grow silent,
i'll sign you, and we'll run through the greens.
let the rain drench us all—
we'll glitter through the later summer sheen.

we were innocents.
capitalized, thrown off the tracks,
told the biddings we ought to serve.
it was never fair, never intact.
and yet—
we played and searched dignities,
wrapped them up, like secrets—
all our possible endings and deficiencies.

the candle's been burning long enough.
it's round the corner, the time has begun—
a play of words, of everything that we've got.
let's throw all the weapons
and light the fire to mop
our solemn and easy-going.
we'll sit, stare, wonder, and wander—
and maybe, finally, for once, achieve what's worth something
to a yearner.

i'm a yearner by profession
wanting, requiring, praying and pleading,
all in silence, while acting nonchalant,
'cause it's the new language in the book of expression.

and who wrote it, i wonder?
where did the raw vulnerability go?
why hide in the shadows
while all you wish to sow
is seeds of needing—
a presence, someone to listen?

"you cursed it, didn't you?"
but the irony is, i did not.
i have never.
and perhaps people do admit
what they mean when they're angrier,
but what of those who simply don't know any other means?
anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter,
and suddenly it's all in the plain sight.
but i don't mean when i say it—
and it's on accident if you hear me.

don't call me a curse.
i do not hex.
i bleed in violet
with every scratch
that blooms on my skin,
birthed accidentally or meant to exist within.
hollowed out a perfect doll,
tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest.
nine, since it got harder.
was i made this way,
or did they carve me out the wrong mold?

called me cursed, she said so.
admitted saying, i thought so.
did i really? i wondered.
never meant to—was it in the moment,
or just mere anger?

i didn't, i promised.
but it hurt, if i'm being honest.

so once again, i went to what comforted.
picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose.
the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced.
i bled in violet, with no regret or fears.

the thunder resembled, like a biography almost.
it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole.
i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over.
it gathered, brought upon all that remained
from the very corners, every single ounce of wind.
and then it regained—some power, waited,
gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning,
and i bled—
against the skies, down the fields, through the streets,
over every single one—drenched poor souls,
unknown it was my thunder that they entertained.
blade-like sharp, violet like bruises,
the nights covered me in a blanket,
the mornings brought up more such poses.

silence sits
like a mannequin
in every corner.
voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal.
in the very center,
there's no one to guard
or stop them from becoming.
they play me symphonies—
the first says, congratulations on your undoing.

but what fault do i pay for?
is it being unforgivably myself?
perhaps i was meant to mask—
playing the same game like others.
bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise.

i cut out metaphors from my skin,
built them up, needed muscles—
so i raked within.
the best of them all—
my heart, put forward.
forgot the body won't function
without its dull weight.

it's been there, beating,
doing what it ought to do scientifically,
but in terms of being human,
it sits like it's been dead.
sometimes i hold my hand over my chest
just to feel—do i exist?
am i in the mind, do i continue to persist?

funny, the trick they say—
5 things you can see,
4 you can touch,
3 you can hear,
2 you can smell,
1 you can taste.
i've tried it all—
but that's my big mistake.

should have surrendered when i still had the time.
but it isn't anything new.
regrets are a constant part of life—
of most, actually. they all do.
perhaps they don't think
or look at life, having to wonder
what will come through.

when you ought to blame,
repeat what they did.
unfortunate as it is,
you'll have to face the same.

curse, i may not be,
but i've etched the words to my skin
with razor-sharp needles,
and they bleed in violet.
there's cuts made out of shards—
all the mirrors i've thrown,
broken through the walls.
i fill up a glass full of the bearings
for nothing but purpose:
to get close, to push far away,
gather the mess, save the day.

i bring it up,
have a taste.
it isn't sweet,
isn't bitter,
isn't even fake.

too real—
it smells like dark cocoa.
the right taste buds,
and suddenly i've got a violet tongue.

i shall close my eyes,
breathe in, as i hear it on loop:
call me anything you want.
what signifies is what comes true.

you're at fault.
i'm merely the one facing.
i bleed in velvet—but term it violet,
'cause that's the shade they slither
under my skin, all that i've heard,
crawling within—
like worms almost,
creepy, looking for the weakest spots.
and when they find, they reside, curl up
and take a bite—feels like a pinch,
like a syringe deep in my vein.
and they ****, they pull,
and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds,
so i bleed anyway.

it tastes like when pain meets with happy—
both fight for dominance.
comfort enters, so does wondering,
the second-thoughts, words and glances,
and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare.

electric, perhaps—
for i get seizures like shock.
the drink too heavy,
the feelings ****** all
the marrow of my life, made me fragile.
do not bother, the label reads.
cursed, i write over it.
and perhaps i've believed
and accepted.
if that is the case,
might as well make it look sacred.

so i offer you
the wine of the cursed—
violet shade, i could call it,
the violet suburban.
and this is me trying,
running out of fuel, of words to bleed.
so it's all been real, all this while—
and since i offered,
cursed as it might be,
i hope you like the drink.

i saw this prompt somewhere,
asking me what i'd do
if i had nine lives.
and my first thought was—
was i being given a chance
to live as a cat for a while?

sarcastic, of course, it was,
but it really made me think.
so i settled down
and began making a list
of what i'd actually do
if i were to have,
not one, but nine different lives come true.

i believe i'd spend the first
living and experiencing
all forms of art my eyes could pick up:
reading and listening,
watching, looking,
visiting museums, talking to people,
asking the writers what gave birth to their empiricals.

the second, perhaps, i would—
put myself up and forward,
creating the same art
as i hoped i would.
and maybe i'd write
to the length of the night.
i'd create all sorts of felonies,
live somewhere unknown to horizons,
creating my life away.

the third was a confusion.
what did i truly wish to do?
maybe this time, i'd learn
all that there was for me to.
i'd look on and become one
among the smartest people—
to get to know what put them at the top,
and whether it was a life i truly yearned for.

the fourth came easy.
i'd be an artist,
a model or an actor.
i'd climb up high on a pedestal,
look at the faces watching me
from the crowd below,
trying to understand
whether it was really fun
and cut out for me so.

the fifth, i wondered—
what would it be like to live on the roadside,
barely surviving, dying the next day?
i'd want to understand the aches they go through—
those without a home, money, or food—
to perhaps help them better
and make sense of what inspired me to.

the sixth life—
i wanted to spend it being loved,
and being loved by someone
who wouldn't want an other.
just loving, spending my entire existence
there, physically and spiritually,
seeping into one another.
love was it for the sixth.
unknown in the end,
it finished with my sacrifice—
from no one but my lover,
whom i couldn't defend.

the seventh life, then—
i'd hug everyone i come across,
take away their pain:
child-like sorrows, grave depths of despair—
all kinds. and even as i end it,
let it consume me.
i'll have it known that maybe,
this way, the world will be a lighter place to live.
so when i take birth next,
someone could do the same.
and maybe we could share each other's sorrows
and laugh out all the pain.
let it seep through all the shared veins.
and maybe that way,
i'll spend two of my lives together.

eighth—one more to go, and then it’d be over.
so i lived in fear, avoiding getting close enough
to make anyone dear.
i wandered through the nights,
unsure of when i made this choice.
the mornings seemed scary;
i yearned for voices.
i found comfort in the lonely,
slid away slowly,
and let the last life catch on to me—
before i ended it myself,
i know it was lowly.

ninth life. here i was.
and i realized i hadn't chosen the previous three.
someone else made those choices—
who opted, i wondered?
who gave me those experiences i wrote?
suddenly, i realized it was honest:
the past three were lives i never wished to live.

this was perhaps my first.
now, i’m back in the present,
in my twenties,
the past years gone forever.

i don’t know how i spent them,
(i wouldn’t want to remember the forgotten)
but now i realize
all i yearned to do
and the fears i saw coming true.

i’m still here, putting down the list.
i'm going to sleep in tomorrow
and go to my classes the day after.
and i’ll continue,
doing all that i wanted to,
in the nine lives i was offered.

for i could wish,
but i was given just this one.
and i guess i’ll try to live
all of them
in a single one.

and my question for you tonight
what are you most scared of
in the pale moonlight
when you're by yourself
and you imagine a life where there isn’t any fear
what do you wish you wouldn’t have to bear?

i’ll start, i guess—
i’m scared of loud noises
people screaming
put me in direct contact
and i’ll lose all my feelings

i’m scared of broken ceramics
violence, hitting, cursing, breaking
i remember tea stains on the walls
pieces of a once whole, beautiful cup
strewn about, broken everywhere

i’m scared of the heights
only on days when i feel just too light
that i might just let go
what if i fall and what if there’s nothing that’ll hold me back
or a ledge to hold on

i’m scared of the compact
too many monsters all at once
perhaps i’ll crack
a pressure, eyes upon me
i could disguise, pretend
but i hate all that i see

i’m scared of losing all this kind
of losing who i am
and this battle in my mind
going cross-eyed even as i write
i’m scared of failing, falling,
not being able to swim back up
simply drowning

i’m scared of loving too much
perhaps enough and never being loved back
and it could be a lie or an irony
but i’m scared of nursing a broken heart
or breaking one myself
for i wouldn’t want it
wouldn’t want to see the mess
but it happens, happens way too much
and i have to play pretend

i’m scared of speaking
of what if you see the hidden meanings
of what if you just don’t— and ignore me
what if i speak, and there’s nobody to listen
and even if they do listen, what if i burden

i’m scared of being lost
in the depths, in the lows,
not being able to express does that to you the most
and i fear losing
losing all that i’ve built
every step i’ve taken
every memory i’m sewn in
all the moments out of time i’ve milked
to the very last drop
feelings i’ve penned down, every last thought

i’m scared of— not being enough
perhaps i am not
but even so— i deserve to exist
exist without a doubt or second thoughts
and i shall revoke anyone’s rights
don’t make me feel like it might
be better if i ceased to exist
i fear it and i fear what if a day comes
when i can’t write, listen, see or speak

and what if i lose
lose you, and what if i get punished
for things i haven’t even done but simply being blamed for
and what if you see me with the eyes that carry despise
hatred perhaps, i fear what if a day comes
and i just don’t see you anywhere or here, in fact

i’m scared of a lot more
of being left behind
overlooked, perhaps thrown to the side
never healing from things i can’t even speak of
and perhaps staying the same
missing out, accidentally meeting upon accidents
that could become part of the worst nightmares or
failing, falling on dreams and been a betrayed chore

the list goes on
but i can’t speak it out loud
or answer it when i ask you all about
what are you scared of?
so i just say spiders, and move on.