i'm like when 2 am ferociousness met with 5 am alarm
smudged off the **** nuance off the corner of my lips in the dark

back home, drained, phone lighting up except it's not who i missed
make changes, perfect the scars — wipe out the traces that exist
feels like a music video, no cameras anywhere in sight
but i feel them watching, and with every reflex i hope to hide

multiple versions like blind spots behind the walls
were the masks always as potent as planned for them was?

surreal sometimes, watching it slip
i pull the cloak over, can't let it flip
for even a second, for it carries my whole identity
if they truly saw — saw truly for who i am
i don't think they'd even recognize me
faking pills, anti-calamides, the entirety of my existence
look at pictures on my walls, to lose grip over any remaining hesitance

it's in stages
when it happens
undoing my skin, zipping it down and stepping out to breathe
during the nights when it gets as real as it can
i look at my wardrobe, it's filled with masks
who should i be for the day? choosing is a dire task
one that i must achieve, tally all the previous repeats
and it's never the same — midway through, i have to tear myself apart to hold my coop

signs, watch for them
like ants leaving behind a trail to follow
dropping crumbs even tho all they wish to do is swallow
can't carry it all, no matter how much they can borrow
there's moments when it flickers
everything bare just for a second and the world seems to hold
as if waiting, hide it away — telling me — hide yourself whole
this is your chance, run, or settle down
wait, or burn yourself out
extinguishing a flame is impossible when you give the oxygen
give it all to aggravate
in the end, how dare u cry for all the mess it made?
can't kiss the flame, why get close to it in the first place?

there's rainbow fumes slipping through the blacks
the radio playing the album's sixth track
the board up says take right
but there's a figure standing right midway
vision turning bright red, it flashes white
x-rays me through, i can't see the eyes
but they tell me a tale i've long since held
been rotting in the prison for so long
even the wind seems to snap

your eyes speak
like butterflies held in watery imagery
like that one store open 24/7 for the hungry
resembling a payphone hanging off its cord
the voice echoing, "knock knock knock"
you loom in between the dimensions
almost floating, with dragonflies in your palms
stretched out towards me
there's a puddle of rainwater on the ground
a gas burner bright blue and white in the faded background
the screens flash with errors and figures
they walk past, like fishes swimming in an aquarium
the neons slip through the eyes
irises fading into a silvery crash
thousands of people drift by
barely a hundred holding hands
distance separates, time forgives
forgetting is like looking deep into the liminal
knowing there's no ending to this beginning

the streets aren't all too familiar
the buildings carry lives that speak
their windows tell stories — a dozen different endings
the sunshine falls a certain way
creating grey memories across the streets
do shadows overlap each other?
multiple questions — the answers to which lie in the mist

i could scan your eyes
find the me's that exist, see if u see me the way i do
check for pictures in your wallet, in your camera
in your feed, in your head — on your body, on you
but knowing i can't describe it all
describe them for you, i can't seem to stand tall
i'm afraid for you, seeing you walk out
is perhaps the best chance i can take
but a miserly one at that, it's a coward's mistake

should i count them out?
on fingers, i'd say just three
there's more — but facets to multiple sympathies
the major ones though, i call them the protectors

one exists — borderline deceitful
never aiming to hurt, keeping peace closed off
in a loophole, almost
living in boundaries
closed off, hiding in plain sight
having created doors, windows nailed shut
speaking in controversies
it preaches to protect the soul

there's another —
the publicised centre
lives empathetically
provides requests, hearing pleading
walking epiphanies
the bored, tired, sleepy version
meeting eye to eye
smile for smile
never faking, but never loosening the knots either
tie the loose ends just right

the remaining, the original
is a psychological art house
chaotic, musing, no doubt in the dark clouds
writing warfare of the minds
speaking soft, almost gullible
closest, truest, no boundaries like the previous
she lives as she breathes
grief filled in the soul
with a happy-to-go personality
i believe she's the one
except she hides beneath all that is dust
drifting through the mess she's become
it's calming, silent, wrecking havoc amidst
stench of sugar, candied crushes and humor
psychic tutorials, rafting rows of water
she lives in nightmares,
daydreams — almost as if there were none

“Don’t bring the past into the present and don’t project the present into the future.”

― Brittany Burgunder

_________________­_

Then …

is lost in a cloud of vague and shadowy memories,
and comes in waves of melancholy nostalgia
for that distant time;
how can it have been so long ago?

Now …

is enduring the present,
each day blending into the next.
The clocks tick so slowly
yet day passes into night
into day into night
in a never ending cycle.

When …

is that far horizon
shrouded in fog,
beckoning me towards it relentlessly.
How far it is I cannot know;
it could be tomorrow or many years hence.

But I know
that all too soon,
now will become then,
the fog will clear,
and I will realise I have reached the end.

And the clocks will stop ticking.

Can you believe it's been five years?
Those few days, I mourn in million ways.
And I fall for you each time as they fly by,
Breaking my heart a little more, each July.

Did you know it all along?
Were my glances loud, or my silence strong?
So careful to never do anything wrong,
Carrying all that's unspoken for so long.

Keep it benign without crossing the line,
Despite my wishes and all that cheap wine.
'Cause it was never supposed to become real,
I was content with keeping in what I feel.

Sometimes, I wish people like you,
Could peer through the eyes I see them through.
You were a midsummer's dream, mighty, divine,
Unreachable, untouchable, and never mine.

I'm not someone who dwells on fantasies,
But I do love to romanticize my tragedies.
And despite all the admiration and yearning,
I liked it when it was but a dream returning.

You turned the lights down, and the room went black,
But you were never supposed to kiss me back.
I never prepared myself to win the game,
I lost the plot when I realized you too felt the flame.

What made this year the one to break?
What changed in you — or was I the mistake?
Was it just timing, or something more?
Something new, or was it there before?

I don't know what to do with all these thoughts,
With the flashbacks and the guilt, and purity lost.
I'll never know why, and that's the curse,
Nor why it matters when I had it so much worse.

All those years — yet I kept myself sane,
Now everything I thought I knew went down the drain.
I feel like the confusion I feel is driving me mad,
And I never even knew you can feel this type of sad.

You were my favorite never-was,
Yet I admired you for following the laws.
Now that I touched what once felt divine,
There's only emptiness, and the "you" I can't define.

You were better as a ghost in my head,
Than the man who left me sleepless in bed.
What I thought I wanted — I left in your hands,
Now I don’t even know where our story stands.

I can’t forget, but I don’t want to keep,
Reliving a truth that won’t let me sleep.
By telling you this, I know I've said goodbye,
But I had to speak before more time went by.

sad, and heart-wrenching. you don't know how else to describe it.
you're approaching graduation, and slowly starting to see your campus, your home away from home (that eventually became home), through the eyes of an alumna.
Slowly, yet instantly, your lasts begin to accumulate.
Last coffee & pastry from the arts cafe.
Last paper printed from the library.
Last haphazard multiple choice question selection.
You picked "c" again because it has always felt safe.
And don't even get started on the last moments in your dorm.
Your last classes.
Last walks around the lakes.
The best and worst thing about lasts is oftentimes, you are not aware (fully at least)
of the true finality of these experiences.
But that's what commencement is for... right?
Not directly, but sort of. Because commencement means 'beginning', not 'end'. We talk about all that we have done to get to this faithful graduation day, and it is good that the end is about beginning, but even the beginning ends.
So that space between the beginning of the end and the end of the end is quite strange.

You realize you will no longer attend school here, or maybe even anywhere, starting in just a few days.
Yet you're walking through the student center listening to a song you listened to when you walked around campus for the very first time.

Except everything seemed faster then.

Now, it all seems slow, perhaps even            frozen
           in                                 time.
Years ago, you didn't know the ins and outs of how this place was laid out; how it functioned.
You didn't see fuzzy memories at certain tables and buildings, and in certain nondescript corners.
You couldn't hear the ghostly 'Hello!'s echoing, familiar voices greeting you that now haunt the sidewalks
instead of traveling along them.
You are no longer in the moment when you started to call
this place home.
Except it's your last day of classes, and you've been here
quite a while, but it is, in fact, still home.
But something is fading, unclear in this
space
          between
                          spaces
The­ faces aren't familiar anymore,
and years ago, that would be something you
jokingly wished for, perhaps just to be left alone so you didn't have to pause your music.
But now, you long for that closeness in some way.
You'd find comfort in that sort of chaos.
And maybe you already started your post-grad job
before graduation because you needed to distract yourself
from the fact that it is all
so liminal.
a place between places, spaces between spaces,
a life lived between lives.
Where you're able to recognize that though your worst times were hosted there,
your best times also were.
and maybe it all wasn't truly just a well thought-out blur, because you found so much safety here, and learned to create that for yourself.
Without this place, it would've been tough to deal with what had been dealt.
This place lifted you up, showed you what you could do, and you created a life and love for yourself that you're starting to see now that you're through.
It hurts, yes, I know: to say goodbye to this chapter.
but it remains part of you, now and thereafter.
side note from the future: don't rush into things, just listen to yourself, because you are all you have
and the rest is what you have felt.

You gave me a boat—
A boat made of paper.
You painted it blue,
I preferred green.
You poor soul, couldn’t have known

Oh, You gave me a boat—
I said it was perfect,
And I knew it was paper,
Yes, I swear I did.

But I put it in the water,
Even quickly named it June,
A quiet way to remember
The day you forgot soon

And I knew it was melting—
And I know you did too

But god gave me a heart
Gave you one too
Though yours is for beating
And mine is to feel


Still—
I went in the boat,
Oh, I didn’t want fighting.
A few feet later,
I felt the water flow.

I swam to the shore,
And yes, I saw you laughing—
But still, I swam to you,

For I could not call for help
Help from the warm murky water
No I will not anger you.
And I didn’t choose to drown,
For I cannot bear it.

Bear to see you suffer,
Like I would have for you.
Though you do not deserve it,
And not for forever— I hope
I swim back to you

pain’s funny.
laughs a humorless laugh, entering through the doorway
without a knock, without ringing the bell—
a familiar visitor in the hotel of myself.

it has learned my name,
learned where it ought to reside.
easy for it to slip in, even undisguised.

i welcome it, however.
often, i bring it over to a pedestal:
period cramps causing knots in my stomach,
getting waxed after a month,
or even falling over and knocking my head against a cupboard.
familiar. honest. raw. unfiltered.

it sits behind my ribcage, a permanent guest.
some days, in my head.
often, in the form of a heavy numb in my chest.

why is it there—
what form, what holiday brought it this time?
the questions remain unanswered.

sometimes it carries a reason.
other times, it’s just to remind me of old memories—
like applying my favourite perfume.

i could create a list,
but it’s hard to remember
when it’s visiting my central library
of all that i carry.

i can’t remember how it began.
like an old friend,
one night i met it in disguise.

thought i could trust.
i let myself flicker.
it changed my defaults.
and i found some plain, old comfort.

perhaps the wrong kind.
perhaps the wrong thing to do—
chasing after something that hurts
or brings it to visit me the same way it used to.

now, however, it resides,
living right behind my eyes.

sometimes, if i look too hard,
i can almost imagine its presence:
dark.
clouding.
a kind of grey.
ready to hold my hand.

having grown up—
a monster turned old friend,
almost a lover.

i wear it like a second skin.
and on days i can’t even drink,
it slips its hand in my own,
brings me up, pushes me to smile,
whispers, you have to pretend.

and i do.
i do.
and i keep doing so.

support of one kind,
accepting me with my own mind.

some days, it feels like metamorphosis almost—
a change of forms.
on some days, as a memory.
other times, as a memento.
like dowry.

never concluding.
doesn’t even let me stay in delusions.

creates imagery so beautiful,
i’m yet to believe it isn’t just me—
dignified, personified as the midnight hour.

i’m no sun, or the moon.
maybe i could be a star?

beauty is in the eye of the beholder
but what if the one to envision it is blind?
i could approach you with a clean slate
i always do—writing things on a white screen—
except the older the ink, the harder for it to be removed.
visions of you in my head—just not anyone could write over.
and if they try—if i hear things again and again—every time,
it's written over and over and over
until i do not have any clean slate for you, any longer.


actions so cheap, the best of ink fails to meet my expectations.
perhaps there are too many,
but what do i do
when you tend to perform in disguise
every time you see someone come around?

i slip in the lows of being unhinged almost,
the gates of emotional purgatory open to welcome me aboard.
it's tiring—i'm drained.
speaking it in metaphor, trying to paint over.
it brings me to wonder:
just how long do i play pretend?

been wrung dry of trust,
perspective from the third person
who stands in the rubble of ghosted flirtations,
half-friendships built on the foundation of lies.
expected nothing,
but the hope still flows—
straight to my river of misery,
now reeking shades of disappointment.
got lesser and lesser,
and now it's barely there.

this is my final letter,
a sigh of resignation—
hopefully the scientific dissection of this feeling that i entertain:
of the almosts,
weird hope-hangovers,
and all the games
that weren't even mine to begin with.

to name it is difficult—
perhaps it's the hope fatigue,
the burn of being ghosted,
or a nostalgia born from detached attachment.
i mourn for things that weren't real.
hungover from fake bonds,
relying on remnants of connections
that echoed in fallouts.

i asked ai—what do i name this feeling?
in my own words, it replied:
choose your favourite color and give it to this burnout.

grey—
in the middle of extremes,
where hope lay on one end,
ache at the other.
the rope stretched thin.
my being glitches—
a breath, every failed text,
trying to match up the vibe.
i feel like i've fallen in between the lines.
i see it, hiding in plain sight,
watching people perform me wrong.
lowest of expectations, ridden lower and low.

fake affection tastes like sour frosting
on a cake that's been left uncovered in the fridge
for way too long.
the outside’s rough, dry—
nevertheless, i take a bite.

there's eerie silence
as i sit at the edge of the windowsill.
numbness lingers.
i pull at the strings.
raw evenings,
i tend to wonder—
write notes, only to surrender.

kindness—they tally manipulation.
flirting, i take as a weapon.
come headfirst—i'm no longer wary.
having given up,
you just add to my list
of why i shouldn't let people carry
me,
or the weight of what i've become.

i don't despise it.
rather, it's a maturity
i ought to carry to a life—
unless i find someone to share this feeling with.

do you feel,
having already expected close to none,
but being handed even lesser—
gift-wrapped in guilt almost—
just please accept it?
expect it the least,
find it dealt in a heist.

even apathy tends to feel violated
when you drag it back to the beginning.
there ought to be a specific hell
for those who tend to exist
and make promises
like they aren't bartering their own.
calling me honest—
with a mouth that lies.
an ache with no name,
a feeling with no gain.

i been known,
been breathing in the sighs—feelings forlorn.
lover girl by laufey plays on my phone,
disappointment of having lost myself
to beliefs that held me strong.

believe,
trust,
exist,
let go.

four friends turned strangers
sitting on the edges of an x.
the centre, i settle upon,
asking what do i name this feeling
that's been born?

how hard is it
to not wear a mask
and change it every time you bask
in a different one’s setting?
a rare emotional creature,
i tend to sit in the foreign setting.

i do not recognize myself.
holding onto things that weren't even present—
this reads like a séance.
funerals held for feelings that needed strengthening,
got tampered with instead,
burnt down to the very bit.

excuse me as i scream in silence.
look at you, with eyes speaking imagery.
build a connection,
hold the other edge of the phone connected to this wire—
one that wouldn't carry any signals.
but i hope you'll still hear
the music that plays this side—
all the unspoken
that i let bleed through my hide.

masks are unrequired.

i've got an inkling—
you do not understand.
and i do not put it in words.
this, like a myth—uncanny and impossible to uncover.

unless i've got a name to put to this emotion,
i shall drain myself of all words, irrespective—
if it's meant with relating,
or with mirth.

you can only add to my reasons
of why it isn't ever worth.

Whatever I think, I say it and mean it.
I wear my heart on the seams of my sleeve.
The coming wind holds my poems and their meanings,
Like smoke, I let it pass over me.

I follow every laughter, every melancholy feeling.
I tread every road that I ever see.
To be alive is to bear the searing
Fiery breath of what caused us to be.

I, that hold the cold of summer leaving,
Can only sense that I hold my poetry—
That which I hope has sailed with the weary,
That which I dread always follows me.

Who in this world could claim the right
To define what is a memory?

To be able to see what others can’t see,
To be able to smell flowers in dreams—
We are all a walking treasury.

What magic we make that grows with age
And creeps through our melodies,

That trickles from books, from lasting looks, from yawning gentle poetry.

What words can change in an hour or an age
Of long past tales and history?

Can we remember or try to dismember
The meaning of a eulogy?

Do we surrender to cold December
And live again in memories,
Or wish that someday we break asunder
And become immortal memories?