I woke up under the sun/in my throat/in a prison cell/on someone else’s bed.
The mirror said hello/goodbye/nothing/my name in cursive.
I brushed my teeth/stared at my reflection/spoke to the sink/bled a little.

She was waiting in my bed/on my roof/in my mailbox/not at all.
She said: I missed you/I made you/I warned you/I’m not real.
I said: Me too/I know/I’m sorry/Who am I?

I put on my coat/face-mask/body/new name.
Went outside/stayed inside/went sideways.
The street looked like a dream/a crime scene/a question mark/my old bedroom.

Someone grabbed my wrist/my leg/my shadow/nothing.
They asked: “Did you mean it?”
And I said: Yes/No/What did I say?/Who’s asking?

I don’t want to die for you to be left a widow.
  Not you.
  Not the fire in my room’s curtains,
  Not the scream in the sink,
  Not the glue that binds my lungs shut.

You, who wears my pulse like cologne.
You, who adores migraines.
You, who talks in-between my unfinished sentences.

The fever I despise yet love.
The sea I drink until I drown.
The taste of unfinished violence.
The vow carved into my spine.
The addiction I romanticize.
The hunger that signs my name when I can’t.
The dumb idea that razors its way through my thoughts.

  My wildness I swore I could hold,
  I’d rather die every day of my life,
  If it means I will die with you.

My head turns into a pile of ash
until your fingers flick me.
Smoke billows out—
curling in spirals toward the sky.

You light me up,
place me where you keep your lies—
between your lips,
sometimes held by teeth.

I burn slow for you,
but not fast enough
to chase away the pain
you’re trying to distract from.
Don’t blame me.
I was made to disappear.

Just like the things you tried
to hold onto,
but instead, cling onto me—
and I, too, eventually leave.

But parts of me linger.
A nicotine ghost on your tongue,
haunting your attempts to quit me.

I’m just a cigarette, though...
What do I know?

I’m a homicidal poet,
who breathes coffee like oxygen,
haunts digital wastelands—
until my fingertips bleed pixels
and my pulse hums in binary.

I bury bodies in blank verse,
resurrect them with rhyme.
Sleep for a century.
Repeat.

But I swear—
I’m fine.

In amongst this rubble we met.
I suffer and you suffer and yet through the harsh words we call our own, one can find the truth.
We are at school, we are at home, yet nowhere at all.
Stuck in the inbetween.
Who are we to live such lives?
Are we stars that sit and twinkle all our lives before fading away into darkness?
Or do we fly across the sky in a bright flare, burning and too bright to last.
Either way, we are space junk… burning up and destined for endless darkness.
Quick.
Choose your life.
Know who you are.  
Work hard, and then work even harder.
Who are they to give us a choice?
What difference would it make?
We are no one compared to the glory of Jesus, yet He says we are enough.
Does that make us worthy of being?
Does that give us an excuse to patch together lies and weave a net across the sea?
The fish we would catch would have brilliant blue scales and yellow fins.
They would flip around on the deck of our boat and instead of suffering they die.
Their spirit moving on to the next dimension.
How fun this next dimension must be to accommodate these funks and quirks.
Imagine.
A place where you can eat giraffe spots and deep-fried zebra stripes.
Who gave us such an imagination to be able to ponder such wild concepts?
Yet within the maze of life we tackle through the loads of homework and give excuses when overwhelmed.
The piles build up and we create little houses within the pages.
In the houses live little people with little problems and little lives.
They have little gardens and say little hellos to other little people.
Do they look at us and think we are strange?
Do their hearts rip and tear when they hear of our names and how little they mean?
Why should we give prejudice to ducklings when the world agrees that yellow *****?
Can we not have one thing that makes sense?
Can we have one thing that can be without exceptions?
That is all I ask in this crowded chaotic chapter in my life.
I look to the sky each day and revel in the endless blues that seem to go on forever, yet still encompass us tightly.
Words and words and words.

All the intricate variables swirl within me, acting as a cause to
overstep my thinking, as you race through my mind. Of course, love
is blind, as it wears a blindfold to those glaring red flags you love to
turn a blind eye to. To break on through, even as you hold the brakes
on your personal drive — trust that on this journey, you will
ultimately discover your moment of breakthrough.

And when that drive turns a shade of blue, your own sadness leaves
you feeling less than colourful. As I've likely tasted my full share of
the Blues; where my existence hinges on where the wind last blew.
As the growth of the next tree relies on how far the wind carries its
seeds— so how far have I scattered my own fruit?

Even when there's a smile in your laugh; it can feel complementary,
akin to sitcoms with a good laugh track. Yet, I often lose track of how
many times I fake laugh. Seeming normal to people, is such a chore to
have; always having to tidy up my act. Yet I navigate through these
mundane conversations, laughing my way through normal
conversations. Please insert a fake laugh.

But behind the laughs, I'm really just weird.

I like the Darkside, what bumps in the night                                                
           ­                                                                 ­                                            
   I can't hardly wait till you turn out the light                                                            ­                                                                                ­                                                     
I creep around trying to give you a fright                                                      
                                                                ­                                                        
A Vampire's instinct a big appetite                                                                     ­                                                     
I am the monster who's under your bed                                                      
       ­                                                                 ­                                                  
I am the reason that you can sense dread                                                            ­  
                                                              ­                                                      
Turn on the flashlight, cover your head                                                             ­ 
                                                               ­                                                   
Don't call for your parents, they're already dead                                                             ­                       
                                                                ­                                                      
  I like to tease the victim before the ****                                                             ­                                                           
     ­                                                                 ­                                              
  So, I wouldn't run, be very still                                                            ­                                                                 ­                               
                                                                ­                                                  
   Just like a child who won't swallow their pill                                                             ­                                                   
                                                                ­                                                  
  The fear gets to them, I like the thrill                                                           ­     
                                                                ­                                                  
   I've practiced along time hunting the scared                                                           ­               
                                                                ­                                                
   They like to scream & run to nowhere                                                    
     ­                                                                 ­                                            
   But in the end, fair is fair                                                             ­               
                                                 ­                                                                 ­
    I've given no recourse but to get scared

I don’t stream a lot of TV
but once I’m in that mode, I’m down
and I can’t get up.

Best pickup line I heard this week:
“You could be my emergency contact.”

A girl recently called me “weird people.”
She was effusive and I was put in my place.
Apparently, good grammar isn’t legally enforceable.
Her friend apologized, saying—and wrote it down.
“She lives on her phone; it’s a claustrophobic place.”
“Ooo!” I’d said, "Can I use that?” She gave me a blank look.

Leong, lisa and I were walking to class when a lone goose flew over,
honking incessantly, like a New York taxi in heavy traffic.
“That must be a Canadian goose,” I said, because my uninformed comments seem forever welcome—and we are pretty far north.
“I know what it was saying,” Leong offered, in her most inscrutable Asian way. Lisa and I waited to hear some Chinese wisdom, but what she finally said was, “Where IS everyone? I knew I shouldn’t have stopped to ***.”

There’s a song that goes, “We got married in a fever.”
That line seems so point-on to me. That’s how it happens.
Not, “We got married with a prenup, hotter than a brussel sprout.”
My Grandmère told me Peter and I will need a prenup, if we ever…
.
.
Songs for this:
Feather by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Head In The Clouds by BabyJake
Jackson (feat. Josh Homme) by Florence + the Machine

It's all a little weird,
The way things fall into place.
How life seems to catch us,
When the time is just right.
Life found me when I was glum,
It told me to write.