you think it's gone.
and even though
you're 'over' it,
you turn quickly when
faced with it.

it never truly goes.
if you get it once,
you get it twice.
twice, then thrice.
then every time the winter comes around.

try to cry in the shower,
so when nothing falls,
the water from the shower
head will satisfy
the hunger to feel
something dripping.

something is loose
and it makes you happy.
how sick is that?

no physical markings,
but it's all there.

in the shower, the skin
around my knee turns
purple – memories of
primary school.
my hips turn white
in glimmers of the
sunlight – growing
up is ******* the body.

but that's physical.
mental wear and tear
has made me hide
things cleverly.

sometimes i don't know
what to think but i
need to think something.

to think is to be alive, and
while i don't like being alive,
i like thinking.

The cloud I am looking at
is a pig-bull. The horns
directed to us. The man
next to me is ready to eat.

The woman near me is
describing the grotesque
face of the poor pig-bull. How
she’s glad it’s only a cloud.

The child is imagining taking
a sword to the neck of it. How
the blood spurts in their face
and coats with victory.

How to be a basic human being.
It’s funny. The pig-bull is not real
but our desire to ****** a lowly
and defenceless animal is.

I shivered with
pleasured sadness
when she said,
"It's okay, I kinda
guessed." I couldn't
bring myself to open
her message but I
knew what she had sent.

3 months on, the
message is waiting
for me to react on.

Sleep on, forget me.

I know you can't bear
the thought of me
still of existing after
we stopped talking.

I hope your tear
ducts become dry,
because, if you do
cry, then you won't
have any left to
use over me.

But
wishful thinking
can make a person
crazy. I know.

I see her everywhere. In
my soup, hiding beneath
the spoon. In the TV, with
the actress who looks like
her. In my dreams, in
district 13 with a swapped
nationality. I got so scared in
my dream; you were touching
my shoulder and I wondered if
you remembered my texts but
you'd chosen to forgive.

Sometimes I want to send
her a message saying how
I'm sorry for everything I've
caused her and how, clichéd or
not, it's not her, not you,
but me who ruined it.

Do you dream of a life with
me? In those 4 and 1/2 years,
I'd never even seen you before,
but was I the subject of your
fantasies, unbeknownst to me?
Maybe I've caused you pain,
but I could not see a future with
you, just as I was blind to a
past with you. Ignorant.
I can't help but think
I've caused some eternal death
of your love, but at least you
had the guts to talk to me.
I wouldn't have, but, then again,
I didn't notice you. I didn't like you.
At all. Never.

So, to conclude the eulogy for
our chimeric heart, it was not you, but
me that had to ruin something
for the hopes of a peaceful future.
I'd I hadn't, where would I
be now? Six feet deep, I hope.
But then you'd think it's your fault
and I can't let you win like that.

I lay on my side in bed
with my hand pressed under
my ribs.

My heart beating reveals to me
my life could be taken in
the width of a breath or
the snap of an eye.

I don’t like that so many
things could happen and that
I wouldn’t know because I’d
be gone. All I think I’ve built,
gone; just like that.

I’m not afraid of death
but I am when it comes to me.