You are steam, a romantic thing--
Silent, hot, always moving,
Ever-present where there is heat,
Life-giving substance and abundance,
Where there is tension and congestion.

But you are the kind of steam
That comes out of a humidifier
Your healing powers come from
A store-bought jug,
Worth less than a dollar.

Distilled--lacking in others’
Emotional impurities,
The little minerals that give the rest
Of us compassion and soul

Children try to play with you--
They engulf your furls in their mouths
Then open them and let you go, like dragons.
You linger in the air for winter.

I don’t know about her,
But I’m not sick anymore
Thank you for clearing this mucus
From my lungs.

Coughing up the phlegm
I've come to realize, this big surprise
no longer can I keep it to myself
Stuff like this can grow inside the body
and it's snotty
but you need to know the facts now for yourself.

and if the sputum's yellow,
be assured that it is viral
but can spiral
into something worse
a curse or so they say
so take the time to rest
and yes,
drink water and some juice
and for a boost,
vitamin C, 1000 mgs
just twice a day.

and by all means
take your cold to Walgreen, Eckerts, CVS, or Rite Aid,
where there's medicines that might aid and I might add
many brands that you can choose from~
Robitussin stops your fussin'
Advil Sinus for your highness,
by and far my favored Nyquil night-time
is the stuff I get my snooze from

if you've got a fever and it's green
you're infected, should be seen
do not delay if it is grey
or other colors of the day
because these bugs are nasty
downright mean!

cozy up with Vicks upon your chest
mentholatum tends to clear the passage best
a little dab will also do
beneath the nares it is true
external balms and lotions help you rest.

a clean humidifier by the bed
keeps the moisture in your tissues
and that said
keep a box of Kleenex near
the softest kind will feel most dear
and place your favorite pillow 'neath your head.

It's good to keep some chicken soup on hand
it's value has been known throughout the land
keep the heat on, be a ***** and
and crack the window just a pinch
and try to sleep as much as you can stand.

in time you will recover from this hell
your symptoms will subside and you can tell
but be sure to keep your guard up,
avoid crowds
and don't be hard up,
just insist they keep their distance,
and stay well!

I watched a movie once that related Love to oxygen.
It was at that instance I realized something.
I’ve spent too many years inhaling and exhaling such a fragile and pure concept.
And for once I want to suffocate at the thought of a healthy heart.

I wanted to discontinue the second notion of my lungs.
Because breathing out never sounded so strenuous.

When I saw you, I couldn’t help but gather the atmosphere around me and hold it in.
My better half held it’s hand over my mouth.
But for once I didn’t panic.
The thought of your presence crept in and eased my pain.

At times I feel like I have reoccurring moments.
Like certain circumstances have been lined up for me and you’re my humidifier, aiding my existence.

A kiss.
My lips gather upon yours.
And it is at that time, I can resupply my body with life.
It is at that time, I always understand why he referenced oxygen when speaking about Love.

So when I grow older, I don’t want a breathing tube shoved down my throat.
I just want you there, holding my hand.

i was never very confident
but when i lost you
i was confident that i lost it all

i've been living in your old room
the AC never kicked in quite right
but i still feel breezes of air caress my body right into my core
and i like to think they're you
and not the cracked window a few feet away from me
letting in the taunts of the world that lost its colors once you were lowered within it

sometimes i wish i was down in the living room
so you could come back to your old room
instead of the children's hospital
even though you were 18
the dry atmosphere caused the worst of nosebleeds
but that was just minor to the pain you were going through

you came home
but you were in the living room
i was still wishing you could come back to your old room
i would happily fold all my t-shirts and pack them in a suitcase
just for storage
because i could never leave you for more than an hour

i was unfamiliar with the word "hospice"
until you were taken under their care
i know our humidifier has been broken for some time now
but they rolled that clanky bed in
and the oxygen that the whole family breathed
just got dryer
because of your new mattress and matching sheets
similar to the one that you've slept in while the chemotherapy was entering through
making you brittle, bare and pale

on an early summer morning i witnessed the biggest irony in my life
you died in the living room
and i started to hate myself more as i watched your chest pump its last breath that you would ever take
i started to hate myself because maybe if you were in the old room i fall asleep in every night
it would somehow make you live a little bit longer
like that makes any ******* sense

..
i should've seen it coming
i should've seen it coming because a few nights before you were trying your best to play the sly cooper collection on the PS3
because it was your favorite series and you passed out because of all the morphine in your body dulling the pain
but i thought video games would ease that pain better because of the nostalgic value
so i just hoped you were reminiscing of the ability to actually hold a controller properly
even if the drugs took up 80% of your personality
basically i should've seen it coming because games were your passion
and it was let go so effortlessly

it'll be 3 years in august
and i swear despite what i just wrote it's getting easier
and on your death date
we travel
because god knows remaining in the house that day would not be healthy for a broken family like us

sometimes i pick out postcards so i can put them on your grave so you can see where i've been
so i trust you send me a pretty tourist postcard just so i know what heaven looks like

I never had a room.
Well, I had a room
But, I was allergic to dust.
I am allergic to dust.
So, early on
She took all the books
Off the cold off-white metal shelves
That clanked and groaned
Under their weight
Put the humidifier in
And let the velvety steam
Perspire on my peach painted walls.
I think they were peach.
Maybe another hue of pink.
Which I grew to hate
Because she slept in blue.

Orange earplugs, pill-shaped, one pair:
for use when pretending the neighbours' furniture-dragging is comforting invariably fails.

White humidifier, cylindrical, spewing vapour:
twenty minutes per cycle. Each manual reset is a life lost and there is no Player Two.

Day curtains, thick and heavy, one set:
to evade the pincer of lunar Cyclops' glare and unblinking orange streetlights.

E5:E2: the projection clock spits on the wall, fresh red and upside down:
it's almost midnight. I shall feign death until the whirring in my head dies.

Dimetapp all glistening cherry,
Flonase with its vibrant green cap,
Day old Campbell’s chicken noodle soup,
Scattered unripe oranges over the counter,
How many days can a person lay sick?
Cold mug of coffee with almond milk inclusions,
Watered down yellow stained tissues,
Eucalyptus tinted steam clouds from the humidifier,
Muted television talking heads spouting delusions,
The ragged edges of a quilt around the shoulders,
Enigmatic envelopes with bills within,
Perhaps someday they’ll see the light,
Forks in occultic formation,
Spoons in opposition of the forks,
Bamboo shoots staring from above,
Blush Yankee Candles cower,
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,
Watching these objects has made me grow sour,
After all, there is not much to do in a fever dream,
So I will just stare, sniffle, and drink my cold coffee with cream.

I’m stepping off one island
Onto another
Reaching and feeling
Hanging in the air
So I just wanted to record some things here

I remember those spaces
When we use to sleep as a trio
In our parents room
The eucalypt humidifier going

Having mum rub Vicks on my chest
Closing my eyes
Enduring still
The completeness of her hand
Pressing down on every nerve

My sister on the red bucket
Playing drums
And me on the Tuba
Calling out music-less directions

Those spaces in my memory
Fruitful magic places
Alive and sunken
Whole, ethereal

I bought an easel for my sister
My father said I was rich
How I wish to be that rich again
My leg hanging in the air
Moving off an island...

putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?