i'm in a poetry mood lately

If I ever let you lay your hands on me, chances are, you’ve already made love to how my heart won’t stop beating at the thought of you.

If I let you know I’m yours, it means you’ve already caressed my soul.

If I let you have me, it’s because my mind probably hasn’t been able to stop screaming your name for weeks at a time.

If I ever let you lay your hands on me, chances are, there isn’t another part of me that you haven’t already touched.

—  Unknown

FAMINE: don’t believe them when they told you that i was good. i have cruelty stored inside me, a great beast that yawned and bites, waiting to be released. here is what they say: upbringing is everything. but they forgot that jesus’s father was a carpenter and he was probably raised to be a carpenter, too. but look what he turned out to be. my mother raised me to be a gun, my father raised me on a diet of silence, rather the absence of it on everything but the ones that doesn’t matter, but listen: i was born cruel. when i was little, i’ve had a little bird, and my mother had to persuade me to let him go. listen: i was born cruel. i look at people and figure out a thousand different ways to hurt them. listen: i was born cruel. i look at you and i know how to make you starve, how to make you beg and cry for mercy. listen: they didn’t made me this way. i did. i made myself this way, the same way that my father chose to wear blue shirts every saturday.

WAR: what is pain? what is suffering? you told me, listen, i understand, i don’t know what you’re going through, but i’m here. i asked you, where is here? northwest of heaven? the sixth street just outside of purgatory? the people dreamt of a great conflict, something that would unite and divide them at the same time, a common enemy, and here i am. my birth was a call to arms. i was a soldier, i am a soldier, and i sleep with cruelty curled on my chest. you told me that you care, but you don’t know how it feels like to live with a gun pressed on the roof of your mouth, a maximum security prison for a home, and you certainly don’t know how it feels like to live in abundance, and still starve. listen: i live in a beautiful world. i have a family, a roof above my head, folks who cared about me. listen: i have a beautiful face, a beautiful body. but somebody left my heart in a freezer, and still i am cold, and hard, and empty, no matter how they tried to thaw me.

DEATH: i don’t blame you if you don’t understand. it’s not a life suitable for everyone. look: i am like bombs planted in the train tracks, waiting to explode. there is only way out of this. there is only one way out of going to bed always hungry for something, always cold, hoping that tomorrow would be better, but you just starve more the next day, the hunger burning in your gut. there is only one way out of this. there is only one way. there is. (every second and every minute and every hour and every day, every night, pleading, please let this end, i’m dying and it doesn’t stop, i’m dying and i want to die but at the same time i don’t want to; was this supposed to be life when you were denied everything that matters? when you died in a thousand different ways in every second that passed?)

PESTILENCE: what do you know about neglect? what do you know about running away? don’t answer. listen: we know about the homeless, frozen on the streets in winter. listen: we know about girls who are forced to set fire on their passports, boys who ran and ran and ran to the border with not even sandals underneath their feet. but you don’t know about us, we who feed on metaphorical broken glass and the last spark of the flame, we who broke all the mirrors in the house because there is a stranger on the other side, we who had to sit in the bathroom and cry because we have to leave, or the people who will soon be strangers will hurt us. you don’t know about us, we who had to taught ourselves the language of freedom, we who doesn’t set fire to our passports, whose home are still standing, whose country was too boring to be the target of an invasion or a civil war, but who can’t go home ever again because of who we are, if we even had a home in the first place. listen: you don’t know how it feels to lie and lie and lie until the lie becomes you, and nobody saw the real you underneath, screaming. listen: you don’t have to fight a civil war with yourself everyday. listen: you don’t need to starve and starve and starve, don’t need to be sick of yourself and sick of the world and sick of everything except sickness itself. listen: you don’t have cruelty burrowing itself inside you like the Devil’s spawn.

look: i drove through the city one late afternoon, and i’ve imagined how the whole of it would look like, after the apocalypse happened.

i’d imagined that it would look like me.

—  SOMETHING VAGUELY BIBLICAL, OR MAYBE JUST AN AFTERIMAGE OF A MIRAGE, Helix M.
  • me: I think I'm having an ok day
  • brain: Just think about that person who broke your heart
  • me: Why?
  • brain: You gotta