i have spent decades policing myself and spooling my rage into a tight ball of rules. i measured my length in fingertips and my hands were always open, but i have scars in the shape of fingernails lacing my palm. because all i really wanted was hair that matched my eyes and to pretend i played with dragons, but instead i stitched myself together with a seam up my backbone. it’s starting to rip, and my stuffing is coming out the seams, made of bitten tongues and a fear that only knows loss

i lost years trying to please people who couldn’t give a fuck about my mouth unless they were feeding me soap and who supported me under the guise of a muzzle. i lived in a world where i was so afraid to say “no” that the word sounds foreign in the space between my teeth and my throat

and after years of hard-earned transformation all they want is more, more, more, taking off bits of my skin as punishment and reminding me that i should not be my own. reminders push to my phone that i spent twenty-two years sick with worry over the things that i am not, working to become the things that i am. in return i was given two shitty parties and a few pieces of paper with gold foil.

i turned myself into a motel painting using words that fell on pleased ears and upturned noses, when all i want to be is a blank canvas

Everything she writes is so beautiful that it bounces between the hollowness in my lungs like the distant ring of melancholy, like bruised air sacs yearning beneath the flesh. I don’t know how she can turn her garbage disposal contents into rubies, how her eyes kiss the night so fully when she knows she’s really just looking at the clang of a metal door in the darkness. There are so many secrets beneath her floorboards that I will never know, that will never offer themselves to me in the curve of her spine or the way her hand lingers when she touches her face to pull away a strand of onyx hair. I still know nothing of intimacy, of car crashes or lipstick-stained napkins or fucking. There is still so much that I have left to clench my teeth in the face of, to resist fleeing from like dandelions seeds in spring. I am still glass, but she is cracked alabaster, split amethyst. I want to hold her in my arms like she is the adhesive that sticks the Earth together enough to keep us all from cracking. I want her in my lungs.

Winter Came Early This Year

A letter to my younger self, never mind actually, I’ve heard that the time traveling postal service sucks. A visit to my younger self, she needs it. First, let me hold you, and kiss your forehead. You need to learn that touch does not always equal pain, it’s going to take many years before you learn that, but I think out of everything I’m about to tell you this will help the most. Do you think we’re beautiful? Don’t answer that. It’s a question you’re going to spend the rest of our life up until this point trying to figure out. Please, even if you don’t always feel whole, don’t carve the word, “fat,” into your thigh on a desperate night when you’re alone in the bathtub. You will regret it.

This thought does not horrify you because at this point you’ve already bludgeoned our head with a hairbrush, tried to asphyxiate us, and pinched our own skin until we’ve been bruised. Don’t hurt us darling, there are already enough people doing that. In regards to the man who gave you a swollen cheek and shattered trust, you will become angry instead of scared one day and things will change, not necessarily for the better, but at least the physical pain will stop. I’m not going to tell you about our future love life, because you’re going to make mistakes whether I tell you or not, that’s life, but I will tell you not to focus on one boy so much. He’s still going to be one of your best friends, but he does not love you in that way, and that’s OK.

Trust me, there will be others. Do not leave the boy who gave you his jacket. You will regret that decision until this point, after this point, I am not sure. I may be from the future, but I am not from all of it. When you feel scared, touch something around you, reestablish your surroundings. This is a coping mechanism, you won’t learn about those for years to come. Stay strong, you’ll survive, trust me.

Be Every Traveller

Be the traveller that travels alone. Travel with friends. Take road trips. Take the train. Utilise the local transport. Stay in 5 stars. Stay in rooms which don’t burn a hole in your pocket and instead, use that money for *cough* essential items *cough*. See if you can get yourself invited into a locals’ home. Travel with a plan, or make one up as you see which roads you hit. Take a risk and see how far you can wing it. Find a job which makes you travel or make travelling your job. Skip splurging on the amazing dress you found at FCUK or the Rolex and save up that money. Travel to the same place again, and let your soul sink into it’s soul. Or leave a little part of you in every new place and never return- the world is too big to tread upon. Travel to a log cabin in the middle of nowhere and let yourself be at peace with the disquiet of your mind and disjoin from the cacophony of humans Travel to cities and marvel at how the sun plays hide and seek with the skyscrapers and how everything is alive and bright even at 2am and wonder about the people living there and their lives. You will invariably find a place that will make you wonder if you could fit in here, find yourself wanting to settle down. Do it. Or don’t do it- use it as your happy place, as your paradise every time you find yourself wanting to escape.

Treat travel as a way of finding yourself but don’t be surprised if you don’t or if you end up losing yourself. Don’t be surprised if you don’t find yourself doing either. Not every place will capture you or your imagination. That’s ok

Eat local or- actually, no matter what, eat local. There is no better way to fully experience a place than to immerse yourself in the culinary palate it has to offer. Brownie points to you if it’s home cooked.

The point is, TRAVEL.


moon soliloquy

i feel like a singularity, consuming consuming consuming, taking more than i could possibly give. i soak up adoration and thrive on hate and something inside me grows like a fucked up houseplant, inward and inward and inward, concaving into a vacuum.

i take up your sky, trying to refect your sun without allowing you to see it. i eclipse the thing that is all-consuming. i am becoming the absence of light, absorbing instead of shining.

mathematically speaking, when you multiply a negative with a positive your result will still be negative, but you keep arguing with fact by integrating good things into my equation and trying to prove the structure of the universe wrong. But here i am–turning your roses into this bleak landscape, internalizing your joy and twisting it, using you for feelings that are useless to me.

because if you pry my ribcage open, you wouldn’t find a chestful of flowers, and the beating heart would be an illusion, because in my soul i feel like an empty cavern, storing thoughts that my father keeps telling me to stop thinking and that the morning news experts inform me aren’t real

because my surface is the illusion of normal, painted with the right skincare and the perfect eyeliner and an understated smile

but if you knock on my chest softly, maybe you’ll hear the hollow.

If your soul is your soul, stop treating every other human you meet like a rest station for a worn-out spirit and exist in your own temple, because men are not hotels and women are not shelters and people are not caverns for your broken self.
—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write

For better or worse, the soul knows nothing lasts forever: life, love, everything you can think of. Every relationship is a contract that has a set of conditions and warranty end dates. Memory is a reminder that there are things we can never get back. Consequently, shields are created, defense mechanisms materialize, and truths and lies blend into a brew that becomes as unassuming and deadly as quick sand.

We put distance between us and everyone else because we’re hurting and we never want to hurt as much. We begin to believe that loneliness is the ultimate fate to which we are headed, that anything we’ve ever done to negate it had only contributed to its immensity. Loneliness becomes larger than life itself and we learn nothing is ever worth the risk.

But if nothing lasts forever, then perhaps loneliness has its own due date. After all, we can always flip the hourglass to start another cycle. Everything that sets is bound to rise again. Every hour is a journey. Every day is an unknown territory we have no choice but trek. Every hurt is a path to the sweetness of healing.

Everyone leaves. Nevertheless, we find ourselves tracing those little steps that will bring us back to what we know is true: that people change, but love doesn’t; that people go away but friendship lasts; that expectations lead to bitterness but also to what unconditional really means; that people aren’t perfect, but aren’t imperfect all the same.

There is no optimism or pessimism. There are no half-empties and half-fulls. There is only that empty glass that can be filled with anything: water, blood, wine. And all the other possibilities in between.

I have never more than now wished to simply become lost in the world. I want to wander, to fade into the darkness with soft-scuffling footsteps and shallow breaths. I want time to be irrelevant for just an hour, or two, or three; I want contradictions to lead me away when all I should do is remain under loose sheets. I want to reclaim the feeling of rose stem pinpricks in my chest when I put pen to paper. Bleeding has never been the hard part—allowing it to escape has always been the challenge. I often wish for a return to the past, if only because when the world was so complex I could greater feel the urgency of the challenge. Everything is too soft now, and yet pierces even more deeply than the sharpest pain from before. I can’t console myself with pity nor find comfort in despair; shoulders once leaned on feel foreign and occupied. 

So maybe I do need to be lost for a time. Maybe I need to feel a chilly ache in my bones to be reminded of all that pain had driven me towards before, all that sadness had strengthened me for. 

It’s just a pair of shoes and a jacket away. 


He sits next to me at the bus stop and we look an odd pair. He’s got a tight pink t-shirt with the outline of a hand giving the shocker symbol and a pair of plaid shorts that perfectly compliment his flip-flops. I’m sure he’s got his fraternity letters tattooed somewhere on him, maybe his bicep, maybe his chest. I assume he wears them like some bro-approved tramp stamp, right above his groin. His hair is carefully crafted in that elegantly disheveled state. Clearly he spent more time in front of a mirror this morning than I did. I’m sitting next to him in hastily tied combat boots, so beloved and worn that the once-black leather is now a faded brown. My jeans are tight and brand-name, but the only brand of jeans that ever really mattered, and the only cut I’ll wear, and my t-shirt is a little less crass than his, a band name he’s never heard of and a couple of pissed off owls. My tattoos are a bit more numerous and easy to spot than his, and my hair is shoddily slicked back with pomade that smells like oranges. The only similarities between us are the aviators covering our eyes and the brown bags in our laps. I take a slug off of mine as I hear his cell-phone go off.

My ears are filled with bad radio-rock, one of those songs by one of those faceless bands building a career on sounding like mass-produce Pearl Jam. I hear him talk about the west coast, how it’s the place for him, man.He tells the girl on the other end of the phone that he can’t wait to fuck her hard tonight, and then abruptly he hangs up.

“Girlfriend?” I ask, taking another long slug.

“Nah, just one of my, uh, I guess one of my reserves.” He gives this arrogant sort of laugh and then takes a slug off of his brown paper bag.

“So you’ve got a harem then?” My tone is dead, but I don’t think he notices.

“Sort of, yeah. Gotta have a girl for every situation, right?”

“Sounds like you’ve got the life, why the daydrinking?” I take a look at my watch before I take another sip. For most people it’s three o'clock, for me it’s bourbon thirty.

“Hey, you only live once, right? It’s summer, time to drink all day, and party all night, and do great things.”
My dislike for this creature is growing by the minute.

“Great things?”

“Yeah man, you know. Drink a lot, smoke a lot, fuck a lot, wake up still wasted on couches and do it all over again. YOLO.” There’s a tiny rip in his bag and I can vaguely make out that he’s sipping on one of those girly drinks, the kind I’m sure his fraternity brothers stock up on before a party.

“Guess you and I have a different take on great.”

“I dunno man, all of that sound pretty great to me.” I sense a little arrogance in his voice. I briefly consider showing off my bad bartending skills, breaking the bourbon bottle on the bench and doing the world a favor.

“Write a book. Climb a mountain. Drive five hundred miles for a girl, not to fuck her, but just because you want to watch a movie. Paint a barn. Do something legitimate. If you’re going to latch on to that dumb fucking catchphrase, at least make it count for something.” I don’t even look at him, staring forward as I say it, but I can feel the look of disgust on his face, he’s staring daggers into the side of my skull.

“Bro, don’t be such a cynic. You’re young, be dumb.”

Maybe he’s right. But I can’t do it. My heart will always beat on eastern time. It’s a little harsher on this coast, and I haven’t got time for that kid shit anymore. None of that carefully crafted catchphrase bullshit. So I bought you a ring, and a bottle of bourbon, so I could get on this bus, surprise you at your art gallery, and try to make myself the luckiest guy in the whole damn city.

The Tumblrpeepsicles

Some of these writers do not consider themselves “potential authors”. Several don’t even believe fully that they are good enough. They know they’re good, but they don’t know exactly how much. These people do not aim to publish novels. To them, their blog IS their novel. These are the writers that share not just their words but their souls. Some people say “just because you lineate your bullshit doesn’t make you a poet.” True. Talk to me about my standards on poetry, I have a lot to say on it. But those standards are reserved for published poets. My standard for Tumblr is soul. And these pieces emanate and shine from the words I read. It doesn’t matter how well these things are written, or how badly; the heartbreaking beauty of these writers’ souls - their tragic glories, their glorious tragedies - glimmer from the pieces they share. And without the shadow of an “offline work” to put pressure on their processes, these writers are more raw, honest, experimental and unique. Not pretentious, but passionate. Not haughty, but overflowing with the sheer magic of words. If I’m following you, I’m doing so for the magic of your soul that you’ve chosen to share with me, for the colors you thread in the quilt I’m also sewing, for the universe you inhale and the spectacular ink of your exhalations.

The Toothbrush Anthem

A green toothbrush was the downfall of our relationship. We met in a taxi cab, and he’d made some joke about how this was just like those commercials you see for cheap cologne. We both lacked umbrellas, and irritated the cab driver by dripping all over his freshly cleaned seats. I laughed and gave him my phone number because it takes a certain kind of person to be funny and attractive in the Seattle rain. We’d moved in together too quickly because life is short, his mantra.

“I want, “life is short,“ tattooed on my side.” He said.

“You’re an accountant. You’ll look like an asshole.”

“I am an asshole, so it will fit, won’t it? Fuck you!”

Fuck you was his standard reply when he knew I was right, but didn’t care enough to actually admit it. Towards the end he stopped saying, “fuck you,” and anything at all. He never got the tattoo, mostly because things had already begun to fall apart, and the only way he would have had enough money is if we pooled our funds. He didn’t want to be anymore invested in me than he had to be. From the very beginning I should have known we would fall apart eventually, leaving him with an empty apartment and me with several potted plants that I cared about too much to leave with him. He had a knack for killing things he should have loved. Before we fucked he would always survey my body like it was some sort of house he’d be suckered into buying.

“I didn’t know you don’t shave your pubic hair.”

“I didn’t know you had a birthmark there.”

“Since when have your thighs jiggled?”

Each time he’d discover something different to be disgusted by, like a renovation that he’d never noticed before. There were never any renovations, but life is short, so I suppose he never noticed. We broke up because my toothbrush was purple, his was blue, and whoever he slept with while I was out of town had green.

Summer Sentences.

The worst thing about Catholic school in a small town was that you never really got away. Even when the Summer rolled around you still found yourself stuck seeing the same god fearing faces you had to suffer through during the school year. I swear, we all thought Heaven had to be a place without any damn nuns.

Every Saturday, the summer I turned sixteen the boys and I, we were stuck helping out at the church. We weren’t altar boys, we were all just serving lengthy detention sentences for various crimes, ranging from the harmless (numerous cigarettes smoked behind the school while class was going on) to more serious offenses (J.P. had referred to Sister Meredith as a “fucking penguin-looking old cunt” for taking his firecrackers, which we’d used to start a small fire in study hall.) None of us were particularly quick learners, instead of readying communion wafers for morning mass we were out behind the storage room sucking down nicotine like our mortal souls depended on it. At least, that’s the way we looked at it. Jesus seemed like a pretty hip dude, we figured he probably smoked a pipe back in his desert-wandering days.

“Guys, let’s hurry this up. Rev said we could split once we finished and Holly’s parents are still out of town. I’d really like to get some time in with her this afternoon,” I said in between puffs of smoke.

“Keep your dick in your pants Dean, just because she let you have a go at it once doesn’t mean she’s gonna give it up every time you’ve got ten minutes to spare,” J.P. blurted out, “besides, I’ve got a joke to tell.”

“Wait a second, Dean and Holly are fucking?” Jerry Lee was always the last one to the party.

“Yeah man, did you completely ignore me last week when we were reading comics? I told you guys that Holly and I made love on my birthday.”

“Dude, don’t say ‘made love,’ It makes you sound like a pussy.” J.P. was kind of right.

“Well. That’s what she called it anyway.”

“How could you expect me to pay attention to you anyway, man, we were reading comics.”

“Jerry Lee, you were reading Superman, you weren’t even reading a good book.”

“Would you two asshats just let me tell my joke?” J.P. muttered impatiently. I flicked the rest of my cigarette to the ground and stomped the cherry out with the heel of my converse.

“Just make it quick man.” He looks like he’s just won the lottery, grinning from ear to ear like he was the cheshire cat in that book we had to read in English.

“Alright, so three nuns are in a bus crash.” He pauses to light another cigarette.

“I like where this is going already,” I smile.

“Okay, so there they are, standing at the pearly gates and there’s St. Peter looking all regal and shit in his heavenly robes, right? He’s giving the nuns the whole speech, y'know? Faithful servants of the lord, blah blah blah. And then he says to the nuns, he says "I must ask one question to each of you before you enter into his domain.” He may not have been much of a wordsmith, but J.P. was always good with jokes. He got this manic look in his eyes, but he was always cucumber cool and laid back with his delivery.

“So St. Peter says to nun number one, 'Sister, hast thou ever seen a penis?’ The nun, she crosses herself and then gives St. Peter a guilty confession, 'Yes St. Peter, I have seen a  penis.'St. Peter looked her up and down for a minute and then pointed at a basin of holy water, 'Wash thine eyes my child and then you may enter his domain.” Jerry Lee drops his cigarette to the ground and buries it into the dirt with his shoe.

“So the nun, she washes her eyes, crosses the gate, and bam, she’s in heaven. So St. Peter turns to nun numero two-o and he says to her 'Sister, hast thou ever seen a penis?’ Now, this nun, she looks at the ground a minute and starts to cross herself, but she gets shoved out of the way by the third nun, who makes a mad dash to the basin of holy water and starts gargling.” J.P. studies our faces as he takes a final dramatic drag off his Camel Wide. Jerry Lee and I are both smiling pretty big.

“St. Peter’s completely fucking bewildered, he turns to the third nun and says, 'Child, what in the name of the heavenly father are you doing?’ Nun number three, she spits the holy water out and starts walking toward the pearly gates again, 'Pete, if you think I’m gargling that after she washes her ass in it, you’ve got another thing comin’!’”

All three of us burst out laughing right around the time Sister Meredith comes around the corner. She heard every word. We had another month added to our sentences, indentured fucking servants to St. Mary’s until Labor day weekend. I didn’t get laid that afternoon, but it wasn’t so bad. I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.

I Learned Nothing.

I learned nothing from counting candles on cakes.

I still think that the pavement is for hopscotch boxes. I still think that balloons don’t pop when they reach this certain space in the atmosphere; they go to heaven like all souls do. There are still moments when a bag full of candies makes me alone in a place filled with flowers—a meadow of some sort. I still think that there’s only sound that comes out of a bullet’s exit, and the bullets are invisible, intangible. I still pretend that corpses that were laid on the street—carcass from car accident, an ambush, a mugging, are only sleeping; they pretend to be dead for the cameras. And this is happening live. This TV show I’m watching is happening live. Amanda still got that charming smile; her antics make me laugh, gag, until I run out of air. I feel that my fingers are still short; my legs are that of a six year old. Remember how having a family was as easy as building a house from cartons; the rice is cooked on bottle caps? I am still pretending to be a baby. It was easier back then when going to heaven was as easy as stepping onto elevated floors—a stoop where the devil can’t lay a finger on you. Much easier when the paper that runs through my thick skull is the mounding collection of trading card game.

Yes, I learned nothing from counting candles.

Because the pavement is a canvass for mortalized artisans whose works are only printed on abstract red. And, yes, there is something that comes out from a gun barrel—a flower blooming then wilting all at the same time.

And yes, they are not asleep. This is the paradox. This is not happening live. But it is happening.

And there’s only hell for us.

I am not prepared for the callous. Much more have I not on the bruises and wounds.

So now, I let go of all these balloons, look at them fly like doves; I let my innocence sit on one of them. I can still hear its laughter.

Even up to now when that balloon had popped.

Thank God, mother did not give me a cake for this day. And never will again.


Sometimes you read a good novel, and when you turn that last page you feel like you’re completely empty and utterly full. Your heart seems to be bursting at the seams, all its stuffing exploding through ventricles and bone marrows, through cavities and lungs. People you’ve never met and thoughts you’ve never had run circles round your brain like a carousel. Stamped firmly down on the white envelope of memory is streets you’ve never walked along, houses you’ve never called home and pets you’ve never held tight in a thunderstorm. You’ve become another person, you’ve lived another life, you’ve dreamt another dream and you’re all the more consumed for it. You have no room left in you for yourself. You have been swallowed by the imagination of the artist.

But then there are the times when your heart thumps like a time bomb, as the number of words you have left trickle down like sands in an hourglass. You know the story’s ending, you know that you’re going to have to say goodbye. It might not be forever, and you know that no one is going to stop you coming by and saying hello every so often, but people will always judge you for not living new lives, and besides—it won’t be quite as great as the first time. His eyes won’t be so dark, her hair won’t be so feathery and the night sky won’t swallow up the horizon quite so completely. You finish caressing the last word and suddenly, you know that moment of your life is over. You know you’ll never breathe that world again, and you are all the more hollow for it; you are empty and full all at once. You are the sun and the moon, man and woman, night and day, and you’re all of life, all at once.

I was holding her hand tightly
as if I don’t want it to get away from me,
and with my eyes closed, I nodded my head
and I started to pray.

I realized that I was holding my own hand —
that hand of mine clasped with the other one
all I thought I was holding hers
but the real fact is that I was just reminiscing.

I was being nostalgic again
and I crave for her love;
all I know is that we could never return
what we had before.

I’ve never figured out how to keep a lasting connection with people, how to keep them when they no longer need me. People pass in an out without a thought, not even a wave when they leave. I listen to their heartaches and keep them together when they’re breaking. Tell them everything will be alright and prop them up when they’d rather just fall. I push them towards the good things when they finally come, and assume they’ll take me with them. But, somehow, I find I’m the one always left behind, watching as they disappear into the horizon and feeling my own heart break a little as what I thought was permanent turns out to only be temporary yet again. No one ever thinks that I might need them too. As soon as they’re better, as soon as they’ve found that happiness, as soon as they’ve sucked the poison out of their lives, they don’t want me anymore. Until they break again. Then they’ll come to me and show me all the jagged pieces and ask me to put them back together again. And I will. And they will talk about forever and always and I’ll believe them. Then… they’ll get busy. I’ll see them less and less until finally they’re gone again. I think I feel a connection with mothers, because that’s what I imagine it feels like when children are grown and all the years of care are forgotten and you become a burden, a hindrance on their lives, an obligation to call on Christmas and birthdays. It bruises the heart more than anything else I know: the feeling that you aren’t important enough to be kept.

So I guess tonight, I’ll listen to your new boyfriend sing songs that should have been ours to listen to. Let him carry me with each note to the land filled with your photographs; take me to that room filled with stubborn photo albums that only show your story: how you met in the park, where the leaves are dancing with the wind, how the moment is rolling into a slow motion effect in films shown through klieg eyes; how you share that stare with each other, creating an unspoken language–a wall built against the world; and how the both of you are happy as the night wearing a lunar grin for the world to see.

I’ll listen to that song. Close my eyes and pretend he is just a performer we hired at our wedding. Pretend that the both us are under the night sky, and the night is happy for the both of us. Because in that moment, our brushing palms will make sure all of those dead twinkling stars will be resurrected and the moon to form a wider grin. 

I’ll pretend that I did not slip our moments from my butterfingered hands. So that maybe, that paper boat of our memory that you let drift with the ripple in the river may return, unfold it, and see us, smiling.

Maybe then you’ll realize we’re more than this friendship we built. We are more than that.

I’m sure of it.

I Will Miss You

I will miss you fleetingly, for a second every now and then, in a moment of weakness or fragility. I will think about how good it felt, like an evanescent, elusive dream. Until I recall that that, was exactly why it collapsed. Ephermerality never endures.

I will miss you achingly, till every little nerve inside of me sets itself on fire and wants to break apart and escape from the confines of this body to find you, because truthfully, you were the glue. I will tremble and shake and realize with pain, the moistness in my eyes. I will let it go. I will realize that it has turned into a torrential downpour, and like a dam bursting, I will not be able to control it. I will feel the barely repaired pieces of my heart break again.

I will miss you with a strange sense of detachment. It will be at times when I am doing nothing, and suddenly you will make your presence felt in my mind. Maybe it will be the fact that I still haven’t wrapped my head around your absence will know that it was for the best but I will still wonder as to how my life would have been if things had been different.

I will miss you with bitterness, with darkness and anger I did not know I possessed. I will think of you in my darkest hour and will curse you for everything that is currently going wrong in my life and everything that will go wrong. I will imagine a life where you and I never collide and everything remains picture perfect. I will hate you for tainting the memories of a time never coming back.

I will miss you with a song on my heart. Reminiscing about our moments, so light and happy, full of an easy gaiety I found with no one else. I will know that we have limited time together so I’ll do my best to make the most of it. I will, at the same time, be afraid to give my 100% to you. You will leave soon enough, so I hope you will not hold it against me.

I will miss you even though you’re gonna be back. Those little habits of your’s which annoy me to no end will be the things I miss the most. I will wait eagerly for your return. It will be filled with sweet anticipation.

I will miss you because you were once a part of my life, because you’re not here anymore and because it hurts.


I need a new page. I need to make a new diary or something, anything, I need to chop off my hair, give it a haircut, because it’s too old and dead and when things are too old for too long they just become dead and the same, and I don’t want the same damn routine and I’m no computer but the usual daily tasks aren’t obligations but misery penalties for things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time for anymore, and writing just, writing has been becoming a burden and it never should have been like this before, and the little boy I was infatuated with - his deepened voice with some cracks and the way his heart beats faster when I hold him tight and his happy sighs and he goes to no Ivy League, but there is just something much better about him and just at those moments nothing else can describe how absolutely raw I felt, how my skin kept peeling off and my petals were plucked by an oppressive society and all its underestimation and ignorance and I don’t want to think no more of it, but the itching stopped and my frozen insides feel like functioning again and even though I don’t hear my pulse loudly with his, I know, I know I’m still here, I’m finally back, and yes, it’s corny, cheesy, and quite beany that I claim his heart of gold - I’ve dug many times until I found it, and I can finally grow a new layer of soul skin, finally, at last. I wrote on a new page. Its scent was nostalgic, but caused me to write again, and yes, I still love him even though he may no longer see me with the same eyes that sleep on the white dull hospital bed. Yet sometimes I give his hand a squeeze like before, and his heart rate jumps, I swear he can remember - I’m not delusional, how old am I? 89? No, almost there mister. Well, perhaps you’re… I don’t know. Who are you? I, I know you, please trust me, I can help you find yourself again. Am I doing this wrong? I don’t understand the way you breathe anymore, the way your lungs… the way you used to lightly snore and, I just, I won’t give in, I won’t believe there is rust, there isn’t rust, there isn’t grayness, there is just us, in the dark, until our time is up, but the sun could never illuminate the way you are, you had your own shine, and at least I witnessed that gold you had in you. My pen ran out of ink, my skin now expired, but my greed of your heart will never die, but lay as sour milk. Invalid. Rotten flesh. They called it love, the greatest story of the decade, but this is no light matter - we were only selfish for each other.