Please do not be afraid when the flames of madness find their way into your bones. For you, my darling, have always meant to burn.
—  Lukas W. // Meant to burn

When will we meet again?”

She asked him through uncontrollable tears.

“Soon Ok? You have to wait for me. I will come back for you. Just wait.”

They looked at each other one last time before he left.

And it had been years, yet she received no call or text. Just a blank reply. She felt betrayed. She felt alone. But what she realized after a long time was that he kept laying in his grave, just waiting for her to come back to him.

—  excerpt from a book I’ll never write.
Know It All

The hospital I’ve called my home for the last 30 years can only be described as an asylum. While the word has fallen out of favor, the situation inside has remained consistent. Days stretch in interminable swaths of gray and white; gray from the medication in the mornings, white from the medication in the afternoons. Only the blackness of night frees me from the consuming palate of mid-winter rain clouds used to paint my days away.

I am here by my own volition. The fact I used the law to enact that volition is a mere technicality. The fact I stole the volition of someone else to gain use of the law is another. At the end of the bloodbath – at the end of the steaming orgy of crimson and savagery – I’d gotten my wish. I’d never need to harm another living thing for the rest of my life.  

The sights and sounds which etched themselves into my soul on that May morning in 1986 still flash through. Between timed doses, gray melts into red. Red bleeds into white. To any other man, those flashes would be the proof of his madness; the seeping of illness into medicated docility. But I know far more than any other man.

Continue reading.

And then there are nights like these, when my body craves the touch of another. No need for sex, just a head against my chest and a hand to hold. Another heartbeat to feel besides my own, while the night carries on unbothered and the rain pitter-patters against the windowpanes, calmness and warmth being the only things allowed in our space.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (270/366)
I fired my best friend today. He delivered my breakfast and paper to my bedroom, like he always does. His heart just didn’t seem in it anymore. He seemed far away. I guess nineteen years will do that to you. He says, “Good Morning, Sir. ” I say, “Good Morning, Alfred. You’re fired. ” He leaves with a bowed head held high. I smile and read my paper and the coffee sears my throat because his face is on the second page. There’s a close up of his hand holding his wife’s. He’d been holding it all night, it seems. They took her this morning. My hands have always been steadier than a surgeon’s so I don’t really understand why they’re shaking now. It takes me a while to find the keys because it’s been a long time since I’ve driven myself anywhere. Nobody answers his doorbell. I wipe the tears away with my suit sleeve and call his name. I’ve stared down guns and Presidents, and I find it strange that my blood now runs cold. I feel darkness here. “Alfred?” Nothing. He’s in his bed with his hint of a smile that I never even knew I loved. He looks peaceful. I want to hit him. An empty pill bottle on the floor. A note in his hand. “It’s not your fault, Sir. ” Sir. I always hated that fucking word. I run back to the car but I can’t see straight enough to drive and I hear screams that sound disturbingly like my own, so I run. It’s miles from his shady part of town, but I run. In my six thousand dollar suit, I run. I’m a little out of shape and my heart is more accustomed to breakfast in bed than hillside runs in shoes, but I run. I stare at my ragged reflection in the puddle I just fell into and note my suit has a few extra holes, and I decide I rather think it looks better this way. And I laugh. It’s not even funny, but I’m howling. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled. My wife walks out the front door, and she looks at me. No, no, she looks right into me. I’m not laughing anymore. She has soft eyes and as I wonder if she’s been crying too, I also wonder how long it’s been since I’ve noticed much of anything about her. It’s almost as if, in this moment, we’re meeting for the first time. She hands me the note she just finished writing, and it’s just now that I see the suitcase in her hand. “I’m leaving you. It’s not your fault. ” Her eyes are still soft as she walks away. I call a cab. The driver eyes my clothes suspiciously. I stuff three hundred dollar bills down his throat and like magic, his fears vanish. I climb back up the rickety steps, lay down next to my only friend, and stare up at the sky. “I held a dead man’s hand today, ” I say, by way of conversation. He doesn’t answer, so I try again. “Alfred?” I falter. “I’m so sorry about your wife.”
At some point, you just have to accept that there are people who won’t let you see past behind their smiles or their scars no matter how hard you try. You have to accept that no matter what you do, no matter how open you are to them, they won’t let you in. They will only let you touch the surface but will never let you go way underneath. And even though you have all the parts needed to fix what’s broken in them, sometimes it’s never enough. And you just have to admit that love isn’t really enough for someone whose trust is always an issue to begin with.

Home for me is not where I am.

Home for me is a physical structure where the girl whom I love is sheltered and protected from the incoming storms of life. 

Home for me is not where I am safe, but where she is safe. Home for me is not where she exists, but where she lives. 

She is my home.

—  Home by Juansen Dizon
I don’t always say it,
but sometimes I wish
he can say what’s
on my mind,
because there are times
when I find it hard
to form the words
to explain each
and everything
that runs through
my head.
—  ma.c.a // Jumbled
I thought unrequited love would feel a lot worse than this. Don’t get me wrong, it still feels awful. Everyday, I have some amount of moments in which I wish that you could smile one of your softest smiles just for me. If only my love for you were that soft. If only my mind wasn’t hammered with thought after thought of you, a storm I can’t ever find shelter from. I know it sounds bad, but in reality, you only cause this one storm and stop every other. It’s hard to be upset when the living embodiment of sunshine is always with you in one way or another. And I guess that’s why even though you don’t feel the same, it doesn’t make me want to drift away from you, even if my heart just cracks further.  Of course, there can’t be two Suns, so I’ll be your sky. I’ll support you, even if it means having to help you in your own quest for love. Why would I do something like this? Well, I don’t really know myself. I guess if I had to give a reason, it’d be this: you make me want to be better, and I want to do the same for you. So if you won’t love me back, at least let me do this much. Let me love you from afar, but keep you close.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Request: Falling in love with your bestfriend, knowing they don’t feel the same. She’s the sweetest, nicest person i’ve ever met just filled with sunshine and soft smiles. i can’t help but love her more everytime i see her, even knowing she won’t ever feel the same. i’ll support her no matter what, whether that means helping her in her own love life. she’s the sun and i can be the sky. i’ll never be as brave as i once was, but she makes me wanna try.
It’s funny how most of my anxieties are caused by my friends and family, those people who are supposed to care about me unconditionally.

I dream of you every night
when I sleep at all

Wake up with a ghost of a smile
Until reality descends
A train wreck of memories

You’re a land pirate stealing hearts
And sailing on
Sailing on while I’m cast adrift at sea.

Don’t let me sink

—  Scribbles and Scars #76
When she looked away, his eyes said everything his words weren’t enough for. He looked at her like she was the night sky - beautiful, yet mysterious, in a way he’d never truly understand but couldn’t help trying to.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Request: The way a boy looks at his girl/boyfriend (it’s whatever) when he thinks they do not notice.

You’ve been standing so long the snow covers
your eyes, ahead a tunnel dark, garnished
in veiny stone, the fingers of ancients
who built it come back, bursting confidence
streets already abandoned, smoke rise -ing
from centum stacks of dreams, the air ghostly
cold, wafts up trying to find heat, kindled
again on wails of want up high like kites
(say no) the hands incepted in longing
out blind reaching, is there nothing left here?
I put my head down, not enough for you,
not let hope keep coming like bullet trains
banging on walls, burst by what you never
saw, the world preening itself again,
head up, ah, none of this applies to me,
in the end they’ll take everything you wished
not had, but rushed for, in nights standing, left
with longing


I can’t promise that it will be easy to love me, but I can promise that if you just try, I can love you back a thousand times more.
—  from an unfinished story #288

Dive in the depths of my sea and pretend that stars are not found in heaven, and pearls shine bright just the same; that my blood breathes life to countless things while I bathe in cruelty and pain. Feel how my wave caresses your ego, and how it turned me salty and dry. Think of all my fail attempts to raise my voice for you to hear me bleeding, and see how I fell to an even deeper hole each time I try.

Darling, love is not painted with the brightest of colors. It is a gradient plain of smiles and tears, of hopes and fears.

Can you even hear my heartbeat? The blood that trickles down my wrist, how can you not see it? How can you choose to see what’s only beautiful to your eyes and not embrace the things you despise?

You told me you love me as bright as the sun, and as constant as the stars that paints our evening sky. Yet every time I try to cry for your help, I feel like a ghost, a lost soul that you suddenly cannot be bothered to see, and all my tears and pleas fall to deaf ears. How many times will you pretend that my tears are raindrops from the sky and my sobs echoes of thunder? How many pieces should my heart be shattered just for you to know that I’m in pain? Or should I cut you with its shard for you to have at least a little glimpse of my torment?

Darling, love is not only the upbeat music you listen to when you are happy. Love is also the melancholic ballads that seduce your tears to fall at every note.

Oh my sweet clueless sprout, hear me.

When you love something, it is either you will accept nothing or you will embrace everything.

—  a hopeless comfort, @hishiddenletters x @cynthiatingo