You think the sadness leaves. It doesn’t. 

When I first met you, I said you were my Prozac with yet unknown side effects. Well I know what those side effects are now. First, that its efficacy is short-lived, and yet my body has grown so accustomed to it I cannot live without it anymore. Second, like most drugs, there is a period of complete and utter bliss, but then comes a crash that is so violent, it is something singularly spectacular to behold. 

These black, viscous, septic thoughts well up in my blood. These cancerous, virulent feelings course through my lymph. “Why have you lost so much weight?” people ask. “Because I have cancer, that’s why. I’m eaten alive by all kinds of horrible things, things that would sicken and appall people, if they were to open me up one day,” I want to answer. 

I’m trapped in a Sartre-ian limbo. My flesh was cut, blood flowed, and yet I still breathe. I want to die, but have lost the courage to attempt it again. Death says, you are far too contaminated, far too defiled for my kingdom. 

The loneliness is crushing, it’s maddening. I’ve never had much use for people in my life, because they don’t help. They only made me feel more left out in this world that has left me behind because I was broken. But you helped. You were so much a part of me that I no longer felt lonely. I could hate you, cut myself up because of you, bash my head against the wall in an attempt to clear out the anger and the frustration, I could kill myself, but I wouldn’t be lonely so long as I have you. I cannot go back to that loneliness again; if I have to flay myself I would do it, but I cannot go back. And yet, that is what you want to do. Leave me and let me rot in that unforgiving, torturous abyss. You say that I would be better if we weren’t together, but how would you know? You have never been trapped in that chasm, never experienced that bone-crushing despair, that loneliness, that deafening silence. You want to impose this on me. 

You always ask me what the things I love about you are. To tell you the truth, one of the very big reasons was how much you love me and how much I felt loved. It made me feel like none of this mattered. Like I was an actual person deserving of love. Like I wasn’t as left out as I thought I was. I was wrong. Only a monster could love a monster like me. 

This sadness is inherent in me, in my mother’s blood, and her mother’s. This sadness caresses me, drowns me, buries me. I am the darkness that overwhelms, I am the darkness molten.

the beginning of the end, pt 2

1am's are made for a special sort of prayer:
don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me
on the floor, bent over your knees, the hot, rolling tears are
libations, an offering, a sacrifice, a tribute to whatever god,
whatever deity, you think is listening. To please please please
stop this pain, stop this hurt.
This hurting and hurting from a depth in your heart that you
didn't know existed to the pit of your stomach,
it makes you want to hurl, it makes you want to scratch your heart out,
it makes you want to stop existing.
What even is this existing that people talk about? It is a body,
thrown into the world, raw and naked, clothed with a billion
emotions, that you pretend you don't have, that you hide from people,
that you deny yourself. You tell yourself it's ok, you tell yourself to not be sad,
you tell yourself you cry too much, you feel too much, you love,
oh, you lovetoo much.
you love, and that is why you're sprawled on the floor, now
3am in the morning, hair a sticky, salty mess,
throat dry, heart in a million pieces, and this poor, battered heart of yours,
you know, will not stop loving too much,
and you will never know how to love without
being consumed.

the beginning of the end, pt 1

This hurt, this damned black,
rotten, pathetic, shameful hurt.

This poor semblance of that resplendent thing
called love.

(Not) The End

And it terrifies me that
it would come to a screeching
halt.

poems of my sins, part 3

Your lips;
Pressing insistently into mine
Sucking on my mouth, on my breath,
On my entire soul,
So that when you left
you tore a part of me with you.

poems of my sins, part 2

Things are whispered in the dead of the night
That can't be said in the day.
I love you
I fucking love you.
But only just tonight.

poems of my sins, part 1

I am shattered.
I am a hollow shell, flesh picked clean
By gulls.
The sound of waves still echo in me,
But I am far from the ocean.
I am far from anything
I had ever known.

"i walked with you once upon a dream"

but fairy tales are

for little girls and you are too old, your soul

too battered for lies like that anymore.

fairy tales are for innocent, virginal girls in 

pink dresses 

and 

diamond crowns

and your eyes are too full of shadows, bones too

full of secrets to pretend

to be pure.

your mouth has tasted too much cum

for the kiss of a prince, and

you will never be able to

conceal the stubble burns etched into your skin

from past lovers.

you cannot un-taste the apple

you have stolen, 

you cannot un-see 

the hell you have glimpsed. 

on relationships

she said i can’t love you anymore

because you drain me.

you’re like a mutated, human-sized

leech feeding on every bit and morsel of me

and you scream whenever i cried salt tears.

i can never understand how

two people who mutually hurt each other

could stay together willingly

but now i see that people will always

hold onto things that they are

familiar with, even though it’s killing them.

and i’m sure those half-burned wounds

on your body would never heal

if you keep latching onto me

because i will never stop crying.

so it would be better if we

stop loving each other

anymore. 

There is always the moment of desperation or utter panic when you realize how confined, how boxed up and exiguous your life is. The idea of the thousands of places you could've seen, the myriad of interesting people you could've talked to and the avalanche of different sensations in different contexts you could've felt but didn't throws you into a transient state of complete and irrefutable devastation so mind-blowing that you would've denied that you ever lived at all.

Late Night Thoughts

You think the sadness leaves. It doesn’t. 

When I first met you, I said you were my Prozac with yet unknown side effects. Well I know what those side effects are now. First, that its efficacy is short-lived, and yet my body has grown so accustomed to it I cannot live without it anymore. Second, like most drugs, there is a period of complete and utter bliss, but then comes a crash that is so violent, it is something singularly spectacular to behold. 

These black, viscous, septic thoughts well up in my blood. These cancerous, virulent feelings course through my lymph. I’m trapped in a Sartre-ian limbo. Death says, you are far too contaminated, far too defiled for my kingdom. 

This sadness is inherent in me, in my mother’s blood, and her mother’s. This sadness caresses me, drowns me, buries me. I am the darkness that overwhelms, I am the darkness molten.

this familiar void again.
an abysmal, gaping hole of longing and solitude.

your absence is deafening.

a tale of love and cancerous growth

perhaps i never really learned to love.

i love you -

tumultuously, savagely;

i never learned to love otherwise.

my love is a benign tumor in times of peace

it occupies you, it is a part of you. 

but it has the potential to metastasize and proliferate

into an ugly mass of hatred and vitriol

so violent, so malevolent,

it would consume you whole.

i love you

but perhaps not the way you learned to be loved. 

声声慢

寻寻觅觅，冷冷清清，凄凄惨惨戚戚。乍暖还寒时候，最难将息。三杯两盏淡酒，怎敌他、晚来风急？雁过也，正伤心，却是旧时相识。 

　　满地黄花堆积。憔悴损，如今有谁堪摘？守著窗儿，独自怎生得黑？梧桐更兼细雨，到黄昏、点点滴滴。这次第，怎一个、愁字了得！

the first crack, pt 1

to you
promises are just frantic, desperate nothings;
whisperings meant to be forgotten,
self-destructive words meant to be broken.

you're a gaping hole of despair in the center of my being.
nothing ever hurt like you. 

être, ou ne pas être

i don't feel human.
i don't feel human.
i don't feel human.
this body does not feel whole
this emptiness does not subside,
but aches and aches from my stomach;
shoots into the tips of my fingers,
the soles of my feet,
the thin of my scalp.

my lips are still swollen from the ashes of your kiss. 

5 months

i’ve forgotten you, you’re a ghost, i’ve forgotten you.

you hurt too much, you

take too much. i can’t breathe. i can’t sleep.

i think i’m barely existing.

you’re a gunshot wound; and one day

i will bleed to death. 

 

“I am not always thinking sweetly of you. I am thinking angrily or indignantly or sulkily, quite often, but I am never not thinking of you. More often than not I am just worried about you, concerned and distressed about my baby lamb being tired or unhappy–and of course often it is with mad, mad passion and sometimes it is naughty, sometimes, only sometimes is it dirty or even sadistic. You are all over me, in sorrow or in joy, all of the time – Oh yes in drunkenness too, in conversation, in work, with every breath and heart-beat.” 

 

—	Laurence Olivier, from a letter to Vivien Leigh

and we're back to hell

The fleeting touches, the lingering kisses... It all seems so far away now; as if it was all just a long, beautiful dream. Did I really fall asleep in your arms those nights? Now that I'm thousands of miles away from you, it all seemed so surreal.

But it must've happened. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so empty right now, alone in my room, crying for the hundredth time since I left you two days ago. I wouldn't feel as if there is a gaping wound in my chest, aching to be whole again. I can never fathom how we can be so forcefully and helplessly separated when we love each other as we do. How is it possible that there is nothing to be done? I hate it. I hate not being close to you, I hate not being able to touch you when I want to, I hate that you're not here to kiss and hug me when I'm weeping my eyes out.

I don't know how I'm going to get through this this time.

untitled

To be wrapped in you again,

To be able to breathe the same air

You breathe.

I can touch you with my hands.

My lips cannot stop kissing you.

The world is drunken and spinning.

And so are we.