Kiss Me

Kiss my feet and they will blossom into an amaranthine meadow of flowers.
Kiss my arms and watch them twist into great, serpentine rivers that intertwine like double-helices.
Kiss my shoulders, they will stretch into two bridges that interconnect planets and systems.
Kiss my lips and taste the golden elixir of honey. You will be immortal.
Kiss my eyes and they will be the eternal stars to guide you through the endless nights.

Fascinating,

don't you think?
You know, the way the birds sort of... swirl around. In the air. I mean, virtual. In the virtual air.
Gah, you know what I mean.
It's mesmerizing. I can't tear my eyes away from it.
Maybe it's just me.

May 7th

Because I let myself wade
into you too prematurely;
first the ankles, knees and thighs.
And suddenly I'm up to my shoulders
in you.

Everything was measured and everything was slow,
and because of that
I believed that I was safe
in the impenetrability of time.
I didn't know that I would
wake up one day
to find that I am
the color of your blood.

Wonderland

I used to have the same fever dreams over and over again; an endless dream sequence set in a place like wonderland.

There, people walk around in a stupor with half-smiles on their faces. They talk about how the sun is shining so brightly, or compliment the precise diamond-like shape of raindrops but when asked about their names or who they are, they fall silent.

You are walking in the middle of a crowd of people; suddenly you stop, turn around and there's no one around you at all. You're standing in a narrow hallway and you can see no end to it. You put one foot ahead of another because there's really nothing else you can do.

She looks at me, her face utterly devoid of emotion and holds out her palm to me. WE'RE ALL MAD HERE, written in faded black ink. She continues licking the ink on her translucent skin.

There's a mirror in front of me and I see you in it; or rather, you see me. And I realize that we're the same person after all. And all the people walking in circles, with their zombie-smiles and their apparent lack of sound minds are more clones of me.

Then the dream would start all over again.

Dear You,

There was once a girl who spent so much time building castles and worlds and perennial universes;
her arms are islands and her feet are mountains.
The wind is her breath and the ocean her blood but at the same time, she is the island and the mountain, the wind and the ocean.
She is not here, or there, or anywhere but she is everywhere.

She spent nights trying to find her voice. She had it once, long, long ago. But the only memory she had of it is vague and unintelligible; she couldn't even recognize it.
So now she goes around knocking from mouth to mouth, trying to retrieve her lost voice.

She's a dreamer but such a strong one. Hurricanes that would leave her devastated come and go. New hearts are drawn over old, smudged and crossed out ones.
Torn seams and lost faith are stitched back onto her soul.
Her teardrops are the infinitesimal stars in the sky. She who dreamed and dream still of love.

They say that things invariably get better. Well, I don't know about that or what to do, or what to say. I can write fancy schmancy proses and beautiful words but in the end I searched my soul and I have absolutely nothing to say.
All I know is, if I could give you the world to make you feel better, I would. If I could write off sorrow and mail it to the all-consuming sun, I would. I would do anything to make you happy again.

Love Is a Sticky Mess

My tongue is leaden with
particles of you,
and my soul weary;
I love you
but I love you
no more.

I am more

ghost

than solid flesh. I

roam the piceous concourse of

your murky mind too long,

too often.
And I saw

Your shriveled bones.

I love you

but I'm suffocating. 

You crowd my lips 

and you clot

in the pores of my 

withering skin. 

You disgust me,

but I love you

and I love you still. 

When Love Dies

"It's a stillborn," the doctor says, mopping his forehead with a spotted kerchief. "I'm sorry." And he genuinely does seem so.

We would not look at each other. Instead, we fixed our eyes at the mass of bloody flesh in my hands, in our hands. I am looking at it with all my remaining energy, as if I could electric-shock it into living and pulsing again, as if we did not feel the wet coldness seeping through our fingers. It is stiff already, our dead love, rotting and decaying away in our hands until it finally disintegrates. Now it is just my hand in his, the drying blood the sole indication that we had any love between us at all.

At night we sleep together one last time, his knees fitting in the back of mine and his chest cushioning my back. We are both trembling and sobbing quietly, because we know, know with absolute and uncanny certainty that a single escaped cry would break us down and tear us apart. My hair is soaked with his tears.

It is no use trying again. How many loves have we revived only to lose them in the end? How many times have I felt the doctor's shiny scalpel slit through the thin skin of my chest, and through the scarred muscles of my heart - reaching deep into the center of it, only to remove my gasping love, deformed and grotesque, as it is? How many times have he dug the graves to bury our loves?

No more.

No more.

Darkness Owns Me

You'll never see the darkness in my mind: the bone-crushing blackness, the maddening loneliness, the infinite and cosmic abyss where I fall through an eternity. I fall and fall and fall and there is no telling how long it might take me to reach the ground, to be shattered into a thousand pieces, to end it once and for all.

You'll never understand how the darkness would suffocate me. It washes over me like waves, gentle at first, so soft I wouldn't even notice it's there; then it gets rougher, and I would get swept into the black ocean. I would try to swim, but the waters are viscous and heavy and the inky droplets would stick to my arms and weigh me down. The worst part is realizing that while the drowning at sea part is only in my head, the suffocating part is real. I'm doubling over and kneeling on the floor to breathe but it is like a thick layer of oil is coating my alveoli - my lungs just don't work anymore.

That's not to say that I'm depressed all the time. Sometimes it's as if I'm another person altogether. I guess that's what bipolarity does to you. But even when it strikes, I could fight it for awhile; when I'm with company. I could still pretend that I am another person, untouched by the darkness and I would fake it so well that even my demons are deceived. It is only when I'm alone again, that they would come back and haunt me and tell me that the brief happiness I had felt when I was another person was a lie, an illusion, and I was foolish to believe it.

But it's better that you can't see the darkness. Because then you wouldn't fathom the atrocity of my deepest thoughts. You wouldn't know that when I say I hate the world, I meant I would burn them all, all the occupants on earth - you and him and them and me. You wouldn't know that I dream of monsters, tearing and mutilating people with their fangs and their claws, only to realize that I am the monsters. All of them. Like zombie clones of me.

You don't believe me, do you? That's alright. I terrify myself too.

He Said, She Said

You said you like my dress, because it's so long and so red and it goes on forever. It's an amaranthine river that flows from the blades of my shoulders to the ground. The scarlet train pools around my feet like blood. Or ketchup.

You said you like my skin. Milky white and luminescent behind the crimson silk. Touch it then, I whisper. Trace it with your finger but be gentle, and soft. My skin is so thin it will break at the slightest pressure, and the red would come out of me, and I will die. Trust me, darling, I'll die. 

And I said, tell me more. What else do you love about me? I'm hungry and greedy and I want so much more out of you. So spill. 

So you said:  I love how you get all these crazy stories in your head and demand that I listen to all of them. I love the muscle on your thigh that occasionally twitches when you sleep.I love the warmth of your body, and I drink it every night, and it burns as it goes down my throat. Like brandy. I love your sing-song voice, lilting and fluctuating with every syllable of your words. I love our little arguments and how they always end with you in my arms. I love how you carry your pillow around and bury your head in it and sniff it and tell me that it smells like me. Or I smell like it. I love your insanity and paranoia and obsessiveness and do-you-really-want-me-to-continue-because-it-can-really-take-the-whole-night. 

Well then, I replied, you can write it all down and draw little random hearts on the paper, or you can shut up and kiss me. 

Happy Belated Birthday, Cheeyi

It has become a routine that has to be done daily - a ritual, almost. She stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror with a basin of water in one hand and a small towel in another. She forces herself to look into the mirror and suppresses the disgust and utter horror as she wets the towel and dabs at her face (if it can still pass as a face).

The softness of the towel on her skin is delicious. Slowly, gently and with a deftness that could only hint at regularity, she removes the flakes of skin from her purulent flesh. The pinkish, raw sinewy muscles on her face contracts when she opens her mouth. The foul-smelling pus that flows down her throat is carefully cleaned.

She lifts up a rubber mask from her dresser and puts it on, careful to secure the edges. Make-up is applied to make her face more realistic, more natural. At best, she looked as though she had had a bad plastic surgery, at worst the bleeding is too heavy to put on a fake face at all. She looks at herself proudly, admiring the face that her own hands had produced.

He wouldn't recognize her now. No, she had been beautiful once and he had been the devil. If she had known better she wouldn't have made the deal with him but he had been so charming, so alluring. Let me love you and let me be with you and I'll give you anything. Anything. Well, he did. He let her love him and let her be with him and he wanted her face.

But you know what they say, a deal's a deal and he got her goddamned face. She hopes he does it justice. Pretty faces are hard to come by, after all.


P.S. Hope you don't mind I wrote dark stuff for your birthday. =)