quicksand

They told the sand not to love the sea.

Dark, wild waves that can never be tamed-
They are too harsh for your gentle soul.
And you know this.
Everyday, ferocious waters crash into your shore,
Never minding, never seeing.
You know.

Angry, so angry; sometimes you forget that
The depth of his being is not flame.
He ravages the shoreline whenever he chooses.
And you know this.
Everyday, he upturns the seashells and pearls,
and leaves you nothing but a mess.
Never caring, never bothering.
You know.

Mysterious, alluring; you understand every person
Who comes to you to see him.
He brings with him chaos, destruction-
-but also intrigue, and beauty.
And you know this.
Everyday, as the sea tides calm,
You tidy your sands and polish your shells.
You line up the shoreline and hold your breath.
Never minding, never sighing.
You know.

Black waves come crashing into your soul.
He doesn’t see you.
He glances back, looking, searching,
wondering at your voice.
But you are only small castles, half ruined and half gone,
and he was an ocean too mighty for your shore.

And you know this.

Thundering seas go back to the moon.
The shoreline whispers a soft goodbye.

They told the sand not to love the sea.
You know this.
You know.


Note: I’m back on wordpress, everyone!! 

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336

it has been three hundred and thirty six days since I last held your hand.

there is bitterness laced in the tears at nightfall, when solitude arrives in the ghostly chill of a space next to me on a bed too big. I wonder if you understand. what is living when its purpose is dead? what is my breath when it could have been yours?

jagged breaths, sharp and painful. the lungs claw for air in a world too much sad for you. there is a fixed demise and a predetermined length of days I have accepted on with which to accept your passing. forever sounds foolish-

-to the soul that has never loved. at a far point in time, three hundred and thirty seven days ago, that would have been me.

like a whirlwind, you upturned my entire world and left,

and i am in ruin because

and without

you.

solar energy

“But what does it matter? I’m always second best anyway.”

“My dear, everyone wants to be the sun. No one wants to be a tiny star. But it’s this tiny star that accompanies us at night, when all is dark and unforgiving. Where is the sun, the brightest star? Darling, you are better than the best because you light up in the dark.

And I would pick you over any other star in the universe.”

black hole

to you who has given up on me:

there is a distinct bitterness in the way i remember your name now. granted, i have the shorter end of the stick, but there is a certain cruelty about fate that brings back times to when you were a better person. it saddens me now to realise what we were: souls bound by circumstance, who would’ve otherwise abhorred the essence of the other. without the fierce burning of a fork-tongued demon, you would never have found solace in a star too bright for you.

tell me, what do you feel? can you feel? beneath the golden gilded wings that you have, who are you truly? indeed i was foolish to look into diamond and see treasure, when all you amount to is carbon, black and miserable.

thank you for everything else, aside from the good. for giving me insight through dull-coloured lenses, where all the world points back to you as if you are the centerpiece. try as you might, donning costumes of souls too big for your little heart, too mighty for your tinfoil soul and too colourful for your monochrome mind, you will always be the same person you’ve changed into seven months ago.

thank you for showing me the world through your eyes.

i just wish that you saw it through mine.

black sheep

tell me again how much it hurts, how the blood slowly seeps out of your poisonous mouth and drips onto your little black dress, and remind me once again the vicious promises to which you held me chained, further locked in with the pain of a thousand memories. you are the poisoned apple i once thought sweet, the venom i thought was once the antidote.

rot in your sins, in your dreams of tomorrow,

i thank you always for the sweet regret.

in the depths of rumination

How do you describe the feeling of clutching throats, swallowed breaths and clenching hearts in one word? Is it fear that grabs me, or is it anxiety? How do I aptly capture the gnawing feeling in my stomach that things aren’t real, or that they’re too real and I need to wake up?

You are a metre away from me yet galaxies away in your own world, and I find myself repeating in my head: this is real. Over and over. You are real. Every breath. Every touch. Every tingle and flush of skin and every contact between fingers, hands, hearts and souls. 

You are real. So real. You are raw and fresh and unbelievably alive.

But am I?