This Confirms My Death

Last night was bad.
He tried to kiss me to make me feel better. I laughed, restraining him from it. I laughed so hard that I cried.

And then it turned to sad tears. 
I ran to the bathroom, grabbed the scissors and painted on my wrist. I cried harder because this time, the physical pain could not trump the emotional pain.

I was not deserving.
I was looking for someone else.



I am so close to stabbing myself with my most expensive pen. I want to jump off a building. I want to shoot myself in the head. I want anything quick that could get me out of here. Out of my skin. Out of here. Out of here.

I want to tell my fucking head to shut up. I want to tell my fucking heart to stop feeling. 

Shut up, shut up. Shut the fuck up, please. Leave me alone.


Restlessness, Not Loneliness

Sometimes when I'm home alone, I like to stand bare by the Window, and the house lights are off, the sidewalk lights are off - and the moon is shining bright.

I don't think you'd ever feel lonely in such a moment.

But maybe a little restless.



It's come to a point where sleep doesn't even solve anything.
I dread falling asleep thinking of waking up later and feeling the exact same way.
Sleep does nothing for me.
Being awake does nothing for me.

I want an escape.
Something more permanent.
I do not want to think.
I do not want to feel.
I do not want anything.

I just want to end it all.



There are days like this.
When I can barely stand to be with myself.
My own thoughts haunt me, scare me, and I have the courage to kill them. Kill it.

Dark days. Here we go again.


Don't Mourn Me

Don't you even dare.
You have lost me long before I was gone.
I have been empty years ago.

Don't even cry.
You have never had me when I was never here.
I was never meant to be here.



Some are willing to be thrown into hellfire for a person.
Some are willing to be thrown in for the act.


See Through

(a.k.a  Exchange 24)

Here I go again, getting lost in moments, reliving each second.
Wishing there was a way for me to stay there forever, in your arms, forever.

What could be more perfect, being bare in the shower with you? Keeping each other warm in the running water, barely any space between our bodies, from head to toe? What could be more perfect than watching you rest your head on my chest, seeing your eyes as you look up on me?
NOTHING. And I say this with tears in my eyes.

I don't know if you felt the way my lips moved on the crevice of your neck later that day, as I mouthed the words "I love you". It wasn't even a whisper. I said it in silence, as I say all things in silence.

Maybe you felt it in the tightening of my grip, the way I caressed your ears, your neck, your hair, the way I traced my fingers on your chest, your arms, the way I pouched them in your boxers, leaving it there to rest.

I smelled like you. And as always, I would refuse to wash you off of me.

You are my forever. I will long for you, I will ache for you, regardless of your presence, and absence in my day, in my life. 

I don't know what could be more beautifully painful than this.

I watched you drive off, sort of getting into a small accident with a Cabbie. I was laughing from where I was. I closed my eyes and wished I was sitting right next to you.

But who am I kidding. I'm always right next to you. My soul is my soul only when you are near.


They Are Beautiful And I Regret Nothing

A scar on my wrist.
A scar on my neck.

One from the blade of my knife.
One from the blade of your lips.

I stared at each, both caused by you, preferring one over the other.
Like you need to guess which.


Poems Of The 21st Century

I fucking love you.
Fuck you for that.

It's what I wanted to say when I left you all those messages this morning which you chose not to read, in spite of being online. IN SPITE OF SEEING THEM IN YOUR SCREEN.

So when I said "I really really really care about you", what I really really really meant was "I really really really love you".

So fuck you for that.
Fuck you for making me feel this way.
Fuck you for kissing me the way you did.
Fuck you for letting me in.
And then shutting me out as you please.

But most of all, fuck you for making me feel you love me too.
And for making me feel like a stranger.

Fuck you for everything.

But really, fuck you cos I love you.


This Will Be The Death Of Me

It was another one of those nights. Day 14 since I last heard from him. I found my way to the loo, barefoot. The cold floor already numbing my numb body. Totally opposite from the soul screaming in what looks like a lifeless person walking around the soils of the Earth.

I sure hide it quite well under all this goop of make-up. I'm on Stage 2 of recovery, slowly moving to 3. 

*This is usually a cycle that happens. I try to quit him (stage 1) and I do what I can to move forward (stage 2), then I'm practically convinced I'm better off (stage 3) and I realise that I'm actually happy (stage 4). And then my phone beeps that tone assigned to him and I'm a pile of broken glass again*

I take out my make-up and light up a cigarette. I get a pair of scissors, and use one end to cut myself on one of my favourite spots 3 inches away from my left wrist. "Kind of pathetic", I think to myself. Waiting for the day when I'd finally muster up the courage to just get it over with. But I've just gotten back to this. It will probably take time before I get into the hardcore stuff.

I doubt he's gonna notice. It's not like I do this for him anyway. I'm sure this will just freak him out and would make him cut me out of his life for real. I keep lying to myself that it would actually be his loss. For me to be a loss, I would have to mean something to him.

Which I clearly don't. Because if I did, how could he survive all this time not talking to me, not EVEN READING my fucking messages when I know HE SEES THEM.

Too much talking.

I run one of the scissor blades over and over, slowly, but surely... Until I'm satisfied. I take a shower and go about my usual routine. Trying to save my skin from ageing, trying to look my best even if it's all pointless. None of this makes sense anymore. Deep down I am asking to be saved. But from what? 

Ugh, I hate feeling restless. I get into my jammies and switch off the lights.

And just as I am about to fall asleep, there it is.
That beep. My phone's screen lights up.

And I take a deep breath.


Which Side Are You On

That is the thing about depression.
Once you give in, it can suck you right back whenever it pleases.

I stared at my healed wrists and carefully studied untouched parts of my skin.
Unscarred, perfect spots.
And then I went at it.
Over. And over.
Slowly, so it's not too gory. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of cut.

I do it to feel.
I do it to not feel.

Each time the blade hits, a part of me dies. A part of me numbs.
And that is what I want most. I want to not feel. I want to not care. I want to not love.
I want nothing. I don't want any of this.


Up Our Sleeves

What am I doing.
I don't know.

When we're together I'm not sure of anything else. I'm only sure of you.

Why am I still here?
Why am I still doing all these things for you?

It used to be good for me. I used to be able to handle the pain of, as Selena Gomez puts it : "Lighting me up like Venus, and then you disappear and make me wait" ? 

But I'm worn out. I'm hollow. I watch you take and take and take, and I watch you throw me aside. I watch myself accept your non-verbal apologies, and I watch myself believe your lies.

I fall in love with you, I fall in love with us, with the magic that is there in the room when we're in it. When I know that in this world, there is no such thing as Magic. We believe what we want because we see it, even when we know that actually do know so much better.

I am your audience, and I have admired your shows regardless of knowing what goes on behind the curtain, behind every trick. I have memorised it like the back of my hand and yet here I am, applauding you, praising you, screaming your name, blowing you kisses, throwing you flowers.

I answer questions addressed for you in my head, coming to your defense.  Here I am, your Victim, and also, your Saviour, rescuing myself from your lies, with lies I have made up to counter the truth.

I know all this, I know that you see my messages, you receive my notifications on your phone, which is on your hand 24/7. I know you choose to ignore me, and put me aside, sometimes throw me away for days.

And yet here I am, watching you. Simply watching you do what you want with me, as if I am lifeless. As if I am not worthy of the little things I ask of you.

Consideration, care... love.
Is it really... too much to ask?

What do you want from me?
What more do you want me to give?


It's Like Calling A Number When You Know It's No Longer In Service

I have all these ways and all these means to communicate with you.
But I am not heard.
I'm here, I'm everywhere.
But I am unseen.

What could be more frustrating than reaching out, than making your presence known, seen, and heard, and yet you are chosen to be ignored, to be pushed aside?

I am doing my part. I cannot do any more than this.
I should let you go. I should do the same.
And yet the moment my phone beeps, and your name appears?

All the pain of being ignored is forgotten. Buried in a shallow hole.
Which you will soon dig up.