Smoke 

You said you hate it when my mouth tastes like cigarettes, how you can taste the ashes in my mouth as if you’re licking an ashtray. I smoked a pack after you left, and watch our memories fade away in each puff of smoke. You told me to stop back then, when you were still there to nit pick at my bad habits, told me that it’s like watching me waste away at 11 seconds per stick.

I was planning to stop, really, but then you left and I ended up counting down my life at 11 second increments. Nicotine helps calm down the mind you see, at least at the end of this pack I will be calm enough to stop blaming myself. Or maybe, at least in the back of my mind I know I’m pissing you off, a small rebellion of some sort, or maybe I’m wishing you’d be back to stop me.

After the storm

I thought that I was the storm who’s going to dissipate into thin air, leaving you with a trail of splintered memories and a flood of tears to clean up. I thought I’m the one who’s going to watch you rebuild yourself after I wrecked your peace with my presence.

was too presumptuous, too arrogant, too confident with  my sway over you. 

I  forgot about the sun. I forgot about the possibility of you chasing after the sun. I denied the possibility that maybe you’re the one who’s going to leave me all splintered and flooded.

Now you’re just a name on my list of storms. 

22

I turned 22 last Tuesday, nothing special. I didn’t even tell anyone at work. I don’t know, for me it’s just a regular day. I did try to be excited about it but nothing.

It’s my 5th month on the job, I’m tolerating it, I guess. I still think nursing is not my thing. The whole soothe your patients, take care of them gig, not really my forte. 

Patients die on my shift and I ceased feeling  anything, just blank apathy, and relief because it’s one less patient to mind. Maybe because it’s a really common thing  our ward that I got used to it. I don’t know. 

I just don’t feel anything right now. So much for 22  

Can’t sleep

My sleeping pattern is so fucked up lately; night shift does that to you. Nothing exciting lately, or maybe nothing is exciting me nowadays. I don’t know, I kind of don’t feel anything much at all. I did buy a new stove, that made me a bit happy, I guess? 

I do have a crush. I know, I know, it sounds childish and all that but I really fancy someone. I tried chatting him up, and nothing. I’m freakishly awkward when it comes to  those things. I am actually questioning my feelings, if I do really like him or I’m just bored and want to feel something. 

I’m sorry this post is not making any sense whatsoever. I really just can’t sleep. 

Distorted Fairytale

You talked about suicide; about jumping, falling,  and bashing your head in on the pavement. You tell it as if it’s a page from a fairytale— bright, happy, and with birds circling over your corpse.

You talked about walking into the ocean; pockets full of rocks, and lungs full of saltwater. You told me about it, in a tone that makes it like you’re visiting mermaids at the bottom of the ocean, indefinitely.

When I found you on your bed, still as Aurora, cold as the Ice Queen, with poisoned apples on your bedside table, I thought about kissing you. That is how things are supposed to work right? True love solving everything, bringing light into the darkness, and making birds sing with abandon.

Apparently not. 

So I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so blinded by our fairytale that I failed to see your darkness. 

Dark Clouds

It never really goes away, you know, that heavy weight on your shoulder, that dark cloud that hangs over your head that seems to follow you everywhere. You can feel their presence, only you can feel their presence, actually.

You want to scream at people to look at the cloud, to cut the phantom rope around your neck, but you can’t. So you give them your megawatt smile instead, throw witty assurances their way so they won’t suspect that anything is wrong with you. God forbid if they find out that you’re not right in the head. You are, after all, a calm, collected, reliable adult.

So you try to silence the nagging thoughts in your head that tells you that you are nothing but an insignificant speck on this universe. You try to quell the repeating visions of your death —it varies, sometimes a horrid car crash, sometimes a quiet peaceful death. You also tell yourself that the caresses of blade you feel on your wrist where your old scars are is just a  phantom thing from your past, like a pain from a missing limb.

So you just scream internally. Keep it all bubbling inside, waiting for the cathartic moment where you will (hopefully) be free from the dark clouds and phantom ropes. But you doubt if it will come, of if catharsis would equal to eternal rest.

There are good days though, it is not as sunny as other people’s good days, but it is warm enough. Probably more tepid than warm, but it is a vast improvement from the constant chill in your bones, the nagging weight on your shoulder, and the dark ominous cloud overhead.

Those days you cherish. There is only so much sunshine that your dark cloud can allow you. It’s not that you refuse to fight it and actively seek sunshine from somewhere else, it just hangs there, out from your reach yet near enough to block the sun.

Those good days are the only thing that keeps you afloat during the worst. A silver lining, if you may. So while waiting for it, you just keep on swimming.

I can’t do poetry

I can’t do poetry, I never had the patience for rhymes and meters. Pentameters, a-a-b-c’s,  couplets and whatnots, spare me.

I can’t do poetry, symbolisms and metaphors fly over my head like sarcasms on a literal person. Blue skies are just fucking blue skies for me, okay.

I can’t do poetry, I don’t know how to group stanzas and lines. My writings always linger between being prose-like or a half assed, badly done, deconstructed poetry.

I can’t do poetry because I can’t translate my emotions to words. I’m numb, I’m cold, I’m stuck in a rut. Poetry cannot be stone cold and empty, can it?

I can’t do poetry. I don’t have the heart for it, okay maybe also talent and patience, but mostly heart. Probably because I’ve lost my heart while searching for poetry in you.