I didn’t text you today
I made you wait
Like a proposal in a letter
With the question mark lingering on the adhesive edge of an envelope
And the love note patient for a warm handed “Yes”
But I never lifted a finger
I knew my knuckle wouldn’t build a bridge to a diamond
Because you’d evaporate from having waited too long for rain in this drought
My mother always said that
Lightening doesn’t strike in the same place twice
And when I told you that
You said that you were thunder instead
You never danced around the sky
You only clapped along to the rhythm of the water slapping the pavement
Because it was easier to love aggressively than to love quickly
It was easier to make someone feel the way a song makes you feel
You were the only natural orchestra I wanted to listen to
I didn’t text you today
i. i am a walking apology,
handing out sorries like tissues
as if I’m trying to soak up this ocean of a mess
that I’m drowning in
but there’s too much sea salt in my veins
that my wounds are overflowing with tears
ii. i miss the way your sunflower printed palms
would sow seeds into my pores
iii. sometimes I wish I smoked
so that the cancer would
kill me faster than my thoughts would
vi. my past is my shadow
and it mimics my strut and swagger
like the grim reaper
waiting for my surrender
v. i miss how your starry eyed gaze
sent wishes to the moon whenever you looked at me
and how the earth would rotate according to where we stood
because the sun always shined
whenever i was with you
I was never graceful
I always walked into walls,
spilled food on myself
and tripped over air
Maybe I never learned how to fully encompass my motor skills
or maybe I just fell in love with gravity all too often
Then, gravity must have loved me back when
I let myself tiptoe across a tightrope in the ripeness of March
I remember how steep the fall looked
and how the bottom burned with flames of danger.
I remember loving the challenge and
confusing adrenaline with infatuation.
I remember how bravery carried me halfway through the trip
but fear made me slip
I thought I carried more weight than I should’ve
When I realized that the burden was myself
It was a balancing act I couldn’t keep up with for long
I remember holding onto the rope
and how my palms sweat with selfishness
I thought the world revolved around myself
and at the time, I believed that it could fit in my hands
I lost myself on the way down
and was blindfolded with darkness
as if the Devil’s temptation was gravity itself.
The only thing I could hold onto was faith
as if believing was going to make me fly again
I wanted to return to Neverland
Three months later,
I slammed against the pavement
and my gasp ricocheted back into my chest
Air exploded inside of me
It was like the solar system was reborn in my lungs
and I remembered how to breathe again
The climb up was steeper than the fall
and the stairs have never been so slippery.
I had lessons learned in my back pocket
that looked like invitations to learn again
and carried courage like a backpack.
I dared to crawl across the tightrope again
This time, with grace in the way I walked
and elegance in my posture.
I placed one foot after the other with caution
as if my footsteps were beading together a rosary
and I was the prayer
I wanted God to answer me
Maybe His hands could hold my world instead
since there is no gravity on this planet anymore
To the boy I almost loved,
It was in the middle of April
when you blew the dust off my skin.
You saw that the cursive cracks in my porcelain
spelled out your name with jagged edges.
You’ve held onto my pieces with your pinkies
like this was the first puzzle you promised to complete
but you thought you saw enough of the final product before you started another one.
I’m not sorry that my corners have cut you
because you made the first incision a deep one.
In fact, your apologies are bloody with overuse.
They have stained my being and
are the closest I’ll ever get to having permanent scars.
I know that I am not the only glass doll in your hands.
Your fingers decided that her fragility was more beautiful than mine
because she was vintage;
dirtied with history and bruises you’ve shared with a story stapled to each
while I was brand new.
She was worth more than I was.
A limited edition collector’s item,
only to exist until the summers of June
but you knew that I would always be waiting on the shelf.
You said you had a hard time letting go
and I never understood what that really meant
until your mouth said you did but your grasp said you didn’t.
I should fall between your hammock-threaded grip
but the gaps are too tight for me to escape.
You love her with words but envelop me with actions.
You’ve made her your queen
but you continue to treat me as if I belong in her place instead.
I’ve reminded you that I’m not fit for royalty
and I can’t be your Cinderella if someone else fits the shoe better than I do.
Even when the clock made love to midnight
and you had made your decision,
you still chased after me with a drunken swagger
since indecisiveness gave you liquid courage
to love me harder than you did at 11:59
You should know,
that you can’t pour love into two different cups at the same time
but the imprint of your mouth still embraces the lip of my glass.
and as much as I should wipe it clean
To the boy I almost loved,
I still do.
Today, my classmate stated that
Alaska has the highest suicide rate
due to the colder climate
and I remember I was sitting against a concrete wall
that felt like it was loved by Alaska
when you told me she had your heart.
My chest did somersaults into my stomach
and I’ve never been one to take leaps of faith but
that was the closest I’ve ever been to jumping off a bridge.
I pushed my pinky and thumb to the sky
with my fingerprints pressed against one star to the next
and I told you that this was how you measure the distance between stars.
I said that the length from point A to B
was the equivalent of 1000 lightyears
and maybe it took that long for me to get to you in another lifetime.
I remember how you were always at the same place
and same time as I was
and how it meant nothing then
but a sign now.
I was always told not to believe in destiny
because the universe would take care of it
but I think this is the closest I’ll get to believing in fate.
So we performed for the cosmos
where the hilltops could barely brush its lips
against the skies
and the city lights applauded for us.
I remember how careful your hands were
when they encased my waist
as if you were the only art gallery that could own this masterpiece
and how I never could love an artist
but I so badly wanted you to trace my skin with yours.
You pirouetted into my chest with the way your gaze painted words unsaid into mine
and I remember how your nose felt when it tickled my own
then you exhaled the word ‘patience’ between our mouths.
You weren’t ready for fireworks on our lips
but I was eager to know how an explosion would feel like.
I bookmarked an article
on how to cure stage fright
as if fear was a sickness
It said that it was simply
'mind over matter'
as if I’m supposedly mental
They’re probably right
if I’m being diagnosed by an online author
I suppose that means
people with claustrophobia should be hospitalized
in ballrooms or auditoriums
with space bars lining the room like tapestry
because that’s all they really need and
living in a box would probably kill them
Arachnophobians would be rehabilitated in air tight chambers
because anything that tickles their skin
that doesn’t feel like it’s human would give them a heartattack
Patients diagnosed with achluphobia
would rather die and see the light today
and would rather make love with flashlights
than have the lights turned off for a few seconds
but say that it’s because he wants to see your orgasm face a little clearer
So that means there’d be medication for sweaty palms
and a vaccination for s-s-stuttering
during presentations about speech communication
but the only language I wanna learn is your body
and you’d be the only solution I’d need.
Your skin is the only bravery in a bottle
that I would crave to consume
and your eyelashes are the only needles
I’d want to be injected into me.
And even when the moon is full
and it’s the dead of night
you’ll cling on to the repetition of my words
and the clashing of my syllables
You’ll say that it’s the most hypnotizing sound you’ve ever heard
and tell me
that my fear is beautiful.
Then I’ll be cured.
What if men had periods?
They’d crave chocolate cake from Costco
They’d refuse sex and avoid swimming pools
then say their manboobs are tender
Their tampons would be Q-tips
They’d have violent cramps like earthquakes on their insides
and say that it feels like they’re
pushing a watermelon through their urethras
They’d feel constipated more than usual
and crave more Marzipan chocolate
They’d go to sleep with clean sheets
but wake up laying on a Japanese flag
they’d get weepy over TV
and burst into tears when their girlfriends confront them about silly little things
like washing the dishes
or actually flushing the toilet
They’d have their hair tied up
and won’t bother with manscaping
they’d be the ones to worry about birth control methods
and would refuse to wear white jeans
Actually they wouldn’t wear jeans at all
They’d complain that they feel bloated
and prance around in their granny panties
then crave more chocolate
They’d have ghost pangs of labor in their cramps
and weep over old pictures out of happiness
They’d cuss out every driver on the road
and flash their finger around as if they just got engaged
then threaten to smear their
used q tips on their faces
They would endure whispers of
oh God, it must be that time of the month
and when they get passionate about something
or don’t feel like dealing with somebody’s shit
the Government would be shut down for days
and wars would be started over who got
the last shipments of chocolate ice cream
And men always said that they wouldn’t trust anything
that bled for 7 days and still lived
Ich hab dich Lieb
when I tell a corny joke
about how chickens crossed the road
and how you still laugh,
I love the way your nose wrinkles up like a mountain range
and the way your eye lashes kiss your cheeks
I love the way your freckles look like constellations
And how they spell out wishes in the sky when they dot your I’s with star dust
I get lost in your milky way every time we lock eyes
You make the darkest of nights the brightest
even if you embrace every side of the world
I want to rotate with you until the sun supernovas
I love how your arms are like parentheses,
And the way they isolate thoughts
I want to be the conversation you have with yourself
The object to your subject and every verb trailing “us”
I love the way you read my lips With yours
As if you’re trying to keep a secret That’s felt and not said.
Your mouth is a fingerprint
and I am glass,
I want your breath to linger on my skin
like a pinky promise that was never meant to be broken
I love how you trace signs on my back
like a crossword puzzle that can’t be solved
And the way my goose bumps respond with the answers in Braille
A love like this
is not like any other
Its rawness is liberating
Its honesty its freedom
and trust is the key
We are not prisoners of this war
who are hostages of commitment
We are revolutionists
Rebels against confinement
citizens of no nation
loyalists to only each other
whose kisses are laced with permanence
Love is a crumpled piece of paper
and no matter how many times it’s unfolded,
the creases are still there
They’re ever lasting marks of each time I bent over backwards
with forever tattooed along my spine
They are stretch marks
imperfect but scars of growth
Love is an impression
you are my starry night and my lily garden
We are a masterpiece
we are forms of expression
and more than just a language that everyone speaks
My gaze is an iceberg
that I crashed into
and melted under the public eye.
are not tears anymore,
these are tsunamis.
I’ve lost myself in this whirlpool
of reclaiming my image
and I thought Liam was my life vest
when I was his anchor.
I am constantly swimming in paparazzi
and was baptized into the realm of media.
I was transformed by contracts
and bound by what others wanted me to be.
I was Christened into the religion of fame
and was resurrected into a god of the prepubescent.
didn’t want the best of both worlds.
I no longer have copyright over my own body
so I tattooed wrong on every inch of visible skin and
bleached and combed the sides of my head off with rebellion.
I am not a seventeen year old savior for preteens anymore.
am the mistakes I was never able to make
and the lessons I never got to learn.
I am everything the public never let me be.
Pop culture has stripped me with their judgments
and raped me of my freedom to change.
I’ve never felt more vulnerable.
My walls have been demolished
and I never thought
that my audience would be the one to break them down.
I have been crucified on this wrecking ball.