he asked me, “ what does home mean to you?” I said, “home is where I can fully feel my overflowing emotions. where there’s no need to dance along a facade and i can truly unwind. home is my favourite orange sweater. home is a feeling of being wrapped around loving arms or sinking into nothingness. home is like the deep refreshing, give you a few disoriented moments after you wake up kind of sleep. home is like the kid on the train with hazel green eyes i make faces at. home is a wagging tail and overjoyed jumps at the sight of me. home is comfort. home is love and warmth. and then I finally told him, silly, home is you and i.”
~a.ch// fragments from a conversation
At times I find myself tangled in the web of my thoughts. Often, I think about what all the broken friendships, pain, trauma, relationships and almost relationships have done to me. I fear they’ve desensitized me, numbed me to the core but then there are days when I feel everything, every emotion deeply and all at once. It’s a cycle, followed one after the other. Every cycle makes it all the more difficult to make true sense of everything. It’s like swimming to the bottom of the deep blue sea, you go in voluntarily. Initially the silence is comforting as is the changing color of the sea until, the silence becomes deafening and the color begins to fade and you run out of breath so you frantically throw your hands towards the little ray of light. You hope that someone will pull you out and save you but you begin to choke and the realization finally hits you that you came too far because of something you loved or at least you thought you did.
~a.ch// fragments of my thoughts
I painted this picture of him and I went to bed with it every night after that
We were happy, you know?
Then, one day reality came knocking and with a heavy heart I opened the door,
I fought to keep the reality stranded at the threshold, to protect my lover
Eventually, it fought its way back in,
I tried so hard to save him only to realize later that it was his own demons at the door,
You know how they say, “If you truly love a person, you have to love both their sides, the sun and the moon”
Well, it was the moon ready to take my sunshine away,
I clung to my sunshine like a baby and pleaded with the moon but it didn’t care about my love for him,
The moon overshadowed me and it took my sunshine away,
And all I was left with was a hole in my heart and my bed.
What if i told you
I’m a prisoner to the voices in my head ,
A stolen kiss under the mistletoe,
quick and embracing
A consequence of the darkness floating inside of me,
consuming and terrifying
A madman set free, lost and scarred
Would you still stroke my hair, kiss my face and watch me fall asleep,
What if i told you?
But darling, this is your skin
You’re my goddess,
I worship the scars drawn
all over you,
My drunk self would still
kiss your skin like a child,
You’re my goddess,
Even if your lips run out
of the soft cherries,
And your body is dehydrated
I see what you don’t see,
I will love you, water you,
You’re my goddess.
I am a writer in search of poetry
I am a writer coping with my syndrome
I am a writer with a liberating tattoo on my ankle
I am a writer attempting to finish my previous poetry
I am a writer wide awake at 2:05 am with a heavy heart and black ink
I am a writer with dehydrated lips and a croaky voice
I am a writer sitting in a library with a bottle of sula
I am a writer with broken relationships and average vocabulary
I am a writer that likes blueberry jam in between oat biscuits
Maybe, I am not a writer
Maybe, I am a drunkard with unsettling things to say to you
Maybe, I’ll tickle your spine a little and kiss your earlobe
Maybe, I’ll ask you to come visit me sometime
Maybe, I’ll pour you some scotch and show my paintings to you
Maybe, I’ll sharpen my knife and pluck a few lilies for you
Maybe, I am not a writer
Maybe, I am a drunkard with thoughts of ruining you in the most beautiful ways.
How are you?
Okay, i guess.
except, you left me
and all i am now is, the
surface of reminiscences
we wove together when
i was little,
the remembrance of the
touch of your rough skin exists
even after ages,
how i used to wrap my tiny hand
against your wrinkled
the vibration of the sound
your throat echoed
when you called out for me,
the rusty mark of your
still pierces my soul,
like any other day,
I’ve chose to remain quite.
my eyes questioned you ,
though, they still
seek an answer
all this while,
they’ve dug your presence.
all i am now is, the surface
of our musty reminiscences Read More