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  • despair 48w

    I cannot describe how hard it is to snuggle against my pillow in the dim dim light with guilt hovering my mind in the cave of your thoughts. It's Saturday night and I wish I could rub off the taste of your hurt that's slowly growing on my burnt skin. 8:00 p.m. and the ache is still here.

    I could stay this way for the longest time.

    A glass of vodka and a drunk note named after you is lying under my bed, mocking at me, I'm drunk on melancholy for the night. I have enough alcohol to drown in my pain tonight. Enough to escape.

    Get out of my head please. Before I kick you out. Cause I don't want to. My head is not a safe place to reside. So leave, and remember to knock next time before you enter.

    4 poems later, I'm losing my appetite for your love, feed me more sadness please. Else I might die.

    And damn, it hurts to say, but that wouldn't be a great sight. I hope it isn't.

    "Write me a poem" - I've written hundreds. But you're not here to read them anymore. My words are though. I doubt if I love you or love these abandoned poems now.

    "I love what a glorious mess you are" - You don't. You wouldn't fade away when I was falling apart had you meant that. You lied big time. And I fell for the trap.

    Every time I'm finally close to loving myself, you snatch my heart away from me, clawing out blood and stomping it under your feet. How do I keep it safe if you keep walking over me over and over and over and over again?

    I'm tired now. After a million attempts, I'm tired. And worn out. I am bereft of tears. It's just alcohol now. And I'm dying slowly. My bones are rusting. And I'm continuing to die.

    But it's okay. It always is.

    -07.08.2019

    ________________________________________________
    They fucking lie when they tell you that every cell in your body regenerates itself every 11 months because I still feel these emotions, only with greater intensity this time and it physically hurts to go through it all over again.

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    I would drown in champagne for you
    if you promised to love the drunk me.

  • despair 49w

    You continue to break me like your thoughts and leak my pieces everywhere you go across L.A. Your boots have seen a petal mourning for me at every cementry you've ever been to. You see a ghost of me, and although it crushes my bones, I try to smile through my crooked teeth and bloody gums while my breath remains hitched.

    (I'm the most toxic thing you've ever come across. There's poison in my veins and dust on my lips. You turn around and storm away refusing to kiss the ash settled on my cheeks. Tears wash them away but it's already too late.)

    You think it'd be damn good to not hear from me again, but lean in closer and you'll hear how badly I've been hoping for you to save a piece of me for your own self.

    (My heart won't stop throbbing and it's 2 a.m. as my mind is hung on the song you thought would tear me apart. I wish it didn't. I wish it didn't. I wish you didn't. But my heart's just adamant like me. You made me believe in zodiac signs and now, I hate that I do.)

    My therapist wants to unlayer me but I can't tell her that she has to study you to understand what pain I'm going through. I'm 1 hour and 10 minutes late here and I call you thrice but you reject my call and abandon me like the extra cauliflower in your soup and I don't know what to do, so I string a lame excuse together and miss my third appointment in less than a week.

    (I wish you'd charged your phone last night before dozing off while talking to your friend about the assignment that went wrong. You always had your priorities straight and I wish I could learn that from you but my mom knows I'm a bad student, have always been.)

    2 years ago you asked me if people frown in their dreams and my answer was no. Fast forward to two years, maybe on a windy Friday morning I'd tell you how your nightmares make me feel drunk on broken love but you just don't seem to care and hell, I'm too tired to fix any of what's left in me.

    (Running my fingers over the cosy coffee mug, I peek into my empty soul. I pour over coffee to fill the voids in my body but I end up burning my fingers and staining my shirt. You froze my heart with unmeasurable hatred and fuck, one cup of coffee cannot melt it down so easily.)

    -18.07.2019

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    Thou art to me a delicious torment

    - Ralph Waldo Emerson

  • despair 49w

    You and I were flowers
    from the finest
    treasure trove,
    Athirst but flowers.
    Dessicated but
    blossoming
    into wooden and
    dispassionate aromas.
    You were art for
    my heart's sake,
    And I was art
    for art's sake.

    In a city of burnt fragrances
    we coexisted.
    Basking the same
    burning sun,
    Shaking the same
    dust off the wind.

    Every time my paper soul
    took flight,
    Your contented winds
    put me to sleep.
    Ever since you
    shut the door,
    I skipped a chapter.
    ended a cycle,
    and took my hand
    off your fuming petals.

    Thoughtless roads,
    benumbed my pain.
    It didn't matter whether
    I were a prick to your rose,
    or you were the poison
    to my dose.
    In burnt books
    of forgetfulness,
    You endeared me
    in a crushing state.
    From a few black roses,
    And spiraled white orchids
    To a journal of peace,
    And rhymes of chaos
    utterly bereft,
    I glanced over, to take a
    good look at what's left.

    Cause you and I
    were flowers from the
    finest treasure trove,
    Heading for a fall,
    Craving no more walls.
    We were flowers, until
    one day, you outgrew me
    and left me parched.

    And now I don't know what to do,
    So, I open my fists
    and let go of the sediments,
    Standing at the bend
    of a road, to find
    some flowers that aren't
    rotting like the
    rest of us.

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    you might be broken when you lose yourself to the dark,
    but your shadow would still appear the same.

  • despair 49w

    my gut
    is characterless

    behind the hushed sobs
    behind the clean scenes
    behind the closet of acrid salts

    let me dissolve in water,
    i don't remember if it's
    raining or my tears make
    me feel safe, salty i am

    gear up - i don't want
    the ghost of you to
    know i'm crying, dying
    i'm too naive to think you'd care
    you're too cold to prove me right

    it doesn't sit right
    it doesn't fit right

    i look terrible,
    sleepless nights make me mad
    i need to stop hurting, i'm serious

    don't move - i feel wilderness
    in your movements
    stay here - i'll shut my eyes soon
    don't fade before i doze off

    everytime i breathe,
    blood flows out of my ears
    on the cold cold floor

    i'm exhausted,
    still inhaling your stinks
    i need to stop with the drinks
    it'll get me killed
    i'm sure that's all
    you'd wish for

    but now that you
    don't care,
    i am cupping hope
    with my parched hands

    so, pass me
    the
    tissue
    and leave.

    //leave. cause i need to remind myself -
    breathe, breathe, breathe and repeat//

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    leave. cause i need to remind myself -
    breathe, breathe, breathe and repeat

  • despair 50w

    here is a broken girl,
    wailing against the wall,
    for a love that was smoke
    and mirrors. there is cocaine
    hooked on her lips and she
    refuses to let the pain get to
    her head when midnight lurks
    around the corner of her dark
    dark bedroom. with grief-stricken
    fingers, she knits a lie and hangs
    it on her door, barring people from
    ending up in her blood smeared
    haven. all she has even known
    is hope so she hops from her seat
    when she glances at the moon and
    breaks her limb in an attempt to cage
    the brightest star in the sky with her
    tiny hands. melancholy outmanoeuvre's
    her naiveness and she falls straight
    into the arms of her lover. it's a crime
    to sniff tarnishing love off a lover's
    sleeves and sad girl's don't do that so
    she pushes him away and darts back
    into the tiny cage that submerges her
    fragility as she scatters on the floor. the
    lights of her room flicker and she hopes
    to pluck a star from a sky to hang it
    next to her dreamcatcher so he doesn't
    appear in her nightmares anymore but
    hope is a sin she cannot barter for an
    unhinged obsession and she makes the
    same mistake of jumping from the
    highest floor in the building, rubbing
    her tears away cause there are no
    stars in the sky tonight and the moon
    doesn't show up to grieve her loss. this
    time when she lands in his arms, he doesn't
    let her push him away and pulls her closer.
    she is vulnerable and he is her kryptonite
    and he knows that she melts in the right arms
    so he brushes his fingers over her wounds,
    and she prompts him to kill her one last time
    before he traces his fingers down her neck
    and tells her how she never learns from her
    mistakes. it is wildering to fathom why
    she hates this gentleman who waves at
    her every time her limbs walk away from
    him, running into the stale corners of her
    mind, too big to hover over his pale lips
    and the lustful gaze that can make her dig
    her own grave. he doesn't dare to break the
    starstruck gaze that fills her eyes with
    loosely held souvenirs from the past and
    she once again hopes that he'd confess love
    but he pulls out a dagger and stabs her as
    he whispers I love you and she smiles as she
    falls on the ground 'cause she knows that it's
    hard to escape a love that's designed to kill.

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    Maybe, I could still love myself with
    the bleeding shards that remained,
    but red was never my favourite colour
    and I no more had it in me to give it a try.

  • despair 50w

    The doors of your room are
    scared witless of the hurricane
    you had once swallowed in your
    mouth at the age of six. You marked
    countless punches on the top rails
    of your door and it took them all,
    unmoved by your outrage. It
    reminded you that certain things
    remained unchanged ever since.
    Your anger is one of them. It
    outrushes through the gaps
    of your door, wilting away the
    white roses dad had brought
    for you. You flip your book
    open and keep them anyway.
    You find peace in caressing the dead.
    You find peace in caressing the dead.
    You find peace in sniffing the same dead.

    Over the years, your door has learned to
    bottle up its angst towards you. And you
    have learned to hide your angst towards
    the world. Your door doesn't complain
    anymore. It's eyes hold deep stories of
    devastation caused by you. But it remains
    shut throughout the day.
    The same way you do.
    The same way you do.
    The same way your words do.

    Your windows don't soak sunshine
    anymore. You've learned to keep
    them closed. You often used to
    wonder why the sun didn't rise in your
    house. You used to wonder why you
    couldn't embrace sunshine the way
    you did as a kid. No one ever cared
    to tell you, until one day you grew up
    to realize that you always spread the
    grey curtains that fall on the windows
    of your secluded room cause the world
    ties everlasting expectations on
    your window plane. Gazillions of them.
    And you hate waking upto the feeling of dissatisfaction everyday. You hate it.
    It echoes the same remorseful chant
    You've let them down
    You've let them down
    You've let yourself down yet again.

    Your shirt doesn't have buttons. You
    don't mind wearing it that way cause
    you used the fragile string to stitch
    another fragile thing. Your heart. You
    wear your skirt three inches longer to
    hide the injuries casted on your left knee.
    But you fail at hiding the injuries of your
    heart nevertheless. They're written all over
    your face. They frown at your ignorance.
    But you've stopped caring long ago.
    You don't care anymore.
    You don't care anymore.
    Or maybe you do.

    You had scribbled something on your
    notepad. No one read it except your
    blurry eyes and trembling hands. Your
    apologetic eyes still look for an answer.
    They look for an answer in every person
    you've abandoned. And now, you need an
    answer desperately. You want to know if
    it's okay to run away one day if you fall
    short of words to write and tears to wipe.
    If it's okay to hide when you start to feel
    caged in the hands of the helplessness.
    You know the answer.
    And you know what you'd rather do.
    So, you crush the piece of paper and
    slip in the pocket of your denim jacket.
    You can't help but run away
    You can't help but run away
    Running away is all you do.

    You avoid answering the questions
    that make you falter every now and
    then. There are seventy eight messages
    and twenty four calls you'd put off
    cause they all had their angry glares
    fixed upon you. All waiting for an answer
    you didn't bear. You could utter what they
    wanted to hear but the questions weren't
    about to end any soon. You wish it were
    easy. You wish people could understand
    your silence and leave you on your own.
    You didn't bear answers cause they were
    expensive and you couldn't afford them.
    You couldn't afford answers.
    You couldn't afford answers.
    You couldn't afford silence either.

    You often ask yourself if life
    would've been any better if
    you had answers to the questions
    they expected from you. You
    ask yourself if there's any other
    way you can make them believe
    you are doing okay. You realise
    you do. Although you have no
    more answers, there's blood on
    your skin, still fresh from the cuts
    you had last night. There's bruises
    that gleam in the daylight, no one
    else knows about. You have no
    more answers, but maybe if they
    visit you someday, you can show
    them your wounds and tell them
    you're alright.

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    I whispered to my heart, "Is everything meaningless?"

    "It doesn't really matter", it smiled.

    Nothing matters.

    ~//Juansen Dizon//

  • despair 50w

    imagine a bird. broken beak and bleeding gums. claws towelled in blood. feathers scattered on the floor. bruised hope. failed attempts. staring into the oblivion. crashing into the terrors of the dark. feeling blue. flap flap flap. staggered breath. unable to take flight. imagine it as a last fleck of hope stomped down by a passerby. no more fluttering. only silence.

    that bird is me. i'm that bird. and i'm dead tired of the inability to love myself. it's almost tragic. i continue to torture myself with toxic thoughts - enough to give me a cardiac arrest. "calm the fury. be happy. what part of it do you not understand?". i long for an answer. i genuinely do. i am spaced out. on the edge of death. and the urge to give up is brewing stronger with every passing day. i don't know where to begin. i wonder what it'd be like to love unconditionally just for a day. to feel the same being reciprocated. or even the half of it. but the reality is so much to bear. i'm flat out exhausted and there's not a scrap of energy left in me to soften the gelid body - residue of a soul that was long dead.

    i keep dreaming of dying when all i really wish for is to be free. from the guilt hovering my mind. the noose around my neck. sometimes i feel hands around my neck. it's suffocating. i can visualise myself lying on the floor. in fragments of anxiety and anger. i am breathing but i'm not alive. i can't tell the difference, honestly. i'm losing everything i once daringly built. and i can't put an end to any of it. cause i'm my own destructor - with daggers in both my hands and a crown made of thorns working against me.

    my heart is a giant pit and there are too many wounds and holes to fill. while i eagerly wait to watch my petals blossom, i'm breathless. and convinced that i'm gonna wither away. it's one of those nights when i wish someone could sing me to sleep. it's been so long i've closed my eyes. i fear i'll never open them again if i do.

    i want to draw a heart and fill it with colours. blue. pink. purple. and yet, all i manage to draw is a pair of eyes with tears trickling down. and smudged mascara concealing tales of its own. i lost a track of triggers. everything makes me insecure lately. pricks my will. i catch myself crying and i don't remember why. my head hurts. my jaw hurts. my chest hurts. everything hurts. everything. i'm not sure if death could get any worse. i carry the weight of my sadness and it keeps feasting on me. there's a knot in my throat. it feels wrong. everything feels wrong. it all feels so heavy. i never knew how to take care of my heart. it's a shame that i still don't.

    i took myself for granted. it has become a habit now. i traded my peace for nothing. from the moment sun rises to the moment it sets, i'm waist deep in my thoughts. consumed by the wave of overwhelming emotions. and i don't know what i feel anymore. it feels like i'm lying on my deathbed. chin up, back straight. they say "stop crying" oh well. i can't talk. i can't move. my bones are damaged. and so am i. it's terrible at night. there's a noise haunting me, nudging me to prod the dagger straight into my rib cage. i try to look past it, hoping for it to disappear. but it's still here. mourning for a mysterious death. and i think to myself, "how long will i pretend to be alive before i ultimately boil and die?". there are no answers. only silence.

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    the world told me
    I was blue and
    I showed them
    my darkest shade.

  • despair 50w

    falling in love is low-key
    committing suicide.
    and the thing is i'm fucked up.
    beyond repair.
    it's too late to turn my back.
    too late to make a quick exit.
    to pull the shutters down.
    to pause. to breathe.
    all odds are against me.

    it's time to silence the sobs
    that gasp for air. for survival.
    to hush the rapid breathing that
    chokes dysphoria on his shoulders.
    chestnut eyes. wide open. no eye contact.
    we gape at my charcoal grey soul
    dicing the heart coated in blood into
    chunks bigger than the size of my
    nightmares.

    he coughs celebrated misery and
    fills me with madness. leaving me aghast.
    dumbfounded. open-mouthed. i stare in awe.
    as he jabs my back and scribbles "i love you".
    shoving my tounge down his throat makes me
    feel sick. and yet i can't resist the urge to
    grab his hair and push him against the wall.
    even if i had the power to pull away,
    i'd snuck myself deeper into his armful of
    insolvent emotions, envying the
    truthfulness of a murderer in disguise.

    on the hooks of the walls are
    regrets enduring bitterness of a zigzagged
    fresco painting, hanging upside down
    like our lives - too messy to be untangled.
    nothing makes sense anymore.
    my mind is obssessed with the idea of him.
    the thought of losing him evelopes me
    into disgust. he visits me every night.
    and goddamit, it feels completely natural to
    fall by the wayside. collapsed. down in smoke.
    running like the wind. 45 miles per hour.
    vanished like the lightning. hard to get a grip on.

    i feel weak. cut off from my own self.
    "never poke a finger into a live wire. it zaps", they say.
    ripping my conscience away, i reason it with
    the pain that was all too tempting to devour.

    letting go is lousy. inapt.old-fashioned.
    and the last thing i care about in this
    godforsaken world is my wretched heart.
    so i hold him. close enough to feel his
    breath against my skin. and watch him
    walk off. miles and miles away.
    how on earth did i come to hear of an
    unpromising act of disloyalty?
    a kick in the gut. blow by blow. stab by stab.
    the sight of blood stirs up his elation.

    it still bothers me how the yearning
    for more creeps upon my mind.
    i brush it off in a jiffy. no second thoughts.
    no second guesses. no second chances.
    nothing's broken. nothing's injured.
    yet when i sink my hand deep into the jar,
    hurt drips off my fingers like a honeyed blend.

    would you believe me if i told you
    i wish to rise from the cesspit of his forlorn love?
    windpipes choke me everytime i move.
    they protest. they defend. and contend.
    shaky hands as fragile as sliced bread.
    eyes boasting a betrayal sharper
    than lion's claws. bragging a love
    that fired a melancholic spark of
    hatred in me. to destruct. to destroy.
    and the worst part - to write an end. to die.

    it's not your fault. you could never save me.
    so here, take the knife and storm away from
    the pool of my blood before i uncontrollably
    bawl and weep cause i knew all along
    you were feeding me venomous lies and deceit.

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    Turn by turn, I broke all the
    hearts that I came across.
    How could I save mine?

  • despair 50w

    There are two kinds of deaths-

    Painful death is when he pushes you down
    the cliff, rushes down to pick your corpse
    and repeats it endless times to inflict the
    fear of death imbibing in your mind. Cold
    flooring. Red roses. Pleas of keeping you
    alive. Dandelions weep and wail on concrete
    graveyards. Postcards and notes jammed
    in bottles read suicide notes of someone
    who was too coward to push his hand away
    and let the valley scribble death on her
    wrist where half-baked love notes were saved.

    Painless death is a lie. You keep silencing
    your dubious attempts to run back to him.
    Words that rot at the tip of your tounge
    behold conversations you yearn for on
    nights the world burdens your shoulder's.
    Sitting on the wall is a ghost of love that
    haunts you on days voices slip under
    missed calls and blank texts. Agony
    is the only emotion flowing in your veins
    and when you slash your wrist, your wait
    comes to an end and the sweet nothing's
    inspect a vacant land uniting guilt and ego.

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    Swept through time and space in a flash,
    Still found you leaving roses on my grave.

  • despair 50w

    there is nothing sassy about shoving
    arms into oversized sleeves and burning up
    on the inside to blind the coldness that cuts
    through the silence and settles like ice on bruised skin. about calculating how you stop breathing everytime anxiety fouls up your body. or rehearsing "i am fine" before the broken mirror every morning as you find it tricky to plaster that smile on your face.

    it's a curse - waking up to not remember how you find vodka dripping off your mouth and lies hung on the walls, shining brighter than fairy lights. to reach out for a push, a quote, or a mere voice urging you to carry on. get out of your bed. count to five. five. four. three. two. one. and breathe.

    you haven't really felt helpless unless you've
    experienced fireworks cracking in your ribcage, pupils widening cause of anger and coal tar peeling off an inner conflict that wouldn't fade into the abyss as your stretched soul continues to stare at the ceiling - the white and glossy walls that beg a forbidden apology disabled by the radar of emotions.

    do you know how it feels to stand closer to a demon and glare at his unusual sheen of sweat? eye to eye. to stand with arms crossed and track the status of your wild destruction? to gain a toolbox of tin cans and metal barrels and turn against yourself?

    to change your mind.

    to welcome him back.

    to set the path for your ruination.

    when damaged people love,
    feirceness turns into obsession.
    rivalry turns into crimson footprints.
    that marks the misery that's poured down
    every time the insatiable quench of the demon
    stings. the pangs in chest become tantalizing.
    falling into a mericiless pit suddenly seems tempting. the yearning to terribly fall for a noxious. lethal. and explosive figure becomes animalistic.

    and you are damned.

    it's like jumping into fire with full gusto and watching the world blur out before your eyes. even before you get a taste of their shrieks and violent sobs, they're gone. for a periphery.

    the worst way of losing the battle is to be afraid of losing the demon in the fight. to still care about the demon himself. to love the gambled version so much that you outcast your extra-large feelings and slide into the dark. where he's known to reside.

    he isn't charming and thrashed, all the things you hoped as a young girl and started to loathe as a teenager. he's not the same broken angel you once fell in love with.

    he is fractured.
    they say, it's too much to hope to find a fix. to be loved back. the last taste of hope is death. and the only thing you can do is cross your fingers and hope that your last wish is granted.

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    You needed me as a back-up plan
    to prepare you for another heartbreak.