Robocop

But I thought you told me,
that you wouldn’t leave me,
but you left me
hanging dry twice
like dirty laundry
Second time round, you said things would be different
but they got worse
the disconnect grew
and with your robo emotions
you deserted the field.
And then an old scar was opened.
and can I explain to you….
how raw it felt?
And there is no better word to describe.
The destruction you have caused.
and once again…
Adieu

Blue is and is not my favorite color

I can only write when I am blue.
I can only write when I am red.
When I am white, there is no ink.
When I am grey, I need a refill.
When I am green, I am too alive.
I can only write when I am blue.
Violet too.
I can only write when I am lost.
Rainbows are too powerful.
The light stunts my vision.
I can only write in the dark.
When my soul is weary from emotional soot.
When my lampshade dies out, and the fan roars.
I can only write when I am blue.
And blue is and is not my favorite color.

Pain

We like the things that hurt us,

Habits, people, songs

We like to feel raw, ripped open

Emotional liabilities.

There is something so… energizing about pain.

Maneuvering around your mind, then your heart.

Hungry search to destroy endorphins.

a sweet battleground.

Its breathtaking really, sadness.

I would rather feel pain, than nothing at all.

I would rather feel alive, than nothing at all.

And maybe to me, and even to you, alive means suffering.

Alive means ripping yourself open, time and time again.

Anything, but not nothing.

Blank Menu

Your words are tasteless, not salty,

not sweet.

Not bitter, not mild.

Your words are tasteless, like your

thoughts. Volcanic eruptions of nothingness, pure emptiness, like the echoes of a vast cave.

Your words are tasteless, like your soul. Frigid yet easy.

Do not share with me hollowness, as I cannot bear the thought of my emotion forcefully surpassing my body

to reach emptiness.

With great difficulty do I share with you feelings and the intricacy of my being, only

to know that it is not being received.

Do not blame me for I am cold, for the falseness of the days have made me protective.

Your words are tasteless, they are barren. They hold no meaning.

Amalgamation

You come from somewhere where worlds are the same, where you integrate, where every stand and fiber weave together, meshing like atoms, secure.

You know not the world of difference,

the world of spirals, the world of freedom.

I envy your isolation,

your cultural distinction,

your social preface.

I admire your truth.

From juggling between worlds,

one exhausts capabilities – one is lost on the compass – no single direction.

Marmalade

The scent of the wind,

was

never sweeter.

Like marmalade on crispy rye.

You took me away with words but

you left me to hang, damp.

Stripped of my vulnerability,

You ripped my skin until my insecurity bled

I was nothing more, but nothing less.

You raped my naked soul.

Destruct

When everything was good, I ran

When everything was bad, I stayed

I was infatuated by melancholy,

For one emotion to control ones natural functions, to seize to be, to freeze time

To not eat, to not sleep, to not process

But to only think,

Night and day

Of how to repair a destructed situation

And to destruct yourself along the way…

Nicotine

I suddenly liked the way cigarettes smelled on the tips of my fingers,

Like emotional soot, it lingered until you washed it away.

With nothingness,

Toxic vapor, bittersweet, simultaneously inhaling and exhaling

Corrupt ambiances.  

Hetrogene

She called herself Hetrogene, because she was scattered in her ideologies, in her stories, in her beliefs and in her conflicts.

Like oil and water, soluble and insoluble, she came in waves of apathy and empathy, sweet and sour, dessert wine and vinegar, dejected and exultant.

The tides were her companions, gushing in a collection of differences, indifferences.

She was not solid, like a compass over the North Pole. She was fluid, like the weather. Not flaky, just molten.

You could find her in your debris, and lose her in your wreckage. You could hold her, but then like time she would slip away. She would return to leave again, to return. A paradox.

She wanted everything and nothing. An exodus between the two.

She called herself Hetrogene and because of this, she was nomadic, an émigré of herself.

Within and Without

 

I was within and without,

an emotional orphan

a physical handicap

the inexplicable urge to connect and disconnect

to feel love, followed by pain

to live in the mental nausea

to rip myself apart – to build myself whole

to regenerate hopelessness

all too comfortable, too safe

to embrace the instability

that for so very long, swims in my river.