when the wandering writes for the first time

will someone teach me
to put my mind into words
(and not into my skins)?
because it’s been too long since
i wrote poetry,
and i don’t know if it’s because
i stopped feeling
or if i stopped trying to feel
or if i started
feeling too much altogether.
whiteness is too loud and bland
for ink,
so can you please sit and drown
out the light with your darkness?


floating consciousness

when you start to choke from the emptiness of existence
you wonder if breathing was meant for a life in water.

will my thoughts continue to float even when if i sink it into dark waters stained from the very warmth that gave life to being?

a cynic’s confessions

You were dressed in white.

And I swear, at that moment, I knew you were going to be the death of me.

Romanticism was dead, but I wanted to tell myself that I could believe in something more than the emptiness of our liberal lives.

You scared me because your light blinded the void.

Yet, I loved the contradiction in your very being– how you never claimed perfection despite the clearness that was in you. You never claimed a higher moral ground. I liked that. I think morality is an illusion. I loved how salvation didn’t mean anything to you.

I couldn’t save you if I wanted to.

I don’t know how to save myself.

The answer isn’t love, love.