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?

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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.