I once held on mere words to prove that I
was worth the fragments of your thoughts that once
fell from the depth I once saw on the pile
of forgotten list of lovers you liked
to keep away from the pens of poets.
Ink and paper were all I could keep from
the cold burning of life, death, heaven, you–
forever in the stones of yesterdays.
mirrored mirages of your phases from yesteryear
almost looked like my own reflection–
my dusty pinks washed away dreams of cotton candy and
you. you handed me dying flowers, and
i pretended it was the thought that counted (even though
the only thing you were counting were the days
we had left).
glitter on sidewalks still makes me nauseous.
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.
There is nothing
after death but the
romance of the Void
and eternal sleep.
ESCAPE Issue II
student-run literary magazine
published in Dominican International School
ESCAPE// Issue II
at 5 y/o,
i learnt that
no one belongs to anyone.
i tried to hug you in your
i said i would call you mine
forever. but, you
that little town we called
when you left, you
looked back twice (no
more no less).
not hurting in
It’s okay to hate yourself. I’ve come to realize this after a while of living– it helps you deal when others begin to do the same.
I write pretty words to make people think that I have pretty thoughts.
I just want to get through the day.
Do dark eyes shine in bright lights?