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
so can you please sit and drown
out the light with your darkness?
i’m sorry, my love,i don’t mean to pry
but have you ever been so lost that you,
in a room full of people and music,
can only seem to focus on the faint pounding
you feel in your ears (that have long stopped hearing)?
i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before
does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
broken dead cement and grey
petals are romantic because you
can’t help but wonder
what they once
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.
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