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.

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not (mine) yours

at 5 y/o,
i learnt that
no one belongs to anyone.
i tried to hug you in your
blue shirt;
i said i would call you mine
forever. but, you
still left
that little town we called
home.
when you left, you
looked back twice (no
more no less).

not hurting in
3,
2,
1.

penny for my thoughts?

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?

memorial for dead nouns

June 30, 2017

home hands hello’s wholeness
eternity earls
entities i’s
involvement cries commitment
candids desire dances
dwelling gods gold gowns
reality roots tomorrow’s
touches tone tear tongue
teen(spirit) sound souls
songs scent cigarettes scintillation
nights nobody knowing
wakings
us

good bye’s