3:00 A.M.

You know what?

You could ask me to get over you again and again, warn me that you would only end up hurting me, or do so intentionally to keep me away as many times as you want - but nothing hurts as much as you telling me I’m better off with someone else.

Don’t fuck with me.

Don’t you dare tell me, “He’s a great guy and you look good together.” Because I don’t ever want to hear those words from your mouth. Don’t force me onto somebody else that isn’t you, because anyone who isn’t you can’t make up for the space you’ve already occupied in my chest. It’s unfair to even try - both for that person and for me. How could you say such things with a wide grin on your face? You don’t have to get rid of me that way.

Don’t ask me to fall for someone else like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting you at all to lose me without so much as a clenched fist. Doing so would prove I don’t matter, never mattered.

I want you to be selfish. I want you to say, “No, this girl loves me. She’s mine and only mine.” instead. Don’t say things like, “I’m happy for you.”

Don’t you fucking let me go this way.

Obra Maestra
Paint my skin with 
your ink-stained tongue;
I want you to get high on me 
without you being drunk. 
Drink me down, refill me;
I want to taste your soul—
let it sober me down.
Compose me through your favorite notes,
play me with whatever chord works,
kiss me with music in every way possible,
even if it makes our bones hurt.
Be the smoke that gets me addicted;
I wouldn’t mind the beauty of a slow death.
I want your teeth marks caressing
the veins of my neck—let it color me;
let the colors trickle down my spine,
your lithe fingers trailing my sides.
Sketch me with every thrust, 
sculpt me with every breath,
take me in, take me everywhere—-
I want all and everything, 
that is you, of you, with you.

We’re all sitting on white plastic chairs, waiting for the final rites. From behind, I could hear relatives sobbing to themselves, and a couple of sniffing from my row. 

Everyone’s wearing black today, I converse with him in my head. I could practically smell the rain threatening to pour outside. Not quite the ceremony you imagined, huh? 

I remember him telling me, ”I don’t want my burial to be like those ones in movies, with everyone clad in black and looking like they’re from a Tim Burton movie, cue rain.” It’s just exactly as he feared.

But I manage to feel proud of myself, despite how sad this day is and will be, eyes on my neon pink flats. In this sea of people in black and gloom, I was the only one in neon colors. Because that’s what he would’ve wanted. The least I could do was dress up for the occasion the way he expected everyone to. 

Not that I’m not grieving, no. 

I could almost feel him patting me on the head: “Thank you for not looking like I just died.” Almost. It’s enough to make my eyes swell, but I don’t cry. He’d said he always wanted to see me look my prettiest, so today, I had to be the prettiest girl in the room. Only for today. 

Everyone who loves you is in this crematorium, I tell him as I watch them put his body into the cremation chamber. They’ve all come to see you.

I try not to turn away as he was set alight. I try to memorize every detail of him as much as I can, because I don’t trust myself. One day, I will miss a part of him—and I don’t want that. I don’t want to forget. Forgetting means finally saying goodbye, and though I look my best today, I’m not confident I will be for the days that follow.

I remember him telling me, “I’ll make sure I’ll die smiling, so, I’m entrusting you the job to make sure everyone sends me off with smiles, too.”

Well, I can’t do that for everyone in this room—not when you were so good at making people love you and adore you. But I will do it myself; at least you have one smile to take with you.

I am sure his ashes have already flown heavenward. I look out the window as soon as the ceremony is over, and I thank God it did not rain. 

1:39 A.M.

I know we’ve already talked about this. I know I’ve already agreed to give it up for the sake of saving our friendship. I know that we’re not meant for each other. Not in the way I want us to be. But today, while we were talking and your hands instinctively danced along the small of my back—which is a terrible, terrible habit of yours on my part—I had the sudden urge to tell you that I still feel the same way, and I probably still will, and I felt guilty for having these thoughts. I’m afraid of my own feelings because they could sleep for so long inside me until they are almost unrecognizable, and then wake up with so much intensity that it could consume you and I, both.

I. All along, I was
in a body that I didn’t want,
that no one would want.
And all along, I thought
it was fine as long as I learned
how to be comfortable in it.

II. I’ve clawed my way out and
forced myself back in my skin
way too many times that it’s
turned filthy. Damaged. Ugly—
yes, that’s the word.


I’m pretty sure that was the word.

III. They don’t tell you about
the kind of ugly that poisons you—
that ugly isn’t just the physical;
ugly could mean something
rotting inside of you.

IV. Sometimes
I look in the mirror and I tell myself,
this person is not the person I want to be,
but I have to live with me, I have to,
because what other choice do I have?

V. Nobody wants a sad girl.
Sad girls are never pretty.

 FUCK YOU (I ADORED YOU), a rage confession

i like the fact that one could put an infinite amount of space in their heart for the ones who matter - Anonymous

Oh, dear anon, a person can only take so much—even from the people who matter.

Let’s pretend that this means something:
your hands are holding mine, your eyes are looking
only at me—only at me—so this ought to mean something.
Let’s pretend that you smiling as you whisper
into my ear means something. I don’t know what it
means, but let’s pretend, even for a while, that 
we have our own little bubble when we’re together,
and everyone sees that—everyone sees we’re happy, 
that there has never been two people together that fit so well 
like they’ve been searching for each other their whole lives.
Let’s pretend you falling silent when I’m laughing
means something, I don’t know, it should have meant something.
Let’s pretend it’s god, you’re beautiful that you’re muttering,
instead of there’s something we need to talk about
Let’s pretend, let’s pretend, let’s keep pretending,
let’s stay in our own little bubble, let’s stay happy together,
let’s not say things aren’t meant to be, let’s not say goodbye
like it’s all too easy, like it didn’t happen at all,
please don’t tell me to give up on my feelings,
please don’t ask me to move on, let’s keep pretending,
no, don’t let go of my hand, don’t look at me like that—
I don’t want to say the dream’s over, this has to mean something;
                  I can still do this.
                  I can still pretend you love me too.

Look, let’s think of it this way: we’re both semi-colons simply waiting to be ended. So let’s stop this nonsense. Let’s stop making ourselves think there’s a continuation to this, whatever this is, because there isn’t—we’re tiptoeing on a fire pit, trying to save a sinking boat when there are too many holes, hanging over a cliff that’s almost giving in to our weight. I shouldn’t even be calling us a we. The reality is that we are not; you and I are.

I only wish this could be.

Life lately in black and white photos! Let’s hope the week doesn’t turn shitty. Have a great week, guys. I’ll be writing soon. 😁