letters to Cassiopeia

You dream of wielding that sense of childish wonder in your heart once again:

A sort of unquestioning naivety in all things beautiful, a life that never ends – that wisp of nostalgia manifests into something a touch more tangible. You taste mooncakes on a soft autumn night; the smell of the sky hours before the first raindrop falls lingers above your quiet home. Somewhere, in a near distance, fireflies land on the moon and find home with a rabbit who’s tired of being alone.

The young girl that sat on the swings all those years ago has now grown older (it’s in the softness of her features, the faraway look in her eyes), but she hasn’t quite grown up: she still writes long letters to the constellations because brightness can be translated into the soul. She’ll continue to learn from them, continue to try and comprehend the ways of the sky’s beginning.

And sometimes, when you close your eyes, you become that girl: in your dreams, you never started looking to the end – instead, you wait in the darkness of a breaking dawn for a new tomorrow. You don’t decide today that you want forever; you wake up every morning and, each day, realize the fleeting breathless captivity of living and make a promise to those twenty-four hours. Eternity would pass you as you hold onto the sun.

It’s about time dreams fall into reality, you think.

It’s about time you wake up again.




survivor’s guilt

there’s a red string that binds me and you; your bloodshot eyes stare into my soul, i pray that you’ll never know my name. don’t unearth secret dreams when they aren’t yours to meddle with. you’ll get hurt, i swear, you’ll get hurt.

we weren’t born for battle.

but you ran to save the fallen, i learnt to wield a sword in one hand and a gun in another. i bathed in blood of those i’ve lost because this – this is what self preservation means. this is the purpose of life. i fought to b r e a t h e. lived for the sake of living, ate for the sake of eating, loved for the sake of loving.

but you ran to save the fallen and when you crumbled under the new utopia (fuck off, the sky’s still blue, everything’s still the same, everything’s changed and gone against us), i couldn’t save you with bullets.

what can i say? i didn’t know where they were going to shoot.

what can i say? i was terrified out of my mind, i’m sorry to have wished that fate’s sisters would cut our ties.

did you forget me as you fell? tell me you did, leave me the assurance that you didn’t try to reach into my mind, that you mended your body as you ran.

the day i was born wasn’t the day for a knight, but now i know better, that the past doesn’t dictate my future. don’t remember me, but i’ll always remember you – close your eyes, heal the lost boys (heal yourself) while i build a universe with my bare hands.

this red string that binds me and you sways in the wind. it won’t break though, it won’t break. this red string that binds me and you will thread our growing kingdom together and i’ll fight.

i promise.

(here’s to those who didn’t make it to 2017 – and to those who did: take another shot)

he holds a gun to your head, asks:

((why are you fighting for something you don’t believe in?))


you take your heart out and throw it into a glass case.  the blue it is duller than the light in your eyes, and oh god, isn’t that a pity? if it glowed, you could sell it.

but now, all you can do is stare at it from across the room. worth less than a cent, you are constantly reminded of the wordlessness within your lined papers and the wordlessness within your mind. light from your lamp sways past it when the wind blows. it is only in those sweeping moments that you see what you used to yearn.

it is odd, it is odd.

the manual says to wait a week before it should wither away into ashes, and you’ve spent these seven days at your bedside. the watering can has long been abandoned, but it still beats against the cold case that has now become its skeleton.

you almost want to grasp the bone shattering anger because of the money you’ve lost and the energy you’ve spent tearing it out.

you almost want to feel, but you’ve made sure that every single wave of colours has been extracted, all plucked out.

so you lie on the bed, count the bumps on the ceiling. you sit by the windowsill, name all the crows that fly past the building opposite. you stand at the balcony, watch everyone you used to know walk past your life again.

after the sun comes and goes too many times to remember, your fingers curl around an inkless pen and you write invisible poems on crumpled pieces of paper. the stories of kings and queens overwhelm those of the mundane routine of being alive. the tales of inevitability and the invincible power of apathy run rounds around your table top.

then, when you’re all dried out, you play on the soundless keys of a broken piano. is this nostalgia? is this longing, when your hands move effortlessly over the minors and majors?

it can’t be, not when you’ve kept your heart away.

except, except, except –

out of the corner of your eye, you watch as it continues to expand ever so slightly every three seconds, the blue fading in and out like frozen breath on winter nights. the veins that weave in between your ribs ache for something to hold onto.

the water in the can has evaporated. the glass has turned foggy from lack of oxygen. but your heart’s there, begging for a warmer home.

“go away,” you say.

it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t, and you can’t even weep when you don’t hold grief in the palm of your hands.


((or maybe you do, because there’s a tingling at the tips of your hair and the ends of your toes. something within you has wielded a sword and you feel it pray to a religion you aren’t faithful to.))

i have never known what i wanted

i have loved and hated

wallowed in the permanence of departure

licked the wounds that have been impressed upon my skin

and to one, i have held in my arms

before pressing my thumb against their necks

in some fucked up showcase of dominance

to another, i have thought about incessantly, relentlessly

pushed them into dark rooms

while screaming out all that i managed to bottle within

and a part of me

that has not yet been so blatantly ruined

wonders which was a result of hate

and which was a result of love