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’m still here

i am defined by the numbers that have been imprinted on my skin. they’re saying that i am not yet good, not yet enough; they’re saying that i have to be kept locked in longer than expected. i say okay, i agree to being stuck in this enclosed space, because this is right, this is what the zero on my face means. in the spaces between lines, i try to find refuge in a mind overgrown with weeds. there is an overwhelming darkness.

i want to plant a seed in the lightest corner of my heart, but it gets blown away time and time again. the wind is strong, and the wind is stronger than i ever will be. i must run around the perimeter, they say, i must learn to hold in my breath as i go 400 meters, 600 meters, 3000 meters. learn to endure all the pain before i can even hit the minimum standard.

zero, zero, zero.

repetition goes two ways: to emphasize, or to lose its meaning altogether. i wonder if it’s apathy that leaves me hanging, or if i have truly no way of discovering the beauty of the world around me.

every time i try to reach out towards the colours on the outside, i am reminded of my inabilities, my limited capabilities.

i am not trying, i am not doing, i am not achieving.

zero, zero, zero.

(and i hope repetition means to lose its meaning, because i want to forget what zero means. i want to break through this castle full of cages.)

the wizard can give us hearts

on the first day, you told me you hated messes more than anything. this was very much obvious from the way you ate: you made eating look like a practiced art. compared to you, i was a complete slob.

i didn’t eat much that night.

when you held my hand and walked to the parking lot, you told me you took literature and read all about shakespeare the previous term. you said romeo and juliet was a disaster from start to end, a story of tragedy and young stupidity, that all the young do is set fire to the curtains.

i didn’t remind you that we’re young too.

we sat on the bench and looked at the skies, watched the stars twinkle in the night light. you said that they were far too dark and that your neck hurt from all the looking. you said that there’s no point in appreciation because the world is ugly.

i didn’t bother telling you about all the beauty i’ve seen in surburbia.

and i think all i tried not to say was that i wanted to love you, but i didn’t want to starve, i didn’t want to talk about the way you see this home, and i didn’t want to tell you that romeo and juliet was a disaster borne of young love, fueled by the youth, fueled by our pasts.

that i wanted to walk down this yellow brick path, but i didn’t want to watch you wear green glasses and forget the reality i’m giving up.


you want to live forever

you are the queen

of yesterday and the day



i have been walking

alone, tracing your shadowed footsteps

and i long to be


with you


(but you run with

the wind

and you swim in

the clouds

and i am just human)


all that remains of the past

you is bones that never turn to dust and

dreams that don’t

forget the taste of beauty in another



what i am and what

i will be is dictatated


by a force i have no name for


if to love is to let

go, then i must be loved lots

and i do



love you


royalty is served with cold

silence that wrecks

a soul and never ever

holds onto nostalgia


today, i wear a paper

crown decorated with gold and