There is no such thing as a safe place

There is no such thing as a safe place

There is no such thing as a safe place
Under the screaming whispers of the rain
Cold daylight sets under my lids
The murmurs of the dead
They come crashing
Begging to be resurrected
Like ashes, like lego blocks
Begging to be picked up
Like shards of glass
Waiting
I dreamed I was safe
Under those arms that said love
That begged patience
Making me thirsty in broad daylight
The sky was clear and blue
But the sun basked in flames.
What a pretty picture
Like a beautiful day
A warm kiss of coffee in the morning
Waking up still
With an open hand
For another cup of caffeine
Wake me up and up still
Here to be awakened
To a safe place which was not
Even close to a bed of sheets
Cool and clean against the heat
But the rain echoes in my ears
Whispering loud and clear why
Are you still here?

Ode to a ghost

Ode to a ghost

You know I cannot help but think about you
But I do not think highly of you
For some reason you never cease to end up
in my head like my brain is some sort of dump
The stench of wanted and unwanted things

Linger altogether. I smell them, breathe them.
I remember waiting and walking to and fro along
that long alley of lights and machines and coffee
Abundant with strangers walking and pacing like I do
I wondered a little how come they don’t seem
to look like me. And low, I beheld you from afar.

I remember your challenged length and reach.
Nearly leveled were our eyes which didn’t make
watching you so difficult not even meeting your lips
and your eyes; which in fact, were dreamy
at the time; at that very little time

That we, my dear, had
Nights. We had a few weeks of only nights
Spent walking through different streets lit
Only by moon and lampposts and trains.
I remember thinking about you as if it ran on a clock.
A clock with countless arms that seemed to run
around both clock and counterclockwise
And I remember the need to swim in the words
we uttered on those nights because I was a fragile
heart, you said. You were a stopwatch taking your
pace and space and your mind in your own head.

I was confused because you held me like you
Wanted me to be a part of you and yet you shun me
and my advances to the dust. “Take our time,”
You said. A hundred days slowly passed which was mine.
Because you told me to take them anyway. I took
My time like I should and as it was mine like
My heart was and still is too, I took all of them with me.
And it’s funny how after another hundred more days
You asked me me to welcome you back in a place
I no longer live in or even visit. Funny, right? Funny, yes.

You know I cannot help but think about you
But I do not think highly of you
For some reason you never cease to end up
in my head
Like my brain is some sort of dump
The stench of wanted and unwanted things

Linger altogether. I smell them, breathe them.
I remember waiting and walking to and fro along
that long alley of lights and machines and coffee
Abundant with strangers walking and pacing like I do
I wondered a little how come they don’t seem
to look like me. And low, I beheld you from afar.

I remember your challenged length and reach.
Nearly leveled were our eyes which didn’t make
watching you so difficult not even meeting your lips
and your eyes; which in fact, are now just a mere
stench of the past. A neglected scent of a ghost.

I don’t know what to write.

I don’t know what to write.

I don’t know what to write.
But I know that I love you.
I know that you are waiting.
For so many things.
To board the plane.
To return to school.
To graduate.
To learn.
To wait.
To return.
To me.
For me.

I don’t know what to write.
But I know that I will miss you.
I know that you are longing.
As much as I am.
As much as I do.
To hold you.
Touch you.
Feel you.
Kiss you.
You.
You.
Us.

I don’t know what to write.
I know nothing much but I’m here.
And I don’t know how else to say things.
I’m throwing up words while I eat them.
Taste them
Know them.
Chew them.
Swallow.
Digest.
And out.

I don’t know what to write.
Though I know sort of wrote about
you.

These are my ideas

These are my ideas

I have a new idea. I think I could even fall in love with it, the way I did with you. The way I would hope for things that you only disappoint me with. Like beer, I chug and swallow but never appreciate the taste. The way my makeup wears down through the day. You can hardly even see any left. The way I thought I’d be fought for, cared for, only to be let down.

Here’s an idea. I’m going out tonight. Somewhere so far I’d regret being there in the first place. By the time I got there, I would eat regret for dinner and watch every single busy person, loved person, occupied person, too productive person pass me by the same way the world revolves around the sun. Like regret and anger mashed into one disgusting cannon ball that smashed my heart because it believed I could be the sun for awhile.

Here’s another idea. I am selfish. I own my life like I own my pillows, my comfort, my satisfaction. And if you dare sleep with them I will haunt you in your dreams and make you wish you did not get them. Like kissing my lips in lit cigars or shot glasses, inhaling my breath without any permission even when I gave them freely… But I will take it all back because I still wasn’t the sun. So that is me making you rue the very day you didn’t revolve around me right on schedule.

Here’s another idea. Dancing with someone else would be nice. Like bowing down to a new master following his command when really I’m the commander, I’m the boss because I’m the little girl playing with not so little toys. And we’re in a party, alone… Just us under the stars in a graveyard of lost loves and regrets. Wishing I wouldn’t have to think about new ideas because you were my favorite idea, like a playmate. Like a partner in a crime I’d forever commit.

I just. I suppose you weren’t the best.