the moonlight fractures between the ripples in the water

as i clutch the lantern between forlorn fingers.

i crouch down

and the reflection in the lake jumps to life,

erupting

into this warped and wild wendigo

who retreats into the fence of trees.

the night has finally dawned on me,

the light has finally subsided into dark,

tonight, i will speak of you,

tomorrow, i will burn my tongue to forget.

pain was never a foreign destination to me,

yearning was my civilisation,

envy was my homeland,

rage was my liberation front.

however, my soil was always love

so i was content to let them trample on it,

content to swallow splatters of blood,

content to let tears fertilise my roots,

content to be this debased foundation for ruin and war.

i told you this in a much shorter form:

i know i can never be loved.

when i said it,

truthfully,

i already loved you.

you told me in a much sweeter prose:

that can never be true.

by then

i had already nestled embers of desire for you

within the fireplace crackling in my chest.

perhaps that was the first sign

you would eventually set me ablaze.

there is no antidote for this agony.

the poison of your memory

contaminates my bloodstream.

the tale is so old that even the poets have tired of it –

i gave you servitude on a platter,

you served me sorrow on a chopping board.

i don’t want to trace your name inside the seams of my shirt anymore,

i don’t want to be this miserable wax-melt of regret and despair anymore.

i have so much of you in my heart,

i have so much that burns and pangs within me.

if i had loved you less would you have left me later?

you couldn’t just ruin me for the world;

you had to deprive me of myself too.

when do i stop wailing by the walkway?

when do i stop waiting by the window?

when will you return?

the lake is so tranquil tonight.

i remember the proud bridge of your aquiline nose,

the soft curve of your philtrum,

collapsing against the silk of your lips,

your warm eyes that burned holes

through my skin,

your strong hands –

their veins that twitched like streams

leading to a treasure trove

of incomparable beauty.

i love you, i love you, i love you

i shove my head underwater

and whisper this shameful secret

so the moon can’t eavesdrop.

i’m so sick of pretending it’s untrue.

i’m so sick of acting like i’m not prepared

to drown myself to be yours again,

or at all.

the sizzling pit of love for you reignites inside my chest

your name is the match i will always itch to strike,

one day i will no longer carry the box with me.

one day the tub of gasoline will stay home.

one day i will have burned so well in martyrdom

that you might even cradle my ashes.

then i will know i was alive,

then i will know it was worth it.

it’s the first snowfall of the season,

your eyes glaze over as the frost bites your ear

and when you turn to look at me,

the ice freezes over once more.

i sob against the cacophony of laughter and shrieks.

my hands are thrust towards the blanched ground,

pulsing with the primordial urge to burn away my longing.

you whisper something to me

and i crash through the gates

like a wild wolf whistling through wind.

is there another existence where all my running is towards you?

is there some plane of being where i can have you and not just know you?

is there some tangibility for us where my lips are as close to you as the snowflake tickling your philtrum?

i wish i could have told you then and there —

that all my seasons were for you;

my summer rays and spring meadows,

my autumn leaves and winter breeze,

the heat against my nape,

the rime below my feet,

my november blues

and my april tunes,

my annual rotation,

my ultimate damnation.

all my seasons were for you,

all my seasons were for you.

i’ve gone my whole life without love and it’s left a gaping hole in my heart that threatens to fester into a vicious infection.

i walk around with shaking fists and a bloody mouth from biting my tongue but it’s tiring me all the same. how long must i exist as a ghost in search of a house to haunt?

i still pick up calls from every unknown number that rings and

i still take the long route home to pass by your place and

i still take my coffee black, and my bread untoasted.

will it taste like you?

i work nights - slaving like a mule,

beaten and bruised and bereaved.

i drive till nowhere and make a point

of turning on the radio till it punctures my eardrums.

will it sound like you?

i cover every mirror in my flat

and make an effort not to look into someone’s eyes

because i’m this empty abyss of

your reflection;

this looking glass of absence and despair.

through it all, i’m wholly selfish because

who else but me can look upon your face?

to see me, they’ll have to sail through you,

so i always let the waves wash you ashore.

it is awful to be the one who waits;

this trepid lump of jitters and jolts.

so i dress down for work,

i spill food on my blouse,

i keep my door unlocked,

i leave my bed unmade

begging you to appear

to scold, shriek, shout, smack…

any semblance of intimacy will suffice.

i don’t know when to stop waiting.

when will the coffee taste less bitter?

when will i take a different path home?

when will you call if even to say goodbye again?

i suppose this is our conclusion, then.

my wrists

bleeding out over the kitchen sink;

your whiskey

pouring over my wounds.

i am all cuts and scrapes

where you are all numbing tonics

and snoozed alarm clocks.

we strangle each other

against the off-white walls

and i’m sobbing

as you strike my cheek.

when they ask me

if it was because of the pain,

i shrug like a woman so unaffected

by a tragedy so insurmountable.

only we can know

it was because i wish i’d struck first.

i suppose this is our beginning, then.

your body pressed against mine

under the neon glare

of the bathroom light,

my hands tangled in your hair,

our lips biting and tearing and gnawing.

i will draw myself to you

like a moth to a flame;

you will crawl to me

like a parched hyena

near a stream.

neither of us will know who opened the door first; neither of us will care.

they say i’ve got great intuition

and a fortune teller’s soul.

i hold my crystal ball

and see my future’s all been sold.

i marry myself to belligerence.

my dowry’s full of guilt.

the honeymoon comes with virulence.

for the heart’s sure to wilt.

my womb is pulsing with foreboding,

my milk lactonic and diseased,

this home - an eco chamber of loathing;

my god is sure to be displeased.

my past was best served hot,

in a cradle full of spite,

with daggers in my cot,

and a match for me to strike.

yet they believe it’s just my prophecy -

herculean soldier of the new age

but that phrase has since lost it’s novelty,

and the world has gained a new war to wage.

which is my achilles heel?

my greed, my guilt, or my ghosts?

i strike arrows just to kill,

i wield shields just to live.

so, where does my icarus fall?

indeed, the sun is sure to scald

and the moon vibrates with malaise.

alas, this earth is hell ablaze.

[used to have an account on here last year by the user ‘strawberry’ ,, going to repost some of my writing on this new account :) ]

so, what now?

i told you i loved you and you clamped your hand over my mouth.

i still love you; my mouth is still sealed.

will that change if the sound of trains racing across tracks drowns out the confession?

will it cease to exist if you turn up the music in the car when my tongue wraps around the last syllable?

i still love you; you still know of it.

is there no hope for us, after all?

your teeth marks are still imprinted on my clavicle,

your hands still bruised against my hip,

your saliva still mingled with the bile from my vomit —

do you truly think if we pretend to be shadows in the night, the sun will forget we burn as fire in the day?

everything is so volatile

in this halfway house

where we push and shove

until the plaster collapses.

you shoot up your veins

and i finger the needle

after you fling it away,

toeing the line between

wanting to puncture you throat

and lick the rust clean.

do you even see me?

between the hot flashes

and raging calamities,

do you see me as i am?

could i ever see you as you are?

could i ever see you as you were?

i pull you towards me at night

on the air mattress

where you lost your virginity

for the cheapest high of your life.

i retreat into the familiar fantasy

of a time

where your mistress never existed;

a time where i never had to share you

with this concubine of catastrophe.

the night always ends the same way;

you sleeping through the sounds of my sobs.

i hover my hands over your throat,

wanting to press and twist

until your eyes bulge and pop.

i think killing you might be worth it

if it means she’ll die with you.

but she never will.

she travels through your bloodstream;

i never even cross your mind

when you’re doped up

and choking on lust

for the whore who frequents your body.

you will take her to the grave

and she will lie with you in your slumber

whilst i live in hiding

from the ghosts of your infidelity.

all i ask is that you promise me one thing –

that in the next life

i won’t have to see her claw marks on your skin,

and i won’t have to soothe your sweats

when she leaves you aching for her touch,

and i won’t have to sell myself to bring her back to you,

and i won’t have to clean up the reminders

of the nights you share together.

it will be just us.

it will be just us