at least for now

here comes the desire to breathe in your mouth

since we are talking about breathing here,
you probably know already that I can’t stop myself from doing so
once you allow me to

missing a second will make me miss how you beautifully stroke
your hair
your hands
move like a bundle of paintbrush, shading the gaps between each strand
with colors that even a 3-year old child will pick to make
an inanimate flower on a paper smell  like Spring

missing a minute, on the other hand, will make my heart race badly
I will painfully hold on to what is left in my lungs
and because the air inside me reeks of cigarette smoke
I might passed out
and that will make me miss more of you—
the way you melodically put on and take off your pants
both reveal  the contours I love to trace
the second I wake up
in between our naps
while having an almost hard to believe kind of orgasm

missing an hour, missing a day, missing a month
I have yet to know about those

(but I never really wanted to find out)

You all fucking bore me

I chase things that I should run away from because I like fucking things up. I like the complication, the mess, the pain—I like them when they make me crash. I like them when they make me feel weak and vulnerable. I like how my tears draw the line of murder and regrets on my cheeks. I like the ecstasy brought by torture. I like exhausting myself over because I know that when I have nothing left to give, there will be no reason for me to stay or to step backwards to give it another try. I like destroying things you all dubbed as beautiful. And when I feel like giving up, I will make myself remember how much I like fighting for that last breath to give myself an opportunity to get back on my feet to search for something that would take the pain a notch higher than the usual.

So it goes

You think you’re damaged, don’t you? Just as how those shattered glasses gleam on the floor of your apartment that reeks of the scent of grief

you (oddly) pride yourself with the kind of exquisiteness that only
wounded people who know how to swim in the hideousness of agony
understand
(and admire, because you all fucking love the cliché, misery loves company). 
You seem to forget how beautiful you are—despite the countless hours you spent
in front of that mirror, not so long ago,
loving and romanticizing the glow of morning afters.

And here I am, infatuated.

Writing your name in the air,

in the spaces where we used to sit and drink,
in that bed you (still) share with your former lover,
between the tangles of your cat's fur,
in the sticks of half burnt cigarettes—I write your name everywhere.
Yes, you have no idea that I’ve been doing that for days now
because you are moping and you’re eyes are too clogged
with tears, to witness how I try to perfect the strokes 
of your initials, of the letters Ts where I crucify
this seemingly teenage agony. I am writing your name so I could hold myself back

from tracing the ink on your arms, from touching that wounded body, from touching that wounded heart. (For Tefiny)