Make it stop

I awake to the mistakes that haunt me in my sleep. All the screwed-up do overs hold me hostage in bed as I clench the blankets close. I think, if I could suffocate myself in this darkness and never wake up, I’d thank the universe for the free pass.

I have never gotten a free pass on missing you. I had to savor the senseless ache of my of this cosmic joke that is me. I wish I could let you go. You are, after all, just a distant history. A vivid wish. A senseless longing for attention, an aching desperation for touch.

I have known all too well this kind of pain. The type that aches slowly, rises and falls, hits you again just when you think it’s gone.

I stop and look back, was it worth it?

Still here.

There goes your heart- forgetting the world’s advice, still beating after his breaths, still melting at his gaze.

There goes your heart, attaching itself to places it is not welcome.

He does not love you.

But there goes your heart- beating for whatever this is. It’s not worth it.

When I Write, It Doesn’t Always Make Sense

I know, I’ve never been good at writing coherent stories or poems that make sense. But when I write, it’s always after a hurricane–of events, of thoughts, of emotions..

And I write as fast as I can because whatever comes out after the big explosion of emotions and life…whatever I write then, will be the rawest version of the story.

It’s the version that I may not understand at all. It’s the version I know came from heart and not from a pool of vocabulary to impress. It’s the version that is real.

The stories I write are incoherent. I know.

But how else do we ever fathom what happens in life than to write and write and write..

Until we see the constellations.

From the girl who still writes you poems

You were the ocean that made drowning so inevitable

I push.. I kick.. I gasp..

It will never be enough

It will always be you

It’s still you.

I have tried to level with time, chasing its sunsets..hoping and still hoping that tomorrow leads me back to you..