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#spilled ink

There is no more.
The laughter is gone.
Your voice is silent.
Your heart is still.
Your eyes are closed.
Your smile has fallen.
No more dancing.
Your hands are quiet.
Your breast doesn’t rise or fall.
The warmth has fled.

Except in my heart.

In my heart, the music plays.
Your feet dance.
Your hands talk.
Your heart beats.
Your skin is warm.
Laughs are in your voice.
Your face delights a smile.
Your eyes sparkle.

In my heart, you breathe.

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I’m not sure that it is about the worst that can happen about my impression which consequently leading to a sort of rejection. I’m not keen on experimenting and experiencing an uncertain outcome, along with the stress of waiting and inexperience for as obvious my habit of pushing such courageous confident acts away, far away I would be stuck in my comfort zone. Which makes me happy, stress-free for that concern. Yet unfulfilling …Well, I just received a positive response. A text saying yes and not “no, sorry. I do not want you.” Why is that a fear of mine? How can I very honestly maybe brutally express that and overcome in the meantime? Am I not enough? Why have I been believing that I am not enough?.. What is the reason, I have no clue. ‘Cause the “past” is too complicated and is faded I cannot pin point an exact moment where I was singlehandedly perceived as lacking and thus was emotionally disappointed in others as well as myself. But since I cannot do much about others than baring a dark, very consuming hate to disassociate myself from the rest while hating and committing myself to the hollows of unhappiness.

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listen, she tells me, smoke curls from her lips, grey, musky, bitter in my nostrils and billowing into my face. she knows it suffocates me, water filling my lungs that i can’t expel no matter how violently i cough. but she laughs as she turns, blows smoke into my face. she never seems to take me seriously.

listen, she tells me, we sit side by side, shoulders touching, huddled for warmth yet we are oceans apart, collapsing water, tidal wave, engulfing ships into our icy chaos. we are calm, tranquil, soothing on some days, yet other days i feel as if i am helpless to her demands and drowning in her words.

listen, she tells me, her burning cigarette dangles from freezing fingers, supposed to keep her warm but doing nothing. she is supposed to be here for me, supposed to support me, supposed to be happy for me, and yet she is glacial and i am numb.

listen, she tells me, illuminated by dim streetlights and surrounded by eerie 2am atmosphere, odd silence and ambiguous ambiance. it is always unpredictable with her, the dread of something approaching you can’t quite explain.

listen, she tells me, finally putting out the cigarette, crunching under her boot, an ghostly hand of smoke reaching out from the tombstone of her sole. i want to tell her to stop, but my words are hushed by fear. she tells me things she knows i don’t want to hear, but forces me to listen, anyway.

— purposeful ignorance

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Sleep alludes me

usually

But now slumber

consumes me

With your words like lullabies

I want to extend the times

we speak, so endlessly

You can whisper softness through me

Theses fertile snowdrops bloom within me

My head droops slowly, I fight it

The birds sing and the light hits

my eyes, I scrunch them

Closed and still I squeeze them, I dozed

off, oh no!

You still there?

I’m here baby,

You say to me. Hush, sleep, and maybe

You’ll dream tonight of me.

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Already I was losing autonomy. The fetus and I were in this together for the long haul, it seemed. Why was I calling it that? Because everything about the situation felt surreal. Every movie I’d ever seen marked the beginnings of pregnancy clearly, precisely. There was supposed to be vomit, then a glow, then a belly and somehow it all seemed natural and normal enough. I had no symptoms. I had no glow. There was a bit of bloat, but no belly. If I was supposed to feel some deep rooted connection to the fe-, I mean baby, growing inside me, it wasn’t there. I didn’t feel like a mother-to-be, more like a heroine of some low budget sci-fi flick, about to discover worms eating their way out of her belly button.

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Nightmares

Jagged knives of glass,

You come for me through the floor.

Breaking any hope for stability,

I am wounded by your thirst,

My ascention halted.

Crazed and violent,

I killed you out of fear,

Ended your pointless suffering.

Yet still you came back

To haunt me.

Crumbling my tower of sticks and stones,

Your violence brought sacrifice.

Time could not save him

And though we all fell,

Only I survived.

Onlookers laughed gayly at

the remnants of my tower spiralled.

Their minds all but gone,

Our suffering meant nothing to them.

Suffocated in disappointment,

It opened my eyes.

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This Calloused Heart

This calloused heart

has lifted the weight of love

up from the depths of the dungeon of doubt

into the glow from the sunrise of hope.

This calloused heart

has carried the sentiment of love

over the dunes in the desert of desolation

into the relief from the shade of comfort.

This calloused heart

has pulled the timelessness of love

through the evanescence of the evenings of eons before

into the certainty born from the dawn of us.

This calloused heart

that kept rubbing balm into its toughness

every night before seeking the solitude of sleep

so that it would still be sensitive enough

to feel the whisper of your name in this life

when my energy greeted yours in these bodies.

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