Collections of Truth (1)

He said all I write about is cigarettes and smoking blunts and the tempest of my relationships. I cannot seem to just be happy anymore. I scoffed. Told him I am just trying to have a good time. 26 to be 16 again. I do not need this heartache that I have become so familiar with.

So young. So naive.

I want to taste

Without the commitment

Hold hands

Without having the agony of letting go

Kiss 

Without having to wonder that if he is away from me, he is thinking about me almost as much as I am thinking about him.


I split a half quarter with a soggy dollar bill. Cut three fat joints up with precision. Pull out a crisp cigarette for the inhalation.


“A gentleman now, then f*****g swine tonight.”

~ ~ ~

“I am in a coma.”

“So am I.”

Had you asked me about him the day after I first met him, I would have told you he was an attic. Closed off to the outside world. Empty inside except for a couple of cardboard boxes filled with heartache and albums burned to ash.

Midsummer, if you were to ask me about him, I would have told you he was a storybook. You can hold him in your hand. Read him outside. Let the wind turn his pages.

Last night, had you asked me about him, I would have told you he is a piano. Subtle and mellifluous. Not understood by most. Only translated in the form of musical notations to be read by those who wanted to learn about grief and love.

Tonight, if you were to ask me about him, I would have told you he is nonchalant. A word that had long been unknown to him. Something he’s still trying to teach me.

I walk to the city harbour. I dispose of the beautiful knife I’ve kept underneath his pillow by throwing it into the lake ahead.

“Have you ever heard of Hadal?”

“No I haven’t.”

“It is the name of the depth of the deepest oceans. Meet me there?”

I am a sea. Stand next to me, you will feel submerged. Stand next to me, and I will not let you drown.

~~~

To the poems that have managed to see me through every broken promise I have ever given regarding a healthy return, to the few verses that have lost and found me in my many hiatuses and disappearances, to the few sentences that took me in, like fresh air, to the few poems that still reach out, I just wanted to let you know I love you.

When I was at my lowest of my low, poetry would always be a place I knew I could always retreat to and never be shown dispassion or discontent. And if it did, there was good intention. I'd come around to begin writing while "hoping" for bad news, hoping for some self-fulfilled expectation that has been so common with the people I know nowadays. But...despite all my shortcomings, poetry has never treated me like the real world has. I'd always find some kind of compassion or sweet nothing or love letter or just good graces and blessings from poems I've never physically known but virtually never left. It's no wonder why only this art knows so much of me that I keep so well-hidden from the real world.
Thank you for this asylum.

Reviews

[Hailey]

Profound. This is amazing writing, and relatable to most people- if not all. I hope you can find hapiness in life, though poetry id better than any person.. I hope you stay strong and have faith in the people around you- don't let the world break you.. I
can tell by your writing you are a beautiful soul

[.]

"I want to taste
Without the commitment " being hurt commitment is hard