Today I picked out my coffin.

And then I wished I could also choose
which guests would come to see me unblinking.

I’ve stopped smiling ever since
I split my lip (drawing blood)
Smiling too widely at you.

I am rotting from the inside-out.
Cockroaches have found pockets in my skin
and made it their home. My blood is the
color of a battlefield after the war has
been lost. Sleeping is useless and does nothing
to wash away the fatigue. It is not even an
escape. My brown, calloused fingers can
barely churn out the story of my own
pathetic demise. I am not a butterfly.
There is no metamorphosis for someone
who has given up halfway through the fight.
My mind is the only thing alive inside me,
and soon enough I will find the courage to
kill it. I will not prolong this useless,
destination-less journey. And you can all
watch the caterpillar die.

And I can’t remember the last time the boy with the skate shoes told me he loved me.

the beginning
of us
can be traced back
to
cold stone benches
and
warm Tuesday mornings
and
our hands finding each other
without
realizing how

i do not
want to know
how we end

the ink you use runs
across the page
(after page after page)
you’re penning the stories
of a hundred
colorful
souls

(but please
don’t forget
that the story you ought
to be writing the most
is
your
own)

i     am    fo
               l
              d
    in         i
    on       n
  myself    g


falling
apart
not in
the way
Rome did -
all ablaze
in glory -

i am a rat
consuming
itself
from the tail
into
oblivion

i woke up to
your singing voice
and i thought that
all was well

i took a train
into the city,
smelled the smoke and yet
all was well

i took a jeepney
back home, drunk
coffee from a paper cup
all was well

i found him holding
suitcases by the door
he wouldn’t talk to me
all was not well

i tried to pull his
hand back, he slapped me
in the face and shouted,
“all is not well”

i wanted to yank
at his jacket sleeve
and beg him to stay
but all was not well

instead i watched the tail lights
of the yellow cab fade,
and held what hurt
all was not well

i found his blue razor
forgotten by the sink
it made contact with my wrists
all was not yet well

i filled the tub with warm water
sparkling and clean, but added drop
after red drop until i was empty
all was finally well

no one should be
awake this early;

at least, no one
who has spent the
better
part
of her
night
bleeding out her soul
onto paper.

carve my name onto
the walls, convince me
that some things

(like the stars,
and the heat of the soil,
and the words I love you
that you whispered
with certainty
under fluorescent bulbs,
beige ceilings,
smoke from the streets)

do
last

My eyes are bruising underneath. My ring finger is throbbing. There is nothing else on my mind but the late nights you stayed away. I guess I wasn’t enough for you, but you weren’t enough for me either. Your eyes aren’t hazel, they’re shit-brown. I’m packing my bags and leaving this town and leaving you with your eyelids upside-down. There was no other way for this to end and if you knew me you’d know you wouldn’t find me merging into the crowd. City nights and neon lights are up ahead. Hope you choke to death on all the lies you’ve ever said. You weren’t enough for me, you never were. So I’m packing my bags and leaving this town and leaving you with your eyelids upside-down. Hope you like them that way. 

she swept strangers
off their feet
(with a single glance)
but she couldn’t sway
the boy she loved,
(the one she wanted most)
at all

not even a
little bit

her hair is curly. like
gothic tendrils of some
dark vine. she writes poems
in her sleep. when she is
awake, her sleeves are
stained with black
ballpoint ink (much
like the paper on which
she draws). she has a quiet,
timid laugh that almost
makes tiny roses
with tiny petals
bloom. (her voice is oft
mistaken for the sun.)
she is thirteen.

today, she is eighteen.
and i find myself wondering
if she is still the girl who
     read the same books as i did
     drew an anime version of me (with the huge shining eyes)
     made me stickers and pretty ribboned notes

her hair is curly. like
gothic tentrils of some
dark vine. but i do not
know her anymore

He doesn’t write me letters and he doesn’t write me poems and he doesn’t write me songs. And yet, he colors me in yellow, he colors me in happy, he colors me in bright and blinding and utterly remarkable gold. He makes me want to take him out dancing until the dark blue sky folds.

there are
too many songs
you wrote
that i
have never
heard
(yet)

there are
so many sides
to you
that i
want to
see

there are
so many colors
you wear.
won’t you
color
me
in?