Comatose Joy

I.

These days are getting longer and
it is getting more difficult to sleep in
this bed where you abandoned me 
for those orange containers and
half empty bottles; you drowned all
of our promises in your poisons
and suffocated every secret that 
you were too drunk to keep.

That bed encompasses my sufferings
but I cannot help but to sense the love
stitched between the fibers of the fabric;
you are digging my grave with your sins.
Every passing moment I become more
buried in the sheets with the blood stain
on them from the night that you first gave
yourself to me—I continue to wait until 
those stitches tear.

II.

You don’t even speak to me anymore
because you are too occupied among
conversations with cutting needles
and that pure, white powder—it kills me
to know that I was never enough, that
I could never be your saving grace.

The intervals of my nights and days 
are still spent in that bed you tucked
my cold, fragile body in long ago; rags
and strings of those sacred sheets
serve as a reminder that your love is 
gone.

III.

The stitches tore.
I use them to suture the hole 
that you left in my aching heart,
but your chemicals still leave toxic
scars.

I just wanted to save you, but you
hid what was left to save in the 
depths of the empty bottles.

You are still my angel.

Skeletons

I remember that night we stayed up
counting our sins as plentiful as the 
stars in the sky until mine became
yours and yours became mine.

Our skeletons were one of the same
like they were waiting to be revealed
but only to each other— I was oblivious,
hiding in the depths of the closet
as I attempted to discreetly conceal
something as sacred as the night sky—
you can’t. 

You told me that you loved me and I
believed it because the admiration in
your eyes was portrayed like the
shooting star from that past night.

I remember when our skeletons collided
and I became yours and you became
mine.

Your sins are safe within me.

Darkness has consumed my sky
Because stars cannot thrive through
The cloudy sickness of tonight
I yearn for your presence
To chase away the dark
But you are scared
And I am blind

I am not as strong as I thought

just-andrew-nguyen replied to your post: I cannot write anything decent for the life of me.

that’s how i feel

It’s such a horrible feeling. Isn’t it? I’ve been like this for a good couple months. 

I cannot write anything decent for the life of me. 

I lost my heart between your fingertips,
while counting your heart as it beat—
until you captured it, and let it bleed out
within the seams of your dirty bed sheets.
It got misplaced in our world of routine—
and we both allowed all love to deplete

Our silhouettes were visible through the hazy mirror.
My bones mocked your touch, etching in the memory
Of the day that my mother cried when she looked at me.
The bony protrusions of my hips and spine killed her inside.
But your hands held on to my flesh like it meant something.
And your fingers traced each wasted ridge as if I could cause
The remnants of the evening sun to set, while the darkness applauded us.

These days seem so lonely as of recently.
The obscurity of the night that once glorified us, you, has
Settled deep within my now even more emaciated skeleton.
It aches for the lightness of the day.
Every unspoken word still resonates in the crevices of my hip bones
Where your hand would fit perfectly.  
But here I am, laying beside the night we will never discuss.  

I still try to eat.
For us.  

Before he left he asked to borrow my pen. The following day, I noticed that the unrequited love that resided in my leftover ink had been replaced with your emptiness. The words “things will change” were scribbled onto the beginning page in my favorite notebook. I missed him already. 

Since then, my pen will not form words. Maybe it is still empty, or possibly it is clogged with sadness, preventing what’s left of him from escaping onto the clean, white page. As the vacant lines taunt me, all I can think is: “things will change.” And my, how things have changed. 

Write a poem; connect the
hidden syllables that hide
between my nerves and 
discern my feelings with
your inspective fingertips.

Paint a mural of love on
my frail bones, only to
retrieve all of my secrets
concealed in my marrow.  

Take a picture; depict
our past, present, and
future to play among
the stars in the night sky. 

But the answers are still
hidden so discreetly under 
my raw flesh; I yearn 
for you to retrieve them.

I promise, I’ll let you in. 

(Source: logical-lapses)

onthefritz007:

I miss you
in the time
when day inconspicuously
eases into night
- a forgotten corner
living in the edge of sky
where clouds
scarcely leave a trace
as the sun’s final glow
sets in erasures of space
soaring beneath the wings
of mourning doves
freed in flight
for a certain peace
I may never know
releasing your memory
into the loyal wind
as dusk descends
at the night’s whim

(via leaveyouapen)