I'm dead, tired, and in the middle of too many things, and my bones are screaming in a language I spent decades erasing from my memory but I still end up scribbling my name in, and my home looks like random bricks (dreams) lying everywhere and walls that close in everytime I dare to breathe. I stabbed a cake twenty-five times today. Perhaps I wanted to eat it too but didn't know how to engulf my own existence— my mother didn't teach me the art of not existing right under the sun. What if it wasn't too late? What if, even in a million pieces, it was still cake...?
It was still life— still mine...
I'm tired of this place but there's nowhere else to go. I made a list but it is still just numbers. I want to write, to tell others how blood drips down, erasing your dreams when you carve out your heart to build a home for someone who eats pieces of your hope like it's their favourite delicacy, who yank out your veins and weaves webs of existential crises on the doorknob of your self worth and leaves you wondering why is there an aftertaste of despair on your tongue...?
I'm not hungry anymore— I cooked my dreams in an expired broth of their expectations...
I keep searching for signs where there are none— I want to tell myself I tried— I want to tell myself that the knife that was plunged inside my dreams didn't have my prints— I want to tell myself that the dirt on my knees isn't from kneeling infront of the grave of me— I want to believe that there are lessons I learnt along the way, and there's a list that exists underneath all the crushed letters addressed to death that has my name on it, on the other side of it...?
-Ish, darling, let the chocolate melt in your mouth this time, not your existence on your tongue...
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
