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death as a spell brewing in the cauldron of my fate, inconsistency and incompetence remain a potion that catalyses the inevitable downfall of my witchcraft. who am I if I cannot hold my ground? if even I, the soul that knows my being best, cannot voice the qualms in me, who is to? perhaps I have let time simmer to a boil so strong that I cannot relinquish the stovetop flame no matter how hard I try, forever leaving my pot flowing with its condiments all over my floor.

minding the tales tallying down the block, I forget to write my own poem, and wallow wordlessly underneath the debris of the audience's papers as my ink dries and my hands go numb, forever leaving me with writer's block.

transfixed to the pole of decadence, I seek measures to rekindle the fallen flame. have I gone mad, or am I just dwelling between the line of morality and immorality consciously? however, if this dilemma is a conscious choice, why do I fall further from pursuing the right action? this pulsing desire to walk down this forbidden path courses through my veins and robs me of oxygen, making me run after this spectre of ruin in an attempt to breathe. what then? once I take that fulfilling breath, surely I would have to take more to remain living. I would need a higher supply, so I would inevitably increase the dose, pushing up the stakes, which would ultimately lead me to a greater demise. the process would not be easy either, for I would have to grapple with myself, fighting off qualms and soothing my worries with superfluous words. yet, I would know. in the back of my mind, in the deepest crevices of my soul, I would be aware of how wrong it all is, but my ignorance would take a hold of me, and not let go till I am completely destroyed. I have lived through this story once, and I do not wish to pick up the book again, for having read it before is enough. there would be no new chapters, no further editions—just the same tale of the consequences to my endeavours.

to tell one that I do not see the obvious steam that swells ominously forth my vision would be nothing unakin to fallacy, for I do, yesterday, and today, and for I will the day 'morrow too. blinded by my views, I foolishly and stubbornly succumb to my old-fashioned maxims, which I should have grown out of following the ripe age of 5, but I remain the old soul I am, still, and unmoving, stuck in the me that knew nothing, that yet must feel everything. although I remain fixed at my norm, you waver my composture. you wreak such a havoc in my mostly rational consiousness that I do not know what to make of day and night anymore, for all my time now depends on the pace with which you talk to me, or the number of times you have called my name, or how often you had smiled at me. as a fool, I let you maneuver me, control all of my actions, as I now only exist for the sole purpose of being with you, and I hold no other cause.

truly, I was never over your presence, nor was I delighted with my own rendition of the story that I told my audience, yet I did just that, to convince not the crowd, but myself, that you were a forgotten memory. an oxymoron, that proved to be, as the more I tried to reinforce that you held no meaning to me, the more you wavered my composture, and I found my heart aching as I witnessed yourself grow distant, your actions that once made me believe I was loved now displaying nonchalance. "the man hath lost his mind because of thee! he is bedazzled by thy excellence!" said the flock, and foolishly I had believed.

but it's not real, and you don't exist, and I can't recall the last time I was kissed. it hits me in the car, and it feels like the end of a movie i've seen before.
          
          — ceilings, lizzy mcalpine.

find me a spear that I can use to gouge my beating heart out, and relieve me from this pain gnawing at my insides. my chest, my body, my soul constricts and seizes itself, my body a vessel of agony. long gone was the time it was mere melanocholy, a slight disheartening sentiment , for it now resembles vulgarity, and puts me through genuine physical torment which my entire being is consumed by. none can soothe this ache, and I only long for this time to pass, yet I do not want to approach the end of this epoch. I am only young, and I strive to thrive, but how can I when I succumb to the inevitable longing that I have to endure? I have not even neared the apocalypse of separation yet, but my mind is infiltrated with it during every miniscule fragment of time in my day, making me stay in this stagnant phase where I lie on the concrete and let my brain house the most grim thoughts, while I remain victim to this affliction that my attachments bore. let me run away from this timeline, or take me back, to my days as a youngin', with no worries to the "what if"s of tomorrow. I cannot even revel in the adrenaline for the approaching fresh future, for I am stuck in the memories of the past.

said forever, and I almost bought it. I still love you, I promise. nothing happened in the way I wanted, every corner of this house is haunted.
          
          — i miss you, i'm sorry, gracie abrams.

I saw you in a dream, you came to me. you were the sweetest apparition, such a pretty vision. there was no reason, no explanation; the perfect hallucination. all good things come to an end, but I thought this might last, but you came and left so fast. I saw you in a dream, then it came to an end. I want you so bad.
          
          — i saw you in a dream, the japanese house.

never have I regretted having the ability to comprehend words, till the moment my eyes landed on the dreadful sentence you proclaimed to me, my sheepish demeanor shifting with jarring swiftness to ice, my entire figure shriveling in the glacier that is now my heart. this should not even faze me, for we are nothing more than acquaintances, and we are merely associated to reap mutual benefits from the other party. yet, I cannot help but acknowledge the colossal pain I had felt in the pit of my stomach as a result of the epiphany that one day, very soon, you and me will soon end, and the both of us will return to our prosaic rituals and continue on as if we had never met. this might all be just another encounter to you, but this farewell to me is a calamity, a tragedy, a war that I have had the misfortune of dying in. all good things come to an end, but why are you in that catalogue? why must you follow into the trend that is forbidden romance, and leave? you must be completely unaware of my ever-brooding, intense affection for you, but it is eating me alive. my entire soul, from dawn to dusk, during every miniscule fragment of time of day, speaks your name; the tune of our memories the only song I listen to. but alas, I must turn off the speakers, before the loudness of the volume of my heart breaks my eardrums and causes me to bleed to death.