post prom.
i wil never be a part of any regrets
that you may ever have.
i will never be the one you talk about
to your friends,
because i am your friend
(and only your friend) i am
the one you talk to
about dashing young men
in their blood red ties
and handsome half-smiles.
you talk to me about your date
with his cobalt blue tie that
matches your dress,
as it pools to your feet
and brushes the blessed floor.
you speak as if
you are morally bound to him.
‘i don’t want to leave him.
he’s my date.’
it makes me hate the very word;
the excuse you use to get away
from me.
the linguistic ball-and-chain
that declares who he is,
and who i am not.
in the end, you need not worry
about my remotely romantic proclivities.
i know who i am
and who i am not
for you.
i don’t like starting new journals. it’s like
having a brand new lover whose skin feels
foreign, whose eyes are of a different shade of
green, whose fragrance is of lilacs rather
than of vanilla.
the journal—she is waiting for me to make
the first tactical move, and one
simple miscalculation might ruin
the basis of our relationship.
she lies dormant on the desk,
quiet but breathing, with the purity of
a virgin, and I am the one with
the experienced touch—the type that can fill
her with words and things to talk about. i part her
pages—like legs—gently at first (and as time
goes by i am a rough lover, impatient
and needy). when the first touch
pierces against her, she cries, i smile, because
the way she looks as i invade her pores
seem so delicious.
i mar her pages until my existence is
written all over her body,
that once i am done, when we are both
satiated but still thrumming with the
act of delicious story-making and
fictional trysts, i clasp her—my journal—
to my brain and in my head, i thank her
for being patient with me.
i don’t want my kind of beautiful
to be everyone’s kind of
beautiful.
it means that they will find
you the most beautiful girl in this
planet with your crinkly nose,
your cheeky half-smile, your crooked knees,
your tendency to take back everything you say,
and your obnoxious laughter
that sends my world alight.
i don’t want that, for you’re
my type of beautiful
and to share you is to allow
strangers to feast on my bloodied
and mangled insides.
i collect emotion like how i collect
words (poetry, novels, slips of paper napkins with
rhymes written on them)
i keep them bottled up
in a glass vial and my lips serve as the
cork that keeps the feeling trapped inside.
like love.
love is the kind of bottle that is always
open and the particles of the emotion runs rampant like
oxygen in its barest form,
setting me on fire
and i absolutely loathe
it.
and sometimes, when i’m all wrapped up in
the barren blanket that is my daily life, i
crack open my lips, open up a bottle,
and like a shotglass of throat-burning
alcohol i throw it back and
i feel monstrosities again.
you burn me with the slick honey between you
milky thighs and as your headiness
and hesitation fills my mouth, it floods into my
throat. my name has never sounded so
sweet so i press a few more
muscles
nerves
buttons in your body
until you repeat every line
that leads me to the cliff
where you fall apart
from.
curry, curry,
oh eggplant curry.
you don’t look pretty
(you kinda look like barfed up
mush but anyway)
you fill up my tummy.
curry, curry
eggplant curry
you’re the best kind of curry
that I ever had.
you are slowly, sincerely, starting to sink
through to my pores and that
warped cavity that you seem perfect for,
that dip in my chest that was always hollow
even before we met.
your smile was not meant to
make throats constrict and for
hearts to race, i know.
but they
do.
and your eyes that are lighter than
pine and darker than the topaz,
fiery in its splendour, and goodness
knows that your lips are gemstones—ruby red—and
i want to be the one collector
who gets to keep it as
mine.
you are starting to fill crevices in my body
and my heart. cracks that i knew existed
shrinks and you fit so well
(but i’m still afraid that you will rip
me wide apart)
you are beginning to take over
and i’m glad that you are
my dictator.
there is no one else but
you and
me tonight.
none of your friends with their
lips smeared with chapstick,
sneers that tastes like cherries
while you’re sitting there with your
chapped mouth, dry and cracked.
none of your preconceived notions exist tonight.
none of who i was and who i am
but rather,
who i can be for you.
i can be anyone.
that dreamy siren that whispers words
husky and gentle. you’ll shudder into me but we
are not touching. my lips, the curve of your ear
can you feel me breathing?
into you, like an inescapable virus that transcends
skin on skin contact.
the only way i can infect you
is through my lips ripping you wide open
until there is nothing left to say.
i can be that pressure monitor, wrapped around your left arm
reading every heartbeat measuring its rhythm in relation
to my own.
i’ll only tell you the values
you decide whether your heart rate is impure.
i can be that pillow at night.
the one you rest your cheek against,
the distant fragrance of your aloe shampoo
drifts through the pores of my thread count.
i show you worlds you can only dream of
and when you wake up
i am on the floor, limp but satiated
as long as you pick me up again.
or i can be your lover in the distance
the one that dangles in between awareness and ignorance
you know of me, but you pay no mind to me because
there is nothing to pay attention to
because the likelihood of my love ever reaching you
from where you stand
is as likely as me
tasting the roughness of your lips
and how much it would hurt me
to kiss you.
Every day could be a day that I could take a chance to do something that I really wish to do, yet won’t, for some reason that is beyond me. You are this delightful collection of atoms and positive energy that immediately transforms into something that chokes me up, someone that keeps me from breathing. And I’m not just saying that.
Every day can be a day where I finally say hello, but every day, I make a big deal out of it. You’re not really a big deal, but it’s nice to pretend that you are. Maybe that way, I can justify how nervous I get, how sweaty my palms become, or how rapid my heart starts to beat. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel so stupid for feeling this way.
Everyone has a fear that they always face in high school, something they look back on, something they mock after they’ve overcome it. To me, it’s you. I will always look back and see you, how you’ve haunted me so.
Come graduation, I have yet to say hello to you.
word parachute
( creative writing & a secondary blog. words are mine unless stated or tagged otherwise )
paragliders
