i'm a wound

i have so much love to give
trapped inside of me
spoiling itself, becoming something
i cannot name nor tame,
something painful to the touch
and increasingly bitter.
it boils, gods, it boils.
it’s been boiling for so long i’m all blisters.
i lack skin, and boiling is not
like being set ablaze:
everything is so dim.

hguone ton si evol

when I saw both of you together
I immediately felt like my skin
ripped itself apart just to be sewn
back & ripped apart again in a loop,
& suddenly the thought we would
never be together hit me amongst a sharp pain.
it kept piercing me & I started
to feel nauseous: I could walk back
home just fine with an exit wound,
but the thought lodged inside me
just like a bullet & started corroding
my insides, bit by bit, making even
my blood boil, instead of letting it
find its way quietly out of my body.

untitled

it seems I have effectively forgotten how to adequately write a poem
be it about a bone I had the pleasure  to break it myself,
a heart that has been torn and ripped apart
or even the profane way I say my prayers,
which some may say it’s all about the same thing anyway.
and so frequently I have been finding myself looking you right in the eyes
all blood and sweat, saliva and semen,
blasphemous eyelids that refuse to shut:
how many have you killed with the simplest eyelash flutter?
there’s a graveyard where my eyes used to be
and covered on each other’s rawness
I so often wait for the next time someone will destroy me:
I so anxiously wait like nothing is sacred, like it’s all about dirt
and I think you have been teaching me that
there’s a certain way in which heaven is allowed,
in which heaven is putrid,
that heaven won’t heal us and has a metallic taste.
yet heaven is still heaven and for you and me
it’s so easy to get there and then
fall down to earth right after, bloodied-nosed
breaking and ripping each and every single one of our nails
digging our way through to the warmth of hell.

the urge to ruin everything

After a while you get used
to breaking things even if
you never intended to
primarily or at all:
you even develop a sort of
taste for the disintegration
of atoms which becomes
a massive wreck leavings & lefts,
of spinnings & spills that you
hadn't even noticed until you caught
yourself singing words you should
have never sang, dancing in the
wreckage on top of a pile of bones
& ready to throw yourself out.

swallow then halo

when you know you're 

going to break one's heart &

it's going to be soon & 

it's not going to be pretty, 

but still you do 

do 

do, 

hoping to become undone

because there's no such 

thing as whole: 

just hole. 

Hole-filled

I don't think anyone else will leave a 

vortex as massive as he did -

No one will be able to 

fill the ever expanding, vortex-like 

and infected wound that absorbs 

everything into nothingness. 

It itches, it burns, it aches 

and swallow me whole among 

everything else around.

It's easy to find myself hearing 

the wind whispering while it 

passes through my hole-filled body, 

giving birth to ominously haunting tunes

and telling me evil tales.

Remember that day when you've 

told me that life goes on? Indeed it does,

but the itchiness of a scar that 

makes you want to wither is often

carried and nursed like a baby during a lifetime. 

It was no lie when I told you that 

you would last in my life 

like an unbreakable glass. 

Give me a lie to stitch the ever itching wound.

Detaching and throwing old things away

hoping that this way

the old feeling of love

(my archaic love for him) 

will as well be thrown away.

Wounded Child

A pale-milk and bloodstained child

hid behind white curtains pretending 

to be a ghost, because then maybe 

"they" would go away without hurting her. 

Little she knew about the death

she was about to face.

Little she knew about the ghost 

she would become.

With eyes wide open

I can feel my neck artery

pulsing, jumping, 

trying to free itself and 

flood the bathtub with its

imposing crimsoness. 

My hands are shaking and 

I can barely write; 

all I wanted was to free this

goddamn artery and be free;

free of the agony of existing, 

of the knots in my stomach and 

spider nests in my throat. 

All I wanted was to be free of 

the pain, the guilty and be able 

to shut my eyes and finally rest.

Because in death, one cannot reach me,

touch me, or make me feel

like I am the most disgusting 

ghostly monster that has ever existed.

A small poem about scarred souls

I could see in his eyes the suffering,

I could notice it in his silence. 

It's curious. 

We both know about our conditions 

yet we barely know each other. 

And there's always this silent agreement 

hovering in the air. 

Moonchild

Maybe I am angry because I am jealous. 

Because he came to me 

seeking for help and advices, 

something I never did and could never do. 

For years I could never figure out 

why exactly.

Maybe the lack of true friends and 

the incapability to trust people; 

I was never wrong, but the thing is, 

I cannot seek help mostly because I don't deserve it. 

Because I am sinking deeper and deeper 

in an endless and dark ocean:

I am not worthy of being rescued. 

It makes me angrier hating myself so much 

and always looking up for destruction.

I feel small and impotent, and at this point, 

I can do nothing but stare blankly 

at the darkness of the ocean 

during an endless fall. 

I am heavy and the fear has settled in me 

like a second skin.

Mostly

I miss the cigarettes

before bed in a cold night. 

I miss you waiting for me to undress, 

the way your hair danced 

among the cold perpetual wind.

Mostly

I miss how you whispered 

in my ears your favourite poems 

and how the tiny little words pierced 

my whole body,

as if it were the almighty rain

and its powerful drops.

I miss gazing at your freckled face

like gazing into a night sky filled with stars,

because

you had not only the stars 

but also the stillness,

the calmness, and the mystery

on your face, and not only there

but in your acts,

in the way you made things less boring,

over and over again.