Learning

Posted: June 16, 2018 in Uncategorized

Under a cloud of smoke.
I write this poem hoping it wouldn’t turn into a suicide note.
I’m learning to live without constantly thinking of killing myself.
I want to find what saved me for all these years.
I need to know why it decided to leave now.
Leaving me awake and aware of my desire to not exist.

I wanna remember the first cry I made when I was born.
I wanna know who comforted my father and told him I was well and alive.
I wanna know if crying is what means that one is alive.
Because if so, then I wanna laugh.
I wanna laugh till my ribs protest against my lungs.
But I’m learning to live without constantly wanting to die.

I wonder if my past self is watching me.
I wonder, if it is watching me in pride or disapointment.

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Posted: June 13, 2018 in Uncategorized

Behind every scar, there is a gaping wound still learning how to heal. Still learning how to not tremble under the thick skin.

My bones are trembling behind this flesh.
They dont call it a cold war for nothing.
I am yet to grow warmth.

Pour Alcohol On This Wound

Posted: May 29, 2018 in Uncategorized

Wait!
Why does it hurt?
Is it bleeding again?
How many times am I supposed to stitch you up and seal you for good?
How many times am I supposed to clean up the pus?
And stop the bleeding..
And press hard on it like a warm hug that I can’t have now.
In this dark room..
In this loneliness..

I ran out of bandaids.
A trip to the pharmacy.
Get a pain killer.. a strong pain killer, antibiotics and bandaids.

Why won’t you heal goddammit?
Why
Why
Why do you have to come back to life everytime I believe you’re dead and your funeral is over?
The funeral is over.
Why dig up this grave of pains all over again?
Why are you still alive and gaping?

This muscle memory needs amnesia.
This pain needs a pill.
Pop a pill.. maybe two..
For I want to sleep.
But my bed sheets are soaked with blood mixed with tears.
Salt and iron..
And
Water.

This is the reason I find myself whispering “I want to die” under my breath several times a day.
This is the reason my ribs feel too heavy to take in a breath.
This is the reason why I’m now crying.

But its okay.
Nothing here is unfamiliar.. it’s okay.

Wounds heal they say.
Wounds heal but pouring alcohol on them burns and I can’t take it anymore.
The gape is deep.
The scar will be ugly.
The stitches are seeping through this skin quietly.
I bet they are sick of it as much as I am.
But its okay.
I’m breathing..
I’m still breathing..

Will/SuicideNote

Posted: May 17, 2018 in Uncategorized

TRIGGER WARNING!

 

When I’m gasping, don’t believe my body.
Tell them to not resuscitate me. Tell them : “This woman couldn’t stand living with her mind anymore, let her rest for once”.
Tell them I wanted to go.
Tell them that I have exhausted all of my anger, and all that remained was a heavy, crushing sadness.

When I die, don’t burry me. Burn my corpse by the Nile. For I want to be resurrected as ashes; grey, fragile and scattered, same way I’ve lived before.

In my funeral, don’t serve coffee or tea. Serve whiskey and wine. Maybe water. If I’m certainly going to hell, might as well let my goodbye as sinful as possible. Don’t worry, you still got time to repent.
Smoke many cigarettes in my memory. Inhale the smoke and tell me this one is for me. I promise I’ll try my best to be listening. I promise I’ll tell God about all your never coming true wishes, if I get to talk to him.
Find my diaries. They’re at the bottom of my closet, in a red Lap top bag. Burn all of them at once. There are things in them that would make my parents mad.

When I’m gone, read my poems to your friend. They’ll sound better when your friends know I’ve died. And twice as better if they know I’ve committed suicide. The self tormented artist scenario, the classic ending.

Know that if we’ve ever had a conversation, it must have meant that I loved you. Remember me as capable of love and giving. Unworthy of it.

Know that, I got so much things still unwritten. And I’ve ran out of soul to write them all down. Try writing them for me please. No pressure though.

Tell my best friends that I love them. That I’ll always love them. Always do that, for they might forget.

Believe that I must be in a better place than here. Even if I myself don’t believe it. But they say God is merciful, he might understand.

And lastly..
Be well.
Do better.
Don’t end up like me.

 

A Way

Posted: April 17, 2018 in Uncategorized

The way I pray, is in how I daily fill my lungs with smoke and still be able to breathe.
The way I pray is, in how I bleed every month and still have blood running in my veins.
The way I pray, is on how I finally sleep at night, after so much tossing and turning, after unsolved thoughts and death wishes, and then wake up the next morning, undead, yet.
The way I pray is in how because of my job, I get to witness souls leaving bodies from under my hands despite my attempts to keep them here, alive. How I break the never wanted news, how I hear the first wail, see the first tear that was not meant to be seen, and still be able to laugh.
The way I pray is in how I’m still haunted by memories of events I wish, I wish they weren’t real. Trying to convince myself that maybe those were just bad dreams, knowing, being dead sure they’re real. And still, I still eat my meals and drink water, I shower and go to work, I buy myself nice things and laugh with friends. Still I’m able to laugh.

Staying alive is the prayer I’ve exhausted my being with.
It is in every scar, every goosebump, every tear, in every yearning, every ache, in every poem I’ve bled. In every song, every night I spent awake and longing in my bed.
So don’t you dare tell me that I’m going to hell for not praying.

11

Posted: March 23, 2018 in Uncategorized

1/
In the beginning, there was my heart. And then came the flood.
God said: Let there be water. And my soul drowned the sky with rain.

2/
My body is sick of me and desires to escape so badly. So it carries herself heavy shoulders whenever I try to walk with a straight back.
Ever since my soul broke up with her, their life inside me has become hell.
They try to convince my thoughts to kill me. My thoughts logically translate their attempts to Suicidal Attempts. My mind ignores the translation.

3/
My pen is tired of writing down all this pain. He rebels against me, stopped shaping words and announced The Writer’s Block until I decide to write of happiness or love.
I’ve never written anything since.

4/
I’m a blasphemous Goddess. I blaspheme my own self. The patriarchal God won the hearts of worshipers everywhere. They let him write all their scriptures. No one reads the ones I wrote. They call it poetry. I pull and push the waves of the ocean in frustration. People blame it on the moon that was once my friend.

5/
I’ve already lost the war. But the fight goes on regardless.

6/
I smoke to paint my lungs with darkness. I want my insides to match my surroundings.

7/
In another life, I was smoke who believed the lungs that have just inhaled her is home. Eviction came as an exhale and ever since, I’ve been homeless.

8/
Love lost her way to me. She gave up the journey and built a house on the road side and is now working as a spiritual healer to every passer by.

9/
The blacker the breath the more toxic the kisses. No one is kissing me. I’m everyone’s least favorite wine.

10/
My dreams are shrinking into my reality. My wishes are blown away with the smoke of my last birthday candle.

11/
I’m Smoke.

Tiresome

Posted: February 6, 2018 in Uncategorized

I’m the back stabbed child of a nation that bragged about its swords. All that I’ve inherited was… an expired legacy and sorrow.
Blood shed isn’t a foreigner here, I am.
Freedom is a myth here, justice is a scam.

But wait!
this isn’t about here, this isn’t about this home that is supposed to be a home but I can’t call home.
This is about me… about what I am. And what I’ve become.

Jasmine Mans has a line that says:
“The worst part of surviving, is surviving”

This is about the knots in my throat, the sleepless nights, the gaping holes in my soul. The fading dreams, the shackles on my feet and the rust on my wings. This is about my will to live, being chained to the ground and stepped on by every logical reason why I must survive.

I write to heal. I write to fix myself and be okay. But lately, I no longer write as much as I need to. Language fails me. Or maybe I failed language. Or perhapse, the bones of language can no longer carry the weight of what lies beneath. Maybe what lies beneath has escaped language, and now its unspoken, unspeakable. Only heavy.. so heavy.
I am tired.
Iam tired.
I am tired.

This body is wet with scars as if I’ve just got out of a battle bath. I spray cologne on every cut and move on. The fragrance might make me believe that everything is alright.. help me ignore the aftermath of damage, the PTSD impending.. pretending to be alright. In denial. Make belief I don’t have to exist for a while. But here I am, breathing with a heart beat and everything; still beating myself up over every little thing. The tug of war between my mind and the past.. the facts that I can’t deny because I can’t grasp time, time is tricky.. you never really know your future till it arrives, and you can’t undo the past. Yet, you get de ja vu’s playing all the time as if this whole fucking life thing is on rewind. But I doubt that I’m one of God’s favorite songs.

I am lost, I am weary .
I’m tired.
I’ve been tired.
I’ve been trying to learn strength and courage, to learn patience and endurance. But I’m tired.
And I’ve tried writing the tiredness off. Sleeping it off. I’ve tried being positive. Tried seeking help. I’ve tried. I’ve been trying, trying to scrub the rust off my wings.. tried to spread them and fly away from everything and everyone. but my wings have forgotten the act of flying.
My feet have forgotten the act of standing.
I’m so tired,
I forgot the act of surviving.