Palms stretched out like a beggar asking for alms,

insatiable and demanding.

Never has adoration looked so malignant.

The last day’s breath envelops like a sinister shadow waiting to pounce,

morbid in its bluntness.

There is neither I nor you in the morrow.

My horizon, bleak.

This heart bleeds blue, for you.

For K.


wear your scars well.

Let these proud mounds of flesh reflect your healing.

Let them serve as a reminder that the wicked may have wounded you,

but you never faltered.

Let them remind you that you are resilient,

that your body is a temple meant to be worshiped by the pious.

You are your savior.

You are your own brand of divine.

Let your walls crumble.

Nobody is out to get you,

not anymore.

Let love shine through.

Let your kindness seep into the cracks that brought lost boys to their knees.

You are the beauty that tamed the beast.

You deserve forevers and galaxies and so much more.

Tea and biscuits.

My veins bleed blue,

my brain filled with memories of you.

Storms brew in that beautiful mind,

and to me you’ve stopped being kind.

Wretched is this love, peace escapes me.

You run everywhere but here, I am left with nowhere to be.

Time’s been expensive, a luxury you couldn’t afford.

Shadows loom, telling me to cut the parachute chord.

We’ve been found wanting, every damned salvation tried.

No short of nefarious, no protests cried.

Holding on to things we never had,

love ripe for parody, no justice to be had.

Cinnamon tempests in teapots hot with tea,

biscuits dripping honey, yet no love for me.

Patient zero.

Heart in perpetual limbo.
Brain caught in vanilla hurricanes, give it time to descend —
either dance in the rains, or get thrown asunder in the turmoil.
My optimism — it’s there,
crippled by the bitter cold blanket of ephemeral feelings and despair.
The floodgates that are your lips, moaning strings of letters that held so much promise,
fervent orisons that make gut angels sing, saccharine lies.
Amid the wicked dichotomy between realities and dreams, faith and cynicism,
it’s safe to say my soul has been restless for millennia.
The darkness inside hums, vociferous and frequent.
I, patient zero for this sick love story.
You, the epidemic I’ve developed immunity for.