1:37 A.M.

I'm currrently staying in my parent's bedroom floor, watching some random home shopping channel. Seems like something a 21 year old would do, yeah? No. But lately I have caught a sickness, one that has no symptoms, no physical manifestations and no medicinal cure --melancholia. I feel so lonely, all the time, even when I talk to other people so I tend to remove myself all together because it makes me even more sad that I do not feel the joy other people get from shared experiences. I am empty inside. As if I was carved on the inside, gnawing, eating me from the inside. The worst part is, I look happy but it doesnt reach my core, doesn't change my thoughts nor awareness on how artificial it feels and sometimes I cry without knowing why, without any warning. I still find this so odd because again, I am not sad, I am empty and yet I cry.

Friends.

I am such a low maintenance friend, I sometimes wonder if my friends think I'm already dead. I won't get clingy and tell you to date me or talk to me at least 4 times a week. Wanna hang? okay, let me get my shit. Rain check? Sure, I'll see you when it's convenient for you. Have a spare ticket and your intended friend couldn't come? I'll meet you in a few. Need help with acads or some event? Equipment? I'll give you what I have, it's yours too. That's me. That will always be a part of me. Reliable to borderline exploitive. Which is why I wonder why some people can't do the same thing for me too.

Disposable?

I cling on to people who would rather have nothing to do with me.
I give my all yet receive so little.
I seek them out, wanting to take refuge in their warmth but all I got was a cold shoulder.
I give them chances to prove me wrong. To erase my doubts but all I got was silence for affirmation.
What do you do when people replace you? When they're your constants while you're disposable?

F a d e

I am fading. I often wonder what might happen when I pass. Would there be bouquets on my doorstep? Would people cry in my funeral and tell funny stories about me? Would they remember me? It is narcissistic to think about how other people would react when you die but then it is the inevitability of death that makes us strive to be more. To achieve more. To gain and collect experiences and things in order to feel fulfilled. It is the inevitability of death that makes us live. Often I see life as a third person, floating about, peering through windows in other peoples lives; engulfing myself in other people's experiences. This is when I realized that I am fading. Just flipping through the pages instead of savouring every word. Going in and out, living in a monochromatic blur. I don't know if its normal to waste your days living other people's lives. Sitting in bed thinking how good life is for other people. I get jealous. Maybe its the fever kicking in but I feel worse thinking that as I fade, I don't think I'd be receiving any bouquets.


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How by Daughter, currently in my mind.

Crevices

You climbed the wall

and I was there

building castles

of bricks

"They're nothing

but sand" you say

as waves drew in

the fortress

I built

towards the

ocean

You were sunshine;

omnifiscent

stirring

currents

inside

hollow bones

Until

you

were

drenched

in the landfill

that was me.

You found out,

that there was

nothing there.

N o t h i n g 

to keep you

warm, under

white sheets

n o t h i n g

but maps

and footsteps

left

by

strangers.

N o t h i n g

but detours

and connecting

flights

N o t h i n g

but a closet

full of shells

of

past lovers

Gradually,

and then all at once

                                   You left.

not even a whisper

no,

not even a goodbye.

I

wonder how you are

gradually less often

and one day

you will be left

in the crevices of my mind;

collecting dust.

Whispers and Misadventure (on Wattpad)...

Whispers and Misadventure (on Wattpad) http://ift.tt/1WJ5GMB Gradually and then all at once You left. // Words strung by a sad girl //

via Tumblr http://ift.tt/1ZdROcj

Marie

That is all she knows.

Blinded by digital windows

Inevitably displaced

in virtual destinations

Of finding warmth

Through befriending pixels

instead of people

Saying "I love you"

To fleeting faces

Only to be left

yet again

by a man

made from strung words

on a mobile phone

and nothing more.

Oh how you fall in love

With the idea of him

on screen

Oh how you fall in love

With type-written 

love notes

Whose sweetness

Ought not to be held nor touched

Whose fragrance 

grew stale

In a box

of Imagined reality

Inevitably existing

with the purpose of

pulling heart strings

to the brink 

of  d e c a y . 

| n o t h i n g n e s s |

We were born to

                                // die.

Don’t you realize its

                                truth?

I don’t want to wake up realizing

That my {existence}

Has been spent on thinking,

Never touching,

Never feeling

Anything.

F

  a  

     d

         i

            n

               g

               … 

      down to

Daily interactions

Of fast-paced

| N  o  t  h  i  n  g  n  e  s  s  |

_________________________________________________________________________________

A poem from my Wattpad

Fire

I am an arsonist.

I set fire within sleeping souls, 

empowering the lungs 

to drop daggers 

through hearts,

until we both get hurt.

Burned out

from part-time

passions,

we drew from a 

small flame, until

we succumbed to

the auburn haze.

I Swore

I'm trying to be better, I swear I am.

I have constantly battled my demons in broad daylight through color, through physical vibrancy, through facial animation. But every now and then I slip and I get back to where I was all over again, still stuck in my personal hell, never moving forward. It hurts, knowing that no matter how hard you try to break through the surface you always plummet down, spiralling downwards through days, through weeks, through years. It's been years. I am tired of looking behind my shoulder thinking everyone is against me, of reading through words and finding myself irrationally hurt, of fighting the current that has enslaved my being. Despite my penchant for romanticizing my pain, I get hope; slivers of color in my monochromatic perception. These few moments are those that I crave the most and I fight again. Fight for the light to never leave me, to smother it until I can no longer. Desperate to give what I have and have someone else take it. To find kindness in words, in small gestures and finally to find kindness for myself but who am I? I am gone.

I am no one, I am anyone.

I am the embodiment of grief, of loss and restlessness. 

I am here and I am gone.