paradox

“love will be the death of me
Love, I’m convinced, is found in the dark.”

If something does grow, it rots.
the rage still waiting
to overpowering me,
all my love rots on the shelf now

i am the only poem I’ve never written about
as someone who’s hypnotised by
Skeletons, fire and doom,²
i visit my grave every summer
While wounded lives that pretend permanence continue hurting me based off their own insecurities
those who endured continued
chanting laments and telling me to
accept the reality and move on
yet I continue to
drown with the weight of the earth on my embodiment
I’ve been leaving everything shattered
and I’m a terrible lover,
For once
I just wanted to dwell on the promise of life
looking at the stars
I see myself running with them, from them; it never goes unnoticed.

Fear settles because someone’s
always watching over me

guided by a beating heart by stifling tranquility,
Yet I’m only ever embraced as a sin/prodigy.
I need proof of it all
I’ve never been able to recognise
fragile things that breathe/hold on
It knocks on my door; it’s getting harder to drown it out/pretend.
but how do I hold on to something
i can never reliance on
Self-loathing spills on the abominate
And ‘abomination’ is the name I’ve earned.
recovering till it eats me up / relapse
I need my name to be chanted
now all I got is something
i can never completely harmonise but
mom always says that
love endures till you notice
that’s when you’ll know its existence, safe now