Spoken mind


Elizabeth. Eighteen. I write sometimes.

Posts tagged writing.

i am kinda delirious right now and i don’t know if it’s the nyquil or the sleepiness that is getting to me. i don’t think. i walk empty handed. the hot cocoa is brewing, the powder is simmering and slow dancing with the boiling water. while the popcorn is exploding in the microwave. it sounds like muted gunshots and that sorts of calms me down. instead of blood, the scent of butter wafts across the atmosphere. through diffusion, i learnt in ninth grade biology class. i want to talk about mundane things and make them beautiful. that’s all i want to accomplish. new york sounds like it is in the belly of a sperm whale right now, a constant echo of barely breathing bodies in their rem sleep. who said this city never sleeps? since energy can only be transferred, all that vibrance during the day simmers down into calmness throughout the course of the night. anyway, i hope i am still qualified as an adult if i can’t manage black coffee. this 20 calorie pack hot cocoa does the deal for me. i’ll foster the child in me in respects of toys r us. i burnt the popcorn and it tastes like failure. reminding me of all the occupations i desired to be when i was 10- professional basketball player, bouquet arranger, things i’m still figuring out the name to. i am especially fond of the color tones of wood- birch, maple, give me all of it. kind of sad it’s built into a casket though. it should signify life. my feet trek on forest floors daily. i’m too tired to pack for “home”. i was born an islander but i swallowed the city and the doctor never extracted it outta me. it stays in my lungs- the polluted air and my heart- the meanness. i’m waiting for my cocoa to cool, watching the steam evaporate is almost disconcerting. how warmth easily dissipates from bodies. the caramel color reminds me of my babe’s skin though, right on her lower back, that part i never leave cold during lovemaking (my hands are constantly parked there). in conclusion, i spill and you all catch. sometimes it just drains me down to sea crystals. solid but demanding to be fluid.

It Almost Feels Like the Sun & Moon Finally Making Love

she doesn’t like silence. so i provide her with lengthy periods of author’s quotes (mind you, only the ones that are dead) and discussions of paintings i still can’t comprehend. silence reminds her of the nights alone with no hand to hold and a cigarette lying idly on an ashtray that no one uses. tsunami drenched pillows and dusk stained sheets. i wrapped my solitude and gifted it away, setting dynamites on my insecurities but like fossils- they grow back after time. i wish i can treasure them like rare gems, yet the truth is there are more coal than diamonds.

the thought of being alone scared her.

i try to be omnipresent, took up meditating classes in hopes that she can only see my breaths in mist forms. it didn’t work. i live too loud. the next best thing is a suggestion that she can be alone in my company. it isn’t enough. she wants to consume me entirely. i lay my body naked- laced in landmines, hoping her touch won’t trigger a reaction. it did, believe me it was catastrophic. the death count is unbelievable: one. a part of me died that night. or she revived a piece and took it for her collection. if her lips were barbed wire, i would want to get hurt more often. as her fingers grazed the dunes of my shoulders, the trenches in my skin is being filled with love. or lust. i didn’t know at that time. i’ll take it. passion don’t come around here. 

i examine the moles on her figure and can’t help but be transported to an galactic observatory, connecting constellations and witnessing the greatest supernova when she twirl moans on her tongue. her body squirms and the line between pain & pleasure get so fine, it’s practically invisible. i don’t mind the second degree burns she leaves on my palms when she softly kisses them, it almost feels like the sun and moon finally making love. so much longing. 

i want to do to you what three am loneliness feels like.

we don’t have to wait. 


treat me like the berlin wall

i want to sleep in a bed of sunflowers, inhale all the happy in those fields. lie beside someone as sad as me, share stories about betrayal and bitter affairs. laugh at how fucking sad we are (it’s funny if you think about it). i battle everyone and come out with severed pride and amputated affections. it’s tiring when all three hundred soldiers of you are dead.

if you flip the world into black and white, yin & yang- there are depressed people in a wonderful life and sickeningly happy people in a melancholy world. isn’t it awfully weird? compile all the synonyms of sad from my ribcages (pick them like weeds) and i can build you a castle filled with therapists. won’t be such a nice place to live in, but at least they don’t bite (unlike mad dogs). i don’t make sense, but it makes cents in my head. 

when i sleep, i stain the sheets with morose colors that the one night stands leave the room quietly. call it defense mechanism. call it love. these fleeting bodies take off their shadows on the front door and expect me to slay all their demons. all my armor is reserved for myself. treat me like the berlin wall. break me down with a sledgehammer, assemble me back again then repeat the process ovr & ovr. 

ice age is the period in the cavity of my soul, i’m barely moving on thin ice. the cracks is in sync with mozart’s requiem. polars bears are grizzlies painted white. if you give me one on our anniversary thinking it’s more pretty, it’s automatic break-up. i prefer grizzlies in matters of love. 


fragments of body parts scattered across the wooden floorboards. the liver is in the corner drinking some gin. the heart is palpitating alone. the beats sound hollow. i sit here and look at this white screen and think about how white instill the most fear in every writer. it’s empty, it’s nothing- it demands to be made to something beautiful. & i just can’t have that responsibility. i can only destroy things with my hands, break some bones and resuscitate some loneliness into myself. don’t make me in charge of another human being, i am not capable of saying sweet things. i don’t know why i stopped writing for three full weeks. i have to, but i don’t. this skin is getting uncomfortable, i would like to take off my skin and put it on a clothesline for the sadness to dry off in the sun. i feel like my soul is tainted with tar or black hole matter that i can never wash off no matter how hard i scrub, the friction is burning me up. i write of things like sadness and love, the two greatest extremes and it’s the most liked. the most relevant to all the humans out there, and sometimes i betray me for appreciation- then i take a hot shower and try to be someone else. it works for some time but then i am reminded of how i breathe like me. don’t cage a bird or it’ll die in spite. she doesn’t sing for me anymore.

the clouds won’t hug me back

some illusions are deceiving and i can’t help but be sad at the fact that i was given hands as transits (the port where other bodies come to leave). i look up and match-make clouds as annoying pda couples who keep cradling the form and kissing just enough for another to long for you.

it looks like they don’t know of their histories.

derived from water- clouds wished they’re less fluid, less accepting of conditions, and, more like fire. spontaneous in loving and dim when leaving come into the atmosphere. they laugh at their drifting nature and shape-shift to make children happy. quite selfless. 

i arrow my prayers out to some space resident, above that mecca of white. no postage stamps or anything needed when addressed for the galaxy. never get any send-backs or reply mail, though. the aliens are busy mowing crop circles to woo the queen reigning in their extravehicular visors, it isn’t her skin when it should be (carving time stamps of affections 00/00/00). who said brains can’t feel?

pilots with malfunctioning parachutes treat clouds as airbags. soon to be disappointed at their lack of solidity. those aren’t your mother’s hands. not your lover’s embrace, either. the killer with the gun taught you that soft ain’t necessarily good for you. taste the cold barrel, swirl the gunpowder between the teeth and gurgle the fear. fine dining at gunpoint. 

plant your tombstone on the funeral of colorless. no one can hurt you up there. but nothing can make you happy. compromise, compromise. don’t blame the clouds for not having hands. or warmth. they die tragic ones too. they fall on concrete as rain. be grateful you only sleep in a coffin.

black cats are misunderstood

black lunar eclipses on innocent eyes, soft pupils saturated with quiet intensity..

for love,

for lightness.

i didn’t comprehend her cold exterior, frost to touch and friction couldn’t melt her. according to stars, i am bonfire, easy to burn yet effortless to fade. i consumed gasoline and flammables trying desperately to sear the glaciers sprouting from her smooth skin, sometimes i fail.

she walked like a feline, ready for hunting. her gait was elegant, hips swaying in sophistication and i get hypnotized savoring her countenance.

small talk wasn’t her forte, she dives straight into the rat pack.

she talks to the moon and i get jealous at their starlit intimacy.

when i make love to her, hairballs get stuck in my throat and she has that effect on me every time she laid her saltwater lips on mine, the intoxicating taste provoked a temporary lapse in enunciation.

nouns and verbs and letters play scrabble in the playground of my mouth.

'look,' she composed her words carefully in order of importance, 'i adore you dearly. what more do you want from me?' that thing she does when sadness drowned her being (she's afraid of being engulfed by anything- feelings, water, love), her irises impose cloudy skies and thunder breaks in her voice. 

'i don't know.' i sideway glance out the foggy window and count the leaves that are falling in love with the cement sidewalk at this precise moment. 'don't mind me. i always want more.' i admit quietly, almost a whisper, a confession to myself or a proclamation to her; i can't differentiate.

she speaks in purrs, i desire to trail my hands among her freckled cheeks and dig foxholes on her body for me to safely place my affections. her body was a time capsule that i revisit for stored passions. 

bad luck? far from it. i ain’t superstitious but occurrences like this don’t happen often. she’s the black cat perched on the rooftop of my thoughts, lingering longer than needed. i step on all the cracks on the ground to reverse all the insinuations associated with her, sprint under open ladders. particularly her- she grants me nine lives, i died eight times when i loved her first. black cats, like her, are misunderstood.

you won’t find me on your local airport conveyor belt anymore

i. synapses of moonchild spread on sea, these man-made lights can’t compare to the fluorescent lamps in a motel bathroom of a woman ready to drown without diving equipment.

ii. the moon is chewed off by hungry astronauts with wives that forgot to pack their space food, look, what the sky had to sacrifice for our guts.

iii. foggy waters, the aquatic animals are having a smokescreen test on the surface and i wonder how many skeletons the sea had to hide over the years?

iv. what happens to solo stars who don’t have hands to hold? while the others are off with their constellation affairs? maybe that’s why they chose to explode after centuries spent in loneliness. there is an excess of ‘em tonight, the atmosphere is saturated with their stardust tears.

v. i’m up real high, the chill is transferring from the airplane wallpapers to my thighs. cold is better than numb. sorry our love is so electronic, that the stewardess banned our affections because it might endanger the other passengers. the night collects as dusk shrapnel on my sweaty palms, i can’t hold anything in my hands for longer than six minutes. hence the breaks in between 6 x 60s when we undergo hand-holding routines. where’s my pinata? i imagine all the abusive men who treat their women like pinatas, they need to beat the shit outta something to feel good bout their brokenness. listen to me, there’s no candy in her, you lunatic.

vi. i go back & forth between sadness and temporary elation and this sadness satisfies the contradiction shooting marbles with my spleen. queens have tried to intervene and gave me royal love but my head couldn’t fit the crown. throw some dirt on your heart and then we can talk. is suffering on the itinerary? if the answer is no, i do not desire to travel the miles to your hectic aortas, i’ll leave the space for quiet boys who can’t take care of your >2am insecurities screenplays. i’m flying somewhere else tonight and i invited my emptiness to come along, you won’t find me on your local airport conveyor belt anymore, not anymore.

i fell in love with a poet once

i fell for a poet once, she was depressed like gray skies enveloped the space around her halo twentyfour-seven. i bought long-lasting neon lightbulbs for her dying halo tube, she appreciated the gesture & then she kissed some light into my mouth because she wanted to assess all the word highways on my tastebuds-

what i have said that have hurt a few but i forgotten off,

tongues that travelled to my treehouse throat.

she took her tools, her humble lips and placed it on mine and for a two seconds, the memory of verbal speech escaped my conscience. i couldn’t articulate the literature of her soul that transferred through her soft breaths.

it’s like latin. or kanji.

she corrected my grammatical errors when i compose the wrong touches, on her skin, on her thighs, on where ever. sometimes i get sick of it, "won’t you stop that?" i demanded with passivity in my eyes while huffing a smoke. i didn’t understand then. silence treatments were her weapons of choice, the absence of her craft was something with a little gore. she liked a little action. 

the clicks of the typewriter reminded her of funerals. unanswered prayers. coffin calls. every time she ended a poem, she would cry like a baby, rock back and forth in the corner with knees tucked into her chest (disarming her heart knocks- it was getting too loud inside her). sometimes, she would even let me hold her. calmed her shaking spine with ten finger compositions on her back. she would form waterfalls on my shoulder, she sounded like a wounded animal, but, not yet roadkill. 

she wrote her will on a paper napkin and officially handed it to me with a serious look on her face. scrawled in messy ink, it wrote, "burn all my words." she was obsessed with the idea of impermanence, as if she was picked up in a forest and raised by buddhist monks. told me not to get too attached. she would only curse on special occasions, like specific phrases, "fuck attachment." and i would laugh almost ironically because i was slowly finding myself tangled in her being. in the end, she left without letters (thought she would at least have common courtesy to do so). the hardest departures are ones without explanations. 

Antiseptics For The Skeptics

appoint my fingers as bandaids for your bruises, antiseptics for the skeptics who play xylophone with your sos calls, arranging your sadness to something more appropriate. watch out, you may scare the children with depression. so pity is the daily menu, pills hidden in refried leftovers your mom cooked for the lonely nights cos’ she only wants what’s best for you, not knowing this ionic bonds con you into believing chemical compounds make better friends.

knock knock “who’s there” with your non-existent father who left before the door opened, departed before the heart gates parted.

suicide hotlines is phone sex for your mind because any stimulation is distraction to the circus cacophony of voices (angel and devil on your shoulder migrated to your hypothalamus and they argue like a married couple on who decides the type of gun that you would taste).

abyss consumes- consomme of drowning worries flavored in worthlessness perfume. every therapist asks for your resume, a complete list of your dysfunctional habits. isn’t it ironic, have a space in between the and rapist and he’s the rapist fucking any shred of dignity left without consent.

i’ll arrange tea time with your demons in hopes they’ll fancy me. i got mine. so rsvp a party of personal demons, time: now, where: with you. break wishbones for them to get along. sticks & stones crush joints but words eternally damage your system, a living testimony of humans testing breaking points. how do you convince them you’re not a chemistry experiment? boiling points are variables. lockers are not percussion instruments, banging heads against metal won’t compose symphonies. profanity doesn’t make you more bad-ass. in fact, it kicks you out of bad-assery school so you end up half-assed. 

take your eyeballs and reverse them in. take a good look at your insides and see how beautiful your fucking organs are. that heart of yours is attractive. those lungs are magnificent. you don’t need prescription to instill a false sense of perfection. my words serve as iv medication for the alone walks you take outside your ribcage. substitute the illicit materials with me. i want to be an uncontrollable addiction that you get cold sweats in my absence and the shakes when i leave for ten minute coffee breaks. that you experience withdrawals when i am not in the vicinity. i better hear a sigh of relief every time you kiss me.

One Night Stand Bouquets & Empty Condom Gift Baskets

you laid your skin bare like bark as i etch-a-sketch tracing marks for where my hands will rest- the curve of your spine, the slope of your waist, the crook of your collarbone. it’s not that i am blind but i would like to leave fingerprints because artists always sign their masterpieces, it’s only common courtesy.

that day when the sun was skinny dipping in the horizon, you called me a cold blooded criminal for stealing your heart from the window instead of politely knocking and taking off my shoes when i barged in. i printed the warrant on my palm so you believed my act was planned. what’s my modus operandi? i always unhook your number one vulnerability for later viewing. you hide it behind okay smiles and modest laughs but i hinged a metal detector on my tongue and bzzt your whole mouth for aluminium lies. it works most of the time, other times there would be too much sand, that when you took a shower, sandcastles fell with a thud from the crevices where stabbing word wounds clotted:

from your mother who didn’t think you were ever going to amount to anything, the school teacher who thought you were below average, the boy who took your virginity and didn’t write back. 

the entrance of your soul has wear creases, strangers mishandled your kindness even though i nail a sign on the lawn “occupied” in all caps. perhaps, they’re dyslexic and they harvest the letters they have waited to hear from and reversed the arrangement to coped. false truths that the occupant is coping and needs one night stand bouquets and empty condom gift baskets. keep the sympathy in your pants. 

she deserves someone to stay for holding festivals, tainting the sheets with a tie-dye of multicolored adoration. the mood-ring in her fingers fortune tell the emotions stitched to your forearms and the colors are in chromatic fantasy. who said having your heart out on your sleeve is a bad thing? only if there’s a house of hands who’ll cradle the weary beats like a ex-drummer who opted for cage fights. she deserves someone to stay long enough for the cold coffee. long enough for her masks to melt. for her joints to crack three times more than enough to be comfortable. long enough for the cereal to get soggy, now multiply that time by twenty folds. i don’t think you get that leaving isn’t part of the itinerary. after boarding the plane, she’ll lock forty seat belts on you, and that’s just for your shoulders, another forty for your restless curiosity. 

repeat staying over & over.

it starts to resembles space.

(                                                             )

see how much room you have when someone truly loves you?

small-talk beginner

i’m terrible with dates, i intend silence as the main course and they often refuse along the lines of “sorry, i’m a wordetarian” so i ink crappy poems on napkins attempting to say i’m a muted romantic. i awkwardly gaze at my feet and back into your mahogany irises and i try to predict the weather of your thoughts and i fall short on forecasting daily to-do lists. i am fluent in the nuances you’re oblivious to, like your obsessive belief that lime cures everything. you transpire passion in your taste buds- i fondle around and sword fight with it, i didn’t know war could be beautiful. i’m scared to admit to myself that i need love. i deserve grit and grime. not fragile things. 

i am horrible at small-talk because i’d rather shovel your bones and dirt off the artifacts from your past. compile the bloody bones and build a castle for you to believe that these wounds are flowers before bloom. maybe i’m uncomfortable at mentioning mutual friends news or the blizzard drenching the clouds tomorrow. it’s not important. i want to expose you bare and look at you from across the room, kiss every crack on your skin and plaster the earthquake aftermath. i guess it’s too soon. 

You’ll Ask Y’s About me After All Your X’s

jealousy bites. literally, it grasps my wrists and imprints a composite list of her past lovers- there was that guy that spoke eight different languages who confesses his adorations in tongues he wasn’t born into; see, he didn’t treat you like you were worth an eight week course of attention but to me, your body language is a subject i long to be fluent in.

give me the half grins and i will compare it to the way the moon hides in a blanket of clouds afraid to reveal too much to love. give me the cable line nerves and believe me, i’ll be a conductor fixing the parts of your esteem that you were forced to believe in women who steal traits from airbrushed magazines. give me your side shrugs and i’ll sneak in wishbones under your pillow so you can rest your head on dreams your heart couldn’t contain.

then there was that dude who had a voice like recording angels and hermes fingers sending messages through arrangements i can’t decipher the chords to. i’m musically deaf, my shower walls cringe at my falsetto and i can’t pay anyone to actually clap. yet, he couldn’t analyze the subtle changes in your voice when you claim nothing’s wrong (that 40db drop in adjacent 3 seconds before you end “wrong”). let me improvise the concerto of your heartbeat and match it to the symphony of my irregular thumps. the doctor strapped a detector on my chest and said my heart skipped excessively, still, he can’t detect the exact cause (i would like to think it’s you). you told me your heart is slow in this bed. apparently, conform two bodies together and their hearts will amalgamate rhythmically and dance together. so, i guess, we neutralize each other. 

you got it wrong. i’m not saying i’m better. in fact, i’m worse in departments i should improve like adoring my fault spreadsheet or loving properly. you’ll ask y’s about me after all your x’s. i’ll try my best to distinguish the difference between fucking and making love. i’ll map every inch of your spine and lick the salt on your forgotten skin. i’ll kiss you goodnight and never goodbye. i’ll spread my ribcages wide open during a thunderstorm so you have a place to hide, a few feet from my heart. i’ll do all of this. if you just let me in, i will.

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