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The Phases of Love

We all in our school must have studied the phases of the moon, at least once. Of course we did. At that age, I didn’t give much thought beyond learning what was taught just to pass exams. The moon was merely another chapter in the textbook, and I forgot about it later (hehe). As the summers passed, I gradually began to understand the phases of the moon in a way most people might not. Who doesn’t like to look at the clear sky at night? Stare at the stars until you forget the count? Or draw imaginary characters by mapping them together? I was that kid. I am that kid, actually. Even now, I look at the sky as if one day it might disappear and I would lose the opportunity to connect with my soulmate. Someone once told me that if you look at the night sky and think about your loved one, they, too, are thinking about you. (i forgot who told me this, but thanks for feeding my delusions. I shall find you one day threat )  I cannot help but think about how love can be simply seen in every po...
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When I Finally Compete With My Consciousness


When I finally compete with my consciousness, 
when I pin it down,
wrestle it breathless,
strip it of every voice but my own—
I only hear the sound 
of my scream.

Not a scream that shatters glass, 
not one that makes the walls shake.
But the kind that lives in your bones,
gnaws at the back of your throat,
a constant 
chocking ache. 

It begs, 
not to be saved,
not even to be heard,
just to be seen.
For once.
Not analyzed,
not fixed,
just witnessed.

I carry myself like a well-lit room,
but I am flickering.
I laugh like I am full,
but my echo rings hollow.
I am made of mirrors I did not choose,
each one reflecting a version of me I do not recognize.
Each one more palatable than the last.
Each one,
not me. 

Do you know how it feels 
to scream in a language no one speaks?
To bleed in colors no one sees?
To be your own audience,
your own ghost,
your own erasure?

So I compete.
With my consciousness.
With my coping.
With my silence.

And when I win,
when I finally win,
all that is left
is the voice of my scream.
Still begging.
Still invisible.
Still me.

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