Silhouette

She lingers in the shadows, hesitant to move, lest her silhouette deforms. She likes what she sees now. She doesn't want it to change, to be different, to go back to how it once appeared.
She knows that it has infinite possibilities and infinite shapes, yet she clings to this one like the remains of a shipwreck attempting to stay afloat.
Does it float, the shipwreck? Does it descend? Does it sink? Does it even try to maintain what it once was before the storm hurled its obscenities?
She wonders why they find the remnants of what once was, so beautiful. She wonders why they dive into the deepest depths just to catch a glimpse.
Are they really seeking beauty? Or are they just searching for ways to feel better about what graces the land; what is safe; what is real.
Would a silent breeze gently grazing the surface be the beginning of a rippling wave? Would a hungry seagull dipping its beak be the reason another piece drifts away?
Would the shattered pieces of a masterpiece ever still be a masterpiece on their own?
Would her silhouette deform if she moves, she wonders again.

But rather, would it ever form? 

Fuck you. And you. And you. And all of you.

Fuck you all. 

The Thin Line

So thin, that you hardly notice when you cross it.
You only realize it later, when you react differently; behave differently; feel differently.
When you limp, because you can't hold your balance anymore.
When you see the scar it caused; notice the blood dripping slowly, teasing you with every fresh drop; and you cover it up. You always cover it up.

You've crossed it before. Many times.
With others.
Less significant.
Less meaningful.
You try to remember the exact moment you crossed it, so that you know the next time.
So that you see it coming.
But you never see it coming.

You just cross it unknowingly. Hoping the scar will be shallower. Just a graze, maybe. A light graze; not even skin deep.

They never mend, those scars. They never mend. 

In the pursuit of sadness

Heaviness descends upon a feather,

Darkness robs the candle's glow.

Their strength as fragile as their weakness,

Their madness as sane as their sanity.

They succumb willingly,

With dignified gracefulness;

With wilting passion,

With a defiant demeanor.

And all that remains is the spirit that can never be tamed,

hiding within the furrows of sadness and bittersweet pain.   

Pink Rose

When I die, put a rose on my stone. Let it be a pink rose, not red. Undefined and chaotic, like my life had been.
When I die, let my death resemble my life. Or else for what purpose would this life had been lived for?
When I die, don't cry. I would've rather you'd cried when I was alive.
When I die, don't remember me. I want to leave and never return, not even in your thoughts.

But when I am alive, find that pink rose, so that you are ready when I die.

Maybe

An abundant and overflowing of emotions that is hard to control. Dormant for a long time, yet all of a sudden needing an outlet, lest they suffocate their bearer.
And it's hard to start, because all routes lead to the same destination - pain.

But I can't breathe. It's all trapped in between where it beats and where I inhale the shortest of breaths.  A raging battle between the instinct of survival and the heart of a lonesome warrior, that has long lost his will to win.

And I catch a breath again, and exhale. Maybe the next breath will be longer. Maybe its flow will be gentler. Maybe it won't get buried in the avalanche.

Maybe.