Trigger Warnings: suicide, implied smoking, implied drinking, arson.

I rocked back-and-forth. Both the walls seemed to tower around me, enclosing me in their cold, hard and lifeless embrace. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs and I pulled my knees further into my chest: an attempt for warmth and disguise. The thin, white, cotton-soft curtains blew around the window, this way and that. The moonlight crept in to form ghostly, ever-moving shadows on the wall in front of me. I did not get up to close the window; I was done trying. Sharp slivers of moonlight glinted off the glass photo frames; it reflected on me, taunting me. The people in the photos -my loved ones- seemed to now mock me with the smiles I once used to love.

“Look what you’ve done to yourself,” they whispered cruelly. “Just look.” They seethed with disappointment.

I grimaced. Frantically looking around for some escape, I looked over to my messy bed. I’d thrashed the pillows on the bed, creasing the sheets. My blanket lay half on the floor after I’d flung it off me. Tufts of dry, black hair danced around in little tornadoes around the room. The gust of air was commanding; everything obeyed it.

Disgusted at myself, I looked the other way. My desk: stacked with failed tests, bad report cards and unfinished homework assignments. The open textbooks flickered loudly in the deathly silence. The moving pages seemed to ward me off. I continued to rock: back-and-forth, back-and-forth; a helpless, rhythmic heartbeat’s echo.

The day had gone by just like any other day and had ended the same way. The knives were never sharp enough, the razors never painful enough, the drink never strong enough. My ragged breathing did not stop. A spark of fury grew to an inferno in me. With a swift jerk, I grabbed the glass- it was intricately etched with flowery design. But dirt found its home in tiny, uncleanable places- I was one of those, apparently. Evidently.

Within a flash, the glass was not just shards.

No, it still wasn’t enough.

I walked over the glass pieces scattered on the floor and towards the photo frames above my bed. One, two, three of them, now shattered. How was I not enough? Four, five frames: destroyed. Why was I never good enough? I am so sick of myself. Two months had ruined me. I was the perfect kid.

Six, seven frames.

Immaculate grades, the best daughter and the best student.

Eight, nine, ten frames: no. Still not enough.

I picked out a photo from the floor and shook it. Tiny pieces of glass fell down. Shiny drops of amber liquid dripped down from it. Arching my neck down, I relished at the sight before me. The amber was now mixed with the crimson of my blood. It pooled around my feet. The glass etched and stung and caved deeper still as I pushed my heels further into the ground. Hastily opening a drawer from my desk, I fished out a lighter; I always had one lying around next to my packs. Holding the corner of the photo lightly, I did the deed.

It was beautiful. Glorious. The flame- delicate, yet powerful- was so tantalizing. The bright yellow and orange waltzed and I let it drop. I cackled. It didn’t even take a second. The floor gleaned magnificently. The memories burned. The smiles that had turned to a sea of frowns around me were now ashes.

My feet stung maliciously, but what did it matter? I wasn’t going to be enough anyways. The perfect girl no more. It was amazing what two months could do to you. You would be done, dusted and trudged upon and you wouldn't even understand what was happening. It was a splendid fall until you felt your bones crush. What a laughable tragedy. I tried and tried and tried but who can write when your pen has run out of ink? I accepted- embraced- that and stayed. I stayed where I was, unmoving, smelling burned flesh; smoke of my cotton curtains now vibrant. I filled my lungs until I faded to black: it had gone downhill in the blink of an eye.

It's been two months since he died;

It's been two months since I last truly smiled.

I see his face in the clouds when I look up,

I see his favourite constellations spelling out his name; I'm awestruck

Not only by the beauty of nature when it lauds him,

But because it reminds me of his sincerity when he first told me it was me he loved and that it was my presence that he missed.

I smell him when I pass by the flowers on the sidewalk we used to walk through to get our weekly groceries.

Autumn was his favourite season, he used to say.

He said he could feel himself when the trees set the leaves free;

He could feel himself dancing inside as these abandoned leaves swayed in the wind.

Autumn was his favourite season, he always told me that-

because that's when he was able to write the best.

He died two months before that.

Today, it's been two months since he died.

It's been two months and exactly 3 hours since they found his dead body.

It was 8pm and his manager knocked on his door several times,

It was only then he realized something wasn't right.

The authorities were called and people had gathered.

They rushed him into the ER but the doctors knew as soon as they saw him.

And just like that, they had declared him dead,

"He has left this world," they said.

Scared and anxious, when everybody asked them how,

"It wasn't natural," they said,

"He took his own life.

We think maybe he was just depressed."

Today, it's been two months since he died.

And since then, I don't know how I've survived.

It's been two months and not a day has gone by without me whispering his name and touching only air.

It's been two months since I've been living in the state that he lived in for years and nobody cared.

It's been two months and tea doesn't taste the same,

the autumn breeze doesn't smell the same,

and the flowers seem remorseful because that friendly face they were so used to seeing-

it doesn't pass by them anymore,

everyday.

The people that used to be around him have since long moved on.

Saying, "it's unfortunate, but I just can't keep holding on."

"His time on earth is over but you still have a life to live," they said.

Remember that night under the bridge when we were sheltering ourselves from the rain?

We made a promise that we would never leave each other to go our own ways.

That's a lie you told me, I feel it now.

Still, it's one promise I cannot break.

It's a fact that I loved you and I still so irrevocably do.

And so,

when I die,

I hope I find my place

next

to

you.

I write, but every word is almost too precious to share.

I steal them from the paper and put them into my heart, though they belong to my mind.

I imagine myself as an old writer, not in age but in time.

One day I will share those words however for this, for now, they remain mine.

For you, I write more universal.Less personal and slightly understandable.

If my heart were free in the constructs of these writers and readers - I would be a fool for not publishing them first.

For not having the grace to uphold my work and broadcast my name for the world to know in connection to each other.

You see me as one writer but the other one, the real writer is yet to be free.

tattoo this book on my heart.

I dont even know where to start.

CHARACTERISTICALLY HUMAN.

The story is heartbreaking. It will twist your heart in ways you didnt know possible and it will be incredibly devastating.

The characters are so human, the descriptions so real, the writing so good: it feels like you're a ghost in their universe, like you're just there, feeling that, living every moment vicariously through them. You are tied to each and every one of them with so much determination and this just goes to show how incredibly charming and smooth the writing style of this book is. The pacing feels so real, literally everything about this book is so palpable, but the pacing more so because it mentions no years even once in this book. You could pick up this book literally whenever and it'll still be the same. The pacing is described using popular holidays but not events which makes it even more real to experience. The characters (the 4 main ones) are so true to the concept of being human, they're making mistakes: huge ones, terrible ones, cruel ones and then we have some heartwarming moments that just amplify the sadness a thousand fold.

The book is majorly without a plot and essentially character driven. Therefore, naturally, we see the characters inside out with the subtle change in povs that arent even noticeable until you actually realize that it's happened because the writing just draws you in.

The story. The essence of the story is trauma and the individualistic response towards the trauma of a singular being and the responses of all the characters, collectively, towards it as well. The trauma is revealed tenderly, slowly, making the book even sadder and sadder.

Jude, personally, I love him. Willem, literally the best. Malcom- amazing character. JB- love-hate relationship with him but towards the end it's really just an individual reaction to him.

I dont want to delve deep into the actual story, mainly because it is just .... too much. It’s intense, it's violent, it's disgusting but it's also very very real. The book feels very tangible and the reason I enjoyed the book the most, apart from other reasons, is the writing style. Hanya Yanagiara definitely knew what she was doing and she hit the nail on the head with destroying every good thing that happened to the characters within the blink of an eye- and I mean that both metaphorically and literally (trust me, it happens in the book when you least expect it, it's a personal slap for even daring to hope that something good will happen because it's just meant to destroy and incinerate all hope for the future of the characters.) The way we explore the characters' pasts and the things related to it is admirable, the writing style is just purely immaculate. Sometimes it just feels like Hanya Yanagiara has such an exquisite talent and she used it to write this book and I think this is what the book is subtly (?) and so seriously exploring what it is to be human when you have been subjected to unspeakable atrocities the way Jude has been and even speaking about it through direct addressal seems cruel.

However, what I do want to add is how this book has been so widely glamorised, the way i have seen people be like, "oh I've read this book have you well how much did you cry and scream?" It feels like it has become some sort of a competition to the sense that it becomes a state of elitism in a very sick and twisted way. I want to spread no hate with this but I would never recommend this book to literally anyone because of the huge list of trigger warnings it comes with and what it could actually do to a person based on their responses and past experiences. So if you came here looking for anything of that sort, I want to be clear that I would not recommend this book because no one needs to subject themselves to this because of fomo, seeing how popular this book has become. Please please please check out the trigger warning for this book before you start and dnf it as soon as you feel like because this book has the potential of actually wrecking souls.

So, to just summarise this incredibly messy review because I don't think I will ever be able to have comprehensible thoughts about this book. I do not recommend it and if you chose to read it, please check out the trigger warnings. Please don't read this book out of fomo; only read when you are sure that you are in a mental and emotional state to actually even register what is happening in this book.

After having said that, i dont even want to talk anymore about anything else expect that I loved it personally even though it dented my heart and i wish I could go on and on about what I loved about this book but I wont entirely because I feel like I would just be adding to the toxicity that the glamorization of this book can spread (again, meant with absolutely no hate but a hell lot of concern towards the book the writer or anyone).

If you've read this book, I hope you are well and if you've made it to the end of this rant of mine, firstly why and secondly thank you. I hope you have positive takeaways. That's all I can say at this point.

Rain is here, it trickles down the wall,

Bringing thunder with it, like an emergency call-

To wake my mind, to wake my soul.

Someone is sleeping, sleeping inside me-

Who is less than what I am supposed to be.

Rain is here, it trickles down the wall,

Bringing thoughts with it, like a wolf’s howl.

Someone is missing, missing inside me-

Who is more than what I am supposed to be.

Rain is here, it trickles down the wall.

Bringing death with it, found like a lost doll.

Someone hear, hear what it says-

Does it bring hope or sounds like a warning bell?

“I’m proud of you” is not something I hear often,

but I heard it at least 14 times today.

Ecstatic is not an emotion I feel often,

but after 4:27 this evening, that's all I felt.

Every morning when I wake up I check my texts,

They were the last thing on my mind until after I walked out of the testing center.

Celebrating is not something I do for myself,

but ice cream with friends after the last 4 months of studying, was the cherry on top!

186.

My heart stopped.

My eyes went black for a microsecond.

I stared at it for about a minute.

I couldn't believe it.

I passed!

I’m one step closer to my dream!

I didn't call my mom first, she came second.

With tears clouding my vision.

I've been trying to pass this test for a year.

I guess ‘third times a charm’ really does have actual meaning to it.

146

My last two scores. 4 points away from passing. Both. Times.

186- that's 20 over a 146 and 14 away from a perfect score.

But now I have to decide if math is the right course, with all the writing I’ve done, maybe English is the way to go.

It's funny how a small test can decide your future.

It's astounding how just a number can not only change your day, but affect every aspect of it.

That number at the top of the screen - it's going to open doors for me that have been closed for so long.

That number at the top of the screen - determines the teacher I become.

That number at the top of the screen - 186 - you just changed my life.

I'm in a world not my own,

But I'm surrounded by memories and faces I'm familiar with.

I feel my body, but it's following an already decided path.

I'm aware while fooled by the unknown.

Its a sudden feeling, the one I get right when I become mindful of what's going on.

I know what's happening, but I also know something is wrong. I regain control. I always have to.

Regain control of my body, my mind.

But the scene is changing. I don't control this part, not unless I'm lucky.

I wasn't done there yet. I just became aware. Why does it always change right when I get…

Someone new is following me. Trying to speak. Someone from my past. This time I'm in control. I try to get away, they are talking - seem interested, try to get away. I start to run.

This time I’m lucky.

I changed the scene. I controlled the conversation, at least until I knew it was about to change.

Until I knew I had control.

New scenery. I move my body.

But that's not all of it.

It’s not that easy.

I can feel it coming. It always does soon after.

New scene, fast, hurry. Control.

The place, the people, the conversation. Stay. Please, a few more seconds.

I need closure from these people.

I need the pain to ease here so it eases in reality.

But…

Even if I think I’m controlling the narrative.

I'm not.

         I wanna be.

                      Fully in control.

                                 Let me be in control.

                                            I will be in control.

                                  control.

                      control.

        CTRL.

I'M IN CONTROL!

But now I'm awake.

The ending is always the worst.

Its sudden, like any other dream, but these ones, the bad ones, I remember a little bit longer.

People always ask me ‘what is it like to lucid dream?’

How am I able to do it?

Why can’t they?

I don't have a solid answer.

I have my way of doing it but it doesn't apply to everyone.

I've explained it many times, answered the same questions.

I'm sorry but I can't tell you how or make you able.

Most people aren't.

Most people can't.

I wonder why people would want to.

It can be unsafe.

Unsettling.

Sometimes you're not aware until you are.

And when you are… then your conscience takes over- anything can happen.

You may think you're in control and maybe you are of your thoughts and your body but not of the scenario. You can't run away from it every time. but sometimes you want to go back and you can't.

Sometimes you’re so deep in it you don't realize it's a nightmare.

Dreams are their own reality.

And just like in reality, you are merely a player of its game.

Wake. Up.

Inspired by The Book Thief- Markus Zusak

One eye open,

One still in a dream,

The sky spilled onto the ground

Gingerly tempting me to drown.

One eye open,

one still in a dream,

I saw something that I never could when I was asleep:

The sky adorned with diamonds hiding behind clouds,

The moon trickling out of its shape of a frown.

One eye open,

one still in a dream,

The prickly winter breeze sang to me

As I struggled to fall asleep.

The clouds softened my fall,

The rain wiped my tears away,

The birds etched a smile on my face

That the dark had so depravedly snatched away.

One eye open,

one still in a dream,

Wrap me around in flames ‘till i'm safe from all the grief;

Throw me down and watch the train, ablaze.

I’m not a feeling you’d call afraid.

One eye open,

one still in a dream,

I’ll cover your mouth when you scream.

"One eye open, one still in a dream" is line from the book itself, credits to Markus Zusak for that line.

i'm not falling

not this time

im standing firm and tall

i'm just standing alone

people are leaving again

no one talks to me

i'm always the initiator of conversation

but i am standing

There is no yelling

There are no tears

but being here is painful

i'm trying to burst out of a box that confines me

but i am standing

the world is cruel

its hurting my people

its hurting all people

they might not be standing with me

but i am standing

i feel myself fading away from everyone

i feel myself wanting more of anything as i have so little

but still i stand

i beat the depression

i beat the heartache

now to beat being alone

i've done it before

but then i wasn't standing

now i am

and no matter how alone it in i am

i will continue to stand

until some one stands beside me.

5:43

what a time to be awake

i can hear the birds chirping as a light blue fades into the sky

i know that by this time morning dew droplets have already coated the grass

i can hear cars as people start their day

i know someone else will wake soon

start up the coffee machine

brush their teeth

and get on with their day

but not yet.

im still alone in this mild silence for right now

im still the only one awake

i have to be up soon

in exactly 3 hours

but i know if i sleep i wont awaken in time

so for now i think

i think of the times i missed out on

i think of the friends i have and the friends ive lost

i think of how im still lost in finding myself but reassure myself that thats okay

i still got time to figure it out

i still have time to write poems and songs

i still have time to just breathe and relax into my body and minds growth

maybe not in the next 3 hours or 3 years

but 3 minutes have passed

its now 5:47

its a whole other time to be awake

the sky is brighter now.

the streets louder

but im still alone in my silence

at least for this minute.

The most peaceful place that I have ever visited doesn’t really ooze extravagance, but it’s pleasing all the same. The breeze that gently teases your skin as it wraps around me, comforting me. The still silence fills the void inside of me, allowing me to finally hear my thoughts after a noisy, busy day. The taste of freedom and tranquility in the air makes me forget all the sour thoughts that have occurred during the day. As I gently tilt my head upwards, tiny, glistening sparks of joy accessorize the dull night sky and the constantly moving clouds. They are calming … in an aggressive sort of a way. When I look at them, I wish for them to be together: to be one. One big ball of sparkly lights adorning the spilled black ink. But instead, it’s just fragments of light strewn across the canvas of eternity. As the clouds continue their journey – gradually moving forward- I see that the one big ball of light is actually really there. Covered in dark patches, it still sheds light that brightens my mood, as it sits there on its throne of clouds, as if it owns the sky. It does, though: whenever it comes out in all its glory, people always spare a few long seconds to gaze at it.  When I gather enough courage to look around me, I am still breath taken by the beauty of all the mountains; the way they look in the quiet night sky.

All the worry and the negative energy that is stored inside of me recedes as I breathe in the cold night air, that I feel as it travels down inside my lungs. The soft piano music that always plays in my ears whenever I come here through my earphones, along with all of the other pleasantries, makes me feel content. Content, and … grateful. Grateful that I can still enjoy this place while the rest of the world – or at least half of it anyways, - snores away. It’s late, but whenever I come up here, I never want to leave. Amongst all the loneliness that exists currently, this is the place that makes me forget everything and remember only to be grateful for the life I am living right now. Comfortable – though it has its flaws. Peaceful, even though all the day’s hustle can’t be eliminated completely.

It’s not much. It’s just an expanse of empty space bordered by concrete, a couple stories above the surface. But it’s a make-do heaven and land of temporary solitude, uncomprehendingly beautiful all the same.

I'm a paradox.

I know I need to sleep early,

But I'm up till 2 am reading,

And writing what seems to me as senseless poetry.

I'm a paradox.

I know I'm fragile. I get hurt easily.

But I still trust people I barely know,

Like they're my family.

I'm a paradox.

I know I'm not the best at all that I do,

But who wants to be the best?

Because when you're the best,

You've got no one to challenge you.

For I strive on challenges,

Whether I can solve them or not;

Or better yet, understand them or not.

I remain faceless to my fears,

But I know what they feel like:

The shape of their nose like a wilted stem of a rose;

The crook of the neck like a pillow of bones;

The band of the ear like a whisper meant only for the flesh;

The delicate eyelashes against my fingers,

Like words written out of a broken nest.

The gentle curve of the lips

Meant to sprout the ugly secrets;

The lush hair of black, ends frayed,

The lavender and lemon fragrance is what stays.

The cheekbones made of stone,

And its features limp without a smile ,

Like a statue engraved in the stone of my soul

I will forever keep you deep inside of me waiting for me to burst open,

Like a part of me,

My very own.

I'm a paradox.

I know.

I want to get better but is it because I must?

The pain that binds me together is the nexus that links to me to what I was-

What I was before it took the better of me.

And I sat through counseling like I had to pierce an arrow into a fish.

I'm a paradox.

I love people too easily,

And I do too much for them,

I expect too little.

And I get hurt when I don’t get what I need.

I'm fragile, I know.

But there was once a time where I was fragile, not like dry leaf, but fragile like dynamite is.

But that is dead and gone and passed ,

And all that is left of me are pieces after the crash.

I'm a paradox.

I know I should love myself,

But sometimes my mind isn't mine to control.

I should try to heal myself,

But it would mean cutting myself from what was left of me

And I don’t think I’m ready to do that,

Not just yet.

I don’t think I’m ready to do that

To kill what I was before,

Broken and dusted, due to be assimilated.

I don't think I’m ready,

To leave what I loved of me,

To be taken away by the waves on the shore.

So don’t be too hard on me if I take my time.

Trust me, it's much harder for myself that I show it to be,

But I wouldn't expect you to believe,

For all you see is me failing and falling and crying secretly in the bathroom.

No, it's harder.

But I don’t expect understanding from souls that believe life isn't for those who try to keep themselves safe and sound.

I turn 24 this week. Gosh, I feel old. I know that I'm not as old as the others, but that also means I'm not as young as the others either. Here’s my thing with my birthday: I hate it. Truthfully, I probably had nice birthdays growing up, but most of what I remember seemed forced. Like people had better places to be. I do this thing where I don’t tell people my birthday, I just say that it’s in March or I tell them the day after. And they beg and beg me to tell them, so I do the week or so before. But then they forget, which is the whole reason I don't tell people. It’s always forgotten. Why get my hopes up that you’d remember when you don’t? Why beg to know when it’s not actually important to you? Why hurt me more?

When it comes to my family- no they didn’t do awfully- but they didn’t do well. I had this fear growing up that since it was tax season my father would be too busy with work to remember. I spent birthdays in wonder watching the door. I also almost always ended up crying, sometimes because the wonder got too much, but also because my family tended to fight at the dinner table. I would get up and go to my room and cry. Why couldn't we be happy on my birthday? Why do we always fight?

My mother always cooks us our preferred meals, mine is chicken cutlets, steamed carrots with butter and cinnamon, broccoli rabe, and pasta.Two years ago, I asked for breakfast for dinner, it was my 22nd birthday and my whole family worked to make it amazing since covid ruined my 21st completely. It might be the most memorable birthday I’ve had yet. This year I'm having my favorite pizza. I also want lobster, however, I don't like asking for expensive things. I ask for gifts every year; some are big, some small, I give them links and all the information hoping to be surprised. Sometimes, they don’t get me what I want, sometimes they forget, or tell me what they are getting me before the day comes. I'd like to say that that’s okay, but it’s also hurtful when I make sure to get them what is on their list even when I have no money and to always surprise them. This year, I just want to have a good day.

As for friends, well, they change every year. One friend already got me a studded belt, another is in charge of getting me a weighted blanket. My best friend, I asked him to have my nephews sing me happy birthday over video, as they live so far and I haven't seen them in years, but they are young and don’t understand. A new friend, who guessed 100 times trying to get my birthday date, said he’d try to get me a pocket knife. A friend, two years ago, got me my first pride flag. Most people get me trinkets, or buy me candy, or alcohol. Honestly, sometimes all I want is a letter, explaining why they choose me to be in their life, to be their friend. A hand written one. I’m not much for festivities so I don't care much for a party but a gathering with some friends would be nice, too. I was trying to go out with friends this year, but it’s not in the stars to do so.

Maybe I don’t fully hate my birthday, but it’s one of those days you are so excited for, but also so, so nervous. What if people forget again? What if I don’t get a calm family meal? What if I don’t get the right gift for my mom? Yes, I gift my mom presents on my birthday. Partially, because she's my mom, but mostly because my birth story isn’t an easy one- we both could have died that day. The truth about aging is that life keeps getting hard. The days are blurring, and you have to deal with life on your own with all its hardships. But if I’m thankful for one thing, it’s that at least every year on my birthday, I've made it this far. I could've given up a long time ago, I wanted to. But I keep telling myself to keep going another year, and almost 365 days later, another year has passed, and I made it even further.

It does not take time to feel distant

Like the moon with a reflection,

Closeness is just a word then—

Nostalgia surrounds me like a madman.

The hope is there but it is useless,

Nothing is perpetual yet everything is there.

I come to you with my heart open—

You are terrified as if it’s a wound broken.

I retreat seeing you cower—

Questioning; is this what I desired?

So, I am living memories,

While looking for them in your eyes.

Alas, I am digging my grave alone —

A lost empty bottle on the shore.

I set you free, for you are not to be caged

I loosen my grip so you can run away.

Go, as far as you can get,

But these memories, I will never forget.

I sat by the light of the moon. It had been a long, long day and I owed it to myself to be gentle - at least for now. I let the breeze caress me, weaving its fingers through my hair and let my head rest against the wall. I sat by the light of the moon in my balcony, letting it wash over me like a soothing, calming wave at quarter past midnight, trying to convince myself that all was well and I was fine. Distant echoes of car horns reverberated in my ears, but the wind blew them away along with all my stress. Stars dazzled in the sky- maybe they sparkled because of wishes cast upon them. Maybe they shone to guide the wanderers hopelessly straying in the maze of despair. Or maybe they wore scintillating hope to reassure night-owls like me, to whisper lovingly, “Everything will be okay. You are safe. Just go to sleep.”

They never failed.

Next to me sat he. He, too, rested against the wall opposite mine. His head against the railing, long strands of his hair covered his forehead- they fell into place like puzzle pieces, his outline brilliant by the light of the moon. Eyelashes on his closed eyelids fluttered delicately: it was almost as if he was afraid to stir the dew drops of dreams resting divinely on them. It was angelic- the air, the night, the stars; I was able to appreciate this natural stillness because of all the comfort and consolation around me. His hair flickered lazily in the beautiful breeze and I was forced to ask myself the same question, yet again: What had I done to deserve this? This serendipity of solace, calm and love to piece me up every time I broke? Even now, I cried, hurt and screamed by the light of the moon and somehow -wonderfully- it felt like he called onto the moonbeams to help him stitch me back together, time and time again. The moonbeam wove itself through me: fragile streams of hope and security not only for the future, but for the present and the past, too. It was as if he arranged the constellations adorning the sky to taame the nightmares and yet appear to do it so effortlessly, gracefully and appreciatively. He carried himself with the eloquence of the moon not wearing him down but lifting him up: a rare halo of strength, a dainty symbol of transcendental glory.

A bittersweet feeling gripped me; I knew all of this would fade into my morning coffee- the sugary fragrance would melt the satisfaction into itself; the honey-like consistency of the forth would only last so long, the warmth even lesser; the relief would disappear fleetingly, waiting for no one. My willow would bend to its will and I would follow the path the stars pave for me.

This is what sitting by the light of the moon does to me. But it helps to know that I won’t be alone- there will be the stars, the breeze and there will be him. Every shade of helpless blue that painted my sky shone off him and there was relief in knowing that I was safe regardless of the melancholy and it was going to be okay.

Sitting by the light of the moon took me places in my head, searching desperately for hoaxes to believe in, to reassure myself that there existed the dove of peace that would take me under its wings for a blessed eternity, drawing halos around my scars. This would be it- the moonlight would softly sing lullabies to me and I would be safe forever. I would be safe forever.