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5 AM

moon above and streets below

l
i
n
k
s
this hand will always be here for you to hold

i will blink, because it is a voluntary action, and also an involuntary action. i will blink because i choose to, not because i have to. have i really ever felt as silenced as when no one was around to hush me? when i want to say something to the air and it closes on my windpipes, when i want to cry and the dust squeezes back beneath my eyelids. i only cry at night, when i am dreaming. they say dreams last for a few minutes and i keep running away from them, i stick my fingers in my ears and scream and scrunch my eyes together until they feel like they have been closed all my life. they want ruin, they want to find something worth their while, and who can blame them if they toss away things they already have. when the silence cannot suppress the chatter of the rain with the ground, when my dreams are soaked with the fleeting moments of goodbyes, that is when i want to succumb to my unconsciousness.



Snow fell last night, but I’ve woken up to empty streets and deserted rooftops. It’s that feeling of loneliness, when a lover has looked at you with pity for the last time, or when you haven’t been the enough for them and you never will be. And this loneliness traps me — locks me in a dark basement where I tremble every time I hear its footsteps. I become empty for it to fill me up, I become desperate to contain it.



Dear Aidan,

I would say it is late, but what paper do I write on invites the sun’s touch? I am low, I have been low for six months now. Half a year of being trapped inside letters and letters, trapped inside words that mean nothing to me and nothing to you. I could pick up all these words in a laundry basket and wash them clean before I give them to you — but windows and skies separate us and all we have is a thin string connecting the basis of what we have been saying for two years. Have you ever wondered if our lines became tangled? Wrapped around buildings, around beds, around people. Two ends, but an endless middle. We couldn’t become straightened out ever again, so we’d have to cut ourselves, and maybe that would mean we’d be finished. Maybe not.

Love, Charlotte



I’d be happy to kiss
your sad eyes
if it meant you’d be happy
and I’ll never feel
anything again
if you’d stop waiting
for her



I’m smitten with keys and doors, notches and corners. Because everything is the same, isn’t it? Everything will turn into dust and I hate it, I hate knowing I will be forgotten, or worse, never acknowledged, and I feel like the snow is falling without any purpose but to fall. And I’m flying, I swear I am, I’m flying and scooping up clouds in my arms to stop the snow but I’m just me, and sometimes just me isn’t enough. There comes times when I want to scream bloody murder through the whole neighborhood at night because I know he’s here and there is a chance he might wake up and remember my voice. I’m being forgotten. He doesn’t know me anymore, can’t recall what I look like. It’s frightening, I can’t tell what I want and I don’t have a choice, really. When he finds himself in a ocean of my tears, he won’t hesitate to swim out.



the coffee pot is empty the lights are blinking he is burning paper my paper my thoughts about him melt off and jumble in an ink stain on his shirt and there were so many sounds we needed to let outs but looks said it better and we never spoke out anything at all.



Because you’re a circle and I’m a square and I’ve been spending too much time to fit myself into you to notice that my ends are chipped and there are spaces and holes where it’s supposed to be full.



There is an empty shelf for my winter clothes, but I want to fold myself up there instead. It seems bare, the floor, if I do not cover it with would-be letters and cups of stained tea. The dark rungs on the floor and my eyes could be twins and I miss seeing the sunrise emerge from its sleep.



it’s not easy being nothing.



you hear guitar chords and your finger twitches in the ghost of her skin; she reincarnates herself in the hollows between your thumb and forefinger, your forefinger and middle finger, but never anywhere near your ring finger nor your pinky — promises do not exist because she never married you. your hand blurs and you are not sure if it is from fear or lost of vision or both. you think of kitchens and kitchen knives and kitchen knives in hands and hands dripping in blood and blood on your second favourite shirt. that is when you blacked out, (never faint) and you thought, “please take me with her” because everything everything everything is black in darkness.



he took me and left
took me and left

i gave him the option

me
or
her

he took me and left

no, not the me
i wrestle with at night
not the me
i find huddled in the corner

he took the me
that coquettishly flutters at him
and he left me
as he ran after her



she sees knobby hands
atop knobby knees
milk jugs fall over her tears



her dark hair curtains her face not because she wants to shield the world to her eyes but because she does not want to look out window of the world. she likes to sit alone with a book and a magenta mug of dark tea and he likes to draw her secretly. she never looks up, barely moving in the same sport everyday and he cannot help but wish she would smile. he pencils her in, like she is the apple that changes everyday, but when he looks back at his sketches she never looks different than the next. he wants to tell her she is beautiful. he wants to tell her he loves her hands and every flip of a page or sip of her cup brings him a queasy feeling, as if she bestows the power to destroy him. he wants to tell her every book she reads he sought out and tries to read them, too, but could not because every word agonized him — he was not any closer to her mind; those lines and these paragraphs quite probably meant something else to her and he could not know.



how would i know what exactly sadness is? this feeling comes and sweeps my heart out to the trash and forces tears out of my eyes, but is it really moroseful? what is happiness to me? what is happiness to other people? my happiness could be their sadness, their happiness could bring my sadness. when we try to put a name on it, it limits the feeling to a narrow hole and there is not room for the feeling(s) we feel beyond the actual feeling. if i feel something beyond sadness, i can call it depressed. but what if the definition does not fit my description of what i am feeling? what if there are no words? how can i know what i am feeling if there are no words for it?



five years old again
when things did not go right
crying is the
best option