How do you stop apologizing for being you?



I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to live either.

These state of minds wander aimlessly in the labyrinthine corridors of my mind. They come and they go, sometimes disguising as the will to live and be better, to overcome the soul-sucking experience of the now and then I am convinced that I am okay, that I am better, that the dark part of my brain has been illuminated and I can go on with wherever fate the world decides for me. And yet here I am again, in the dark, in the place where I am considered unappreciative and ungrateful and all the things I know I cannot control. I wish to see the world in a different light, to believe in the words that I say, to live…live and be willing to accept failure, criticism, concern, love, anything to fill this void, this bottomless pit I keep falling into.


In this vast galaxy powdered with glitter,
(each more bizarre than the other)
two lone stars drifted too close,
fluttering amicably as planets and moons pass them by –
shyly gleaming in the clouds or
slyly glinting sparks to the Sun:
destined to fall out of orbit whizzing to detonate a


I am afraid of matchsticks burning my fingers
or elevator doors slicing me in half
I am terrified of kissing you for the last time in a day
or waking up realizing you no longer love me
I am frightened of the future, of what tale it would hold, if it’d still be you and me
or just… me
I am petrified of these thoughts, of these dreams, of these fears that latch when I look into your eyes
and catch all this warmth and not know what to do if they disappear, when –

Still Life

She is a block of stubborn marble
being sculpted to a certain design,
to a certain direction,
to a figure that speaks a different
message from what she intended,
from her transcendental essence –

With each hammer-strike another part of her is
ticked off, important pieces that the artist
dismisses; the pieces she cradled within the walls
of her prison,
of her person,
of her…

The fleshing of she not being she as
limbs and torso and intellect function only through commands and demands,
this precious stone, this block, this cell,
this compact arrangement of atoms that
thirst delicate fingers of art, of feeling,
of anything but this undulating hollowness
the fraud calls Still Life