In your world,
you're the kind yet cold King,
that need not anyone to hold you in your harsh times,
but, honey, in my world,
you're a river and I flow with you.

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I realised pain has the power
to turn you to be the pain to others' as well,
when I finally touched myself with a blade across my wrists.

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A chilly rainy winter morning.

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A random blabber.
POV: you're my ghost when I feel lonely.

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Violets in my garden,
I still am drenched in that lavender perfume
that use to calm your cat mind down,
where I was once a resident of.

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Once I felt, I'm the poem.
3 years passed by.
You are, no more, my muse.

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The chipped nail polish
reminds me of
good memories and chores equally,
just like my broken soul,
it reminds me of
love-making and extreme neglect equally.

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Cigarette stubs and whiskey
leftovers traced
twilight demands for love,
I yearned for.

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Why must my own body feel alien?

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