A Ghosts empty threats

Notes

as the sounds echo in my mind
and your voice captures the notes that float withinall songs you’ve sung are yours
there’s none that I can say belong to anyone but youmusic is when you exist,
songs brighten when you choose to touch,the luckiest among them all;me, who gets to witness you glow as the strings move along.

Old photos

It’s kind of weird to attempt a description of how I feel when you slip into my visionfor seconds I feel like time stops, the earth halts in an attempt to forever commemorate your existence, as I wish I could in photos in my mind, only present for my very own little blessing;I swear to all that I hold close and dear, for there is nothing holy but the stars which resemble your glistening, hopeful presence, that forever I shall hold those photos near, treasure them as if they were pure gold, glowing and in everyone’s envy to behold;but even more so, i promise that I’ll never let go of all moments I can spend with you, for every fiber of my being is drawn to you as the air to my lungs in desperate breaths to be closer to you once again -photos of the past and present linger in my mind, and yet I can not deny those of the future that creep into my mind - images of us, together like glue and paper, no distance and so a forevermore happy existence.There’s such small things I wish to experience with you, bigger things I wish to be in awe with by your side, silly things I wish to giggle at while holding your hand - oh, i wish you, even I, could understand, just how precious all these photos are already, and will be far from the present, in my mind.

Your chapter

I’ve spent my whole life,
grasping the feelings of others,
intellectualizing their experiences,
picking up the pieces they left me withand yet I’ve grown distant from myself,
I can barely hear my own voice,
my thoughts are drowned out
by everything I’ve learned to hidebut now you’re here
and I can’t help but grip your shirt
cling onto you and beg you to stayque no te me vayas
que nunca me dejes
que jamás pienses que soy dramátic@.I want you close,
I want you to hold me,
make up for all I’ve lost.

From the womb

I’ve been perceived.
And most times when I am,
the image is false
A creation based on tactic and lieI’m not as kind or caring as I make myselfout to beAs I force myself
to show youI’ve tired of listening to sob stories,
of feeling the pain of another,
of being there and then aloneI wish to scream in agony
bash my head into a wall
make sounds of pure wailing hysteria
feel a flood of tears run down my face
scratch open my skin
and reveal what’s always been underneaththe shadow of what used to be mebefore me became everyone else
And I was no longer “me”So kill me
take all that I have become
take what remains to a place far from what I know
and scatter what is left [of me] into the depths of the world
so that I may never again be another’s’,
and finally be my own

ocean

I drown out all that makes my head spin,
grasp for that within my reach,
drown out all I’ve reveled in.there’s noise I wait to bid my final farewell to,
sounds I’ve heard for far too long.how curious that I thought I’d only reach this line of no return with a cleared sheet,
nothing more to bleed -how childish,
these old hopes of a kidunbeknownst to all.

hate

I hate how it bubbles back up,
how it turns around and reveals itself at every last turn,
how im still stuck.the fact that ive yet to grow,
yet to move on -
leave behind what was once the present and is now the past,
what I can no longer grasp
but somehow still is the last
point I reach at all my despair,
struggle, and silenced muffles.Oh how I crave creativity,
a new reason for this negativity,
the cloud above which does not rest,
which leaves my soul so detached.Oh how I crave to claim I’ve left it in the dust,
this hate for no one but myself,
so strong, its roots have festered to every fiber of me - a belief of pure and utter calamity.I hate all of me,
and I wish I could say I’ve long overcome this hurt which follows and floods my mind,but I cannot even claim that this is truly what I seek to find.

my, your, this life

As I feel the ripples of silken wood against my nails,
and sense it’s softness speak,
I wonder if I too, could one day become as it is;
be part of nature -
sturdy, bold,
kind, unmoving.So that others may find comfort in my presence,
solace in my breathing.The breath of air that enters me,
passes through my every crevice,
reminds me of my presence,
grounds me as my eyes trace the shapes of clouds above,
my hands stretched out towards -
and I admire their tranquility,
their right to exist in whichever shape they may be,
whichever color they may choose to let us see.The sky holds enough freedom for us all,
as the clouds dance and entrance us;
sometimes colder, darker -
often bountiful in color, gay in arrangement.The rattling of leaves,
the silence of the sky,
the voices of nature,
the moving silence of the green.Suddenly I can’t help but ask:When is it that my existence
stopped being an equal part,
a breath worth shielding,
a shape acknowledged to be existing?Oh, how life returns to me,
speaks to me,
when I am surrounded by nature,
where I know I belong,
where rejection and death are not an intersection.I’ve fought and yelled,
cried and begged,
and yet,
nature demands none of it -
has loved my dents and hiccups,
has embraced my philosophies and complexities.And so I will not disappear,
my death will not bring comfort,
my existence is pure -
albeit, not quite there.But do not confuse your right to speak
for a right to be hateful in speech,
action and lack thereof;We will not disappear,
no genocide will erase us,
my words will echo in those who come after us,
my existence will prolong with every word I think,
every word I write,
every word I speak.You know not of life,
there where I will be,
even if this body fails me.There will be no space here for those who reject the beauties of nature,
those who do not know us, so true and right -
you will be left behind;
colorless corners, blank sheets of white paper,
portraying not what we are, but what you have been.

purple

El grito mío -
a loud and room-filling voice, that lingers and speaks of choice,
freedom,
reparations,
justice.It has never wished to silence any and all present,
yet those present view it as an opposing present -a gift not meant for them,
an opposition to their disposition.Meaning lost at the costs of lives lost as a side flips to reflect what doesn’t shine.there’s no win in a battle of existences - no debate about rights and wrongs when it comes to words and laws.no more ignorance of those “poor souls” who simply could never “be better” and exist in a space like “ours”, for they were simply never considered in this house of lies, systems tied to this foundation of denial.but ignorance can be found at its peak, even then, as the finest work of those who need not listen, who have it all - blessed not by the gods but those that walk the earth and never stumble even when others may lack the ability to simply crawl.This has never once been “us vs. them”, yet they fear our existence to an extend that makes us villainous, a danger to everyone around us.Fear is a tool, it is a loaded gun pointed at those with the least by those with the most, it’s is an expression of helplessness when help was never needed - it’s frustration about not having what one demands, when the demands have changed and the world can not adapt.Fear is no more and no less than what the aggressor uses to create an image so thick yet made of glass, to fool those who see vulnerability in the mirror and endanger those who have had to fight for it all - sometimes to no avail as most of these voices are still lost to the crown’s fall.And silence can never attempt to comprehend the deep roots of a crown that shines so bright at another’s desperation, truly a sight to behold as those who wear it are blinded by their own light - a perfect image of what we have fought to simply grasp toward.May I speak and wonder how there’s even doubt on any minds about how a crown so loud, with shrikes that have hurt us all, can even be called a crown - be a recognition of power that some may wield at their own, many times devious, discretion?Dare I yell out at the world that no more of this can pass, that we’ve tired once and for all - our lungs empty, our throats sore from screaming into a mic muted only but for the audience which somehow still refutes it all.

Just a small thing

I wish I could put into words the disconnect
between body and mind that leaves the voices screaming stopthe one which makes it hard to speak of the denial that I need to voice.A failed person,
a lost being,
who I am is unknown to all.For this body and this mind to not align;what I wouldn’t do to leave this shell of how I am perceived and exist in a separate space,
far from those who point,
from those who judge.Free to speak of denial,
free to abandon a body that is not mine.