this is the end. Please. let it be the end.


My temperament is sporadically inconsistent. Because my mind is everywhere. And nowhere. A simultaneous absence and presence. All this ambivalence centered on the loss of sanity. My reactions lack humanistic substance and are instead characterized by melodrama.

Please don’t wake me up.

And so I pursue everything holding a morsel of substance, however shallow, to keep me distracted. To be kept away from myself; from my own disregard; my own absence. I gamble constantly with my preferences. Mindful presence means admitting inadequacies. I am a glass tower founded on breakage, and containing nothing. I am no longer anyone.

Please don’t wake me up.

Oh! How amazingly gifted I am at accomplishing mediocrity. It seems I aim for that which is average, yet it still startles me that I lack interest and commitment. How widely inferior! While the world’s more inclined components journey on, I remain stuck in muddy equivocation. I can’t move and I’m suffocating. Let me.

And don’t fucking wake me up this time.

The cynicism that aligns itself with my being is astounding. You sense disappointment, deception, shame. Everyone is a vessel of weakness. Yet you hold down these cheap judgments so as not to affect any other. Also, to remain yours. I could never fully offer myself nor explain why I’m incapable of doing so. I want to be my nothing exclusively.

Please, please don’t wake me up.

But this persistent and selective mindful presence tends to prop up erratically as a reminder that I still need to be perceived as good. I once was desperate for anything to hold onto. It calls into question the danger of accepting and remaining content within emptiness. It is a conditional acceptance. There’s a demand that comes with it. A small, soft, constant whine.

Please don’t wake me up this time.

I am my own threat.



A Letter to the First Version of Myself.


I don’t tell you enough how desperately I miss you.

Up until now, our lives have been enormously accelerated – and I’m still waiting for us to coincide again. Remind me; were we accidentally separated, or did I knowingly and maliciously walk away from you? It doesn’t seem to matter now – we’re still the same person. What I do remember is your constant panicky nature which masked your sincere purity. It won’t surprise you to know that you lose that to become the most contaminated being. Mostly, I remember your invariable need to self-sacrifice. That much has not changed.

Did you think that 10 years later, things would change? Let me indulge you in a truth that will destroy whatever is left of your nothingness because I am fully aware and conscious of the circumstances of our departure. We agreed to separate. You needed me to become someone else – someone strong enough to hold us up. Instead, I was led astray; sometimes by others, mostly on my own initiative. People are evil. Malicious. We were hurt. A lot. Constantly. It seems that hurt knows no end. Ironically, I successfully became a different someone – I’m bringing back to you the biggest danger you will encounter. When I find you, I can’t make you stronger. I will poison you. We’re disgusting and nothing to be loved. We lack compassion and empathy and most times kindness. We’re wholly corrupted and I’ve come to believe that that’s what was intended for us. Attempting to escape has become futile and merely habitual. I have faced ceaseless failures. My darkness is more overpowering than any light that you have left in you. I couldn’t save you. Us. I couldn’t find a way out.

Nights are still long – you still find yourself in a recurrent daze trying to find any sign of a heartbeat. The prospect of it fading into your darkness still gives you exhilarated chills. Mornings are still disappointing – still rising with a blank mind and a revived heartbeat. You only live as long as your next attempt.


I know you’ll fight it – stupid, stupid heart. When you come to realize that there is no cleanse in the world that can scour our grimy soul, you’ll let the dove go.

Smile. Keep your heart wrapped up tight. And don’t allow anything to spill. Because. We know what it is. But. We aren’t equipped to deal with anything that pours out. And no one else deserves to try.

I don’t tell you enough how desperately I miss you.

You to Me.

Days are the same.

And my mind will never change.

You remain                                                                                                                                          an unrivaled thought.

Because I have a furiously isolated avidity,                                                                                  an exclusive thirst                                                                                                                                 for the only love I’ve known.

You fill the most hollow cracks of my brokenness                                                                           and fascinate me with your own.                                                                                                        You possess the most perfect damage.

A mess.                                                                                                                                                      Calamitous.                                                                                                                                              A flawless crisis.

But it is within struggle that I find purpose                                                                                       and sustainable continuance.

You to me:                                                                                                                                                  matchless.

How is it that after all this time, I still look into your eyes and ponder over how fortunate I am to be with someone so beautiful and broken.

Missing: empathy



doesn’t exist.

Torn apart by your ultimate fears.                                                                                      Haunted by everything putrid                                                                                          stemming as far back as puberty.

Premature trauma

festering into conscious nightmares of an inevitable and perpetual damaged soul because you become the trauma.

You become the embodiment of everything – everyone who’s been hurt.

It doesn’t end.

It doesn’t end because

i reminisce about narrowing rooms and dying heartbeats.


i fantasize about the beatings and breaking i deserved.


i’m everyone’s understanding                                                                                                                     everyone‘s patience.

You’re every bad day                                                                                                                                          every bad trip

 everyone’s everything that hurts.

it hurts.


Unsolicited validation – A short story


missing: validation

I hate validation.

Not before.

It was a requirement – a prerequisite.

Make me.

Make me feel

beautiful and

worthy and


Make me feel something.

An inconvenience now. A frustration. Take my body, kind stranger. Tell me fucking lies and

Make me feel.

Speak deceitful words of love. Force me into your corner.

I’m vulnerable. Tell me I’m not.

I’m weak. Tell me I’m not.

I’m so fucking stupid. Tell me I’m not.


Should I validate you?

Best I’ve ever had. You’re not.


You’re not.


You’re not.

Because I use you. Do you think you possess control? Do you manipulate me?

Am I the most beautiful woman in the world because I currently lay on your bed with my pussy wide open?

You have no control nor do you have power over me. I lay here because it is what I have willed. I will be fucked because it is what I have asked for.


not always.

i didnt ask for you. i refused to even let your lips touch mine – a fact. yet, there i was. screaming no onto deaf ears. with a torn shirt and jeans pulled down to my knees. and your head – your head which reeked of cheap vodka, shitty weed, and stale chlorine – tuckd tightly between my legs. and i froze. i guess i am fucking weak – fucking stupid. you come up and youre ready – trying to push yourself into me with your pathetic limp dick. roll over. and pass out. and then silence.

The heart is certainly something to be restrained and gagged.


tumblr_nwi7xsIvSx1ufl0abo1_1280The human heart – vile thing  – grovels to the most minor act of affection thereby rendering its possessor a most putrid creature, in my mind at least. A self-destructive ornament, an emotional machine. A store room for wounding thoughts, noxious memories, and ominous reminders.  It is of a retentive nature – releasing pieces of pain without hesitation – and in an untimely manner. It makes everything mean…anything. Without control, it is weak.

“Look at this scar. Hurt. Break.”

“Do you recall those malicious words that ripped through you?”

“Tell them of the agony that you’ve faced – where all shows of tenderness were lost and misery was mocked.”

“Hurt me. More.”

Don’t you see, child? It will cast the darkest shadow over your eyes – blind you, it won’t. Ruin you? Maybe. Your own sense of perfection and attachment become blurred because you’re a vessel of milky mess filled with everything absent of necessity. Poison resonates well with you because your half-witted heart requires everything in excess of necessity. Laughable. Your emotional reasoning is mere trivia because it omits control.

“Secure your mind’s own compliance by controlling your thoughts and desires.”

Strengthen your control system – the mind. A creator of vigor through exorbitant reasoning – however, a wisdom-producing mechanism to curb the incessant droning of our emotional factories. The great creator of exceptionally relative truth. When one fails to master control of self first, the mind becomes an unruly vessel; rationalizing self-destruction, accompanying our demise. In this way, we ruin ourselves – naivety and bare lunacy. The rawest and most natural form of an absolute imbecile, you will become.

We choose to see good and find meaning where none exists. See, your weak mind and rancid heart are aids in your destruction – contributors to the hatred geared towards devastating a once pure-enough soul. You feel too much and attach importance to it which creates a completely unfounded sense of entitlement. You mean nothing. Learn control and know yourself.

Understand how little you mean to the world and recognize your nothingness.

What I despise


Self-loathing has become a norm. I sit wondering how I myself am able to tolerate something so putrid and vile. A soul so dark that it repels its possessor. It wreaks havoc in innocent lives and creates chaos. How romantic. Stirrings within crises as its main motivation – and so it creates and manifests everything broken and unsavoury. It somehow prefers to blossom within the realms of abuse and destruction because it follows the sole instruction to endure and survive. It grows through only harsh reminders and a few broken bones. It doesn’t quiver under threats of violence. It begs for more. However, circumstances are not always conducive to its growth. How amusing. You cannot thrive and dominate within the realms of peace and harmony, my dear. It needs to be reminded of its nothingness; of its emptiness. Because on its own accord, it chooses to change; to grow.

Addicted to the thrill of despair, it is a chaos-creator – show me more pain; hurt me, break me; unearth me. Kill me. Attracted to parasitic demons who live off the lives of the vulnerable and angels of death, more cousins of Satan and the like. A damaged soul – a parasite itself; nourished, revitalized only by those pleading eyes which occupy only the most tortured bodies. Hurt me. Your weakness is my power.




It pleases such a soul to see you so destroyed – so wonderfully shattered. Tell me of your pain. Tell me how you wish to feel peace again.

Your inner peace is nothing.

Your inner peace means nothing.

Offer your tortured soul and sacrifice yourself for the good of those who honour and uplift their own destruction.

Peace is nothing.

Self-loathing. A soul so deviant and crushed – putrid and repellant.

My own.