She almost becomes one with people.
She immerses herself in one’s body and
emerges carrying out their pain and sorrow.
The burden gets too hard to carry and
people just keep piling on. They are biting
the hand that fed them help.
Her bones break, her shoulders cannot carry the load.
When her body hits the ground there’s no one to pick her up.
The dust settles on a body that has a cold touch to it now.
It’s the death of an empath.
The life of trauma means saying
“I knew it” instead of “I can’t believe it”
when the worst scenario comes to life.
The life of trauma means being
relieved when you lose because
it’s so familiar to you.
The life of trauma means sleeping
awake because you’re just waiting
for the other shoe to drop.
The life of fear, of expecting the worst.
A brain in anticipation of pain.
A young body being a home to an old soul.
Last poem by Luna: Poem #332
Our First Travel Vlog: Vacation Vlog – Island of Krk, Croatia
There was nothing. Not even a spark.
When you kissed me, it felt like you were
kissing someone else. I couldn’t feel your hands.
There was no love, just the need to avoid loneliness.
It was like we were drinking from an empty cup
and wondered why we felt thirst.
You wake up with nausea and dizziness
but not with the will to wake up.
Go through the day not feeling like yourself,
you are selling your soul to the devil and that
devil is the world you are trapped in.
At night, before bed, you are in the shower for hours.
You are trying to purge the sin from your body with water
as if you just stepped out of a Bible while in reality
you have been questioning the existence of God
for years now. You turn the water off, your body is burning
but for a moment there you feel clean.
You promise yourself that in the morning it will be better.
You wake up with nausea and dizziness
but not with the will to wake up.
You are already late so you do not have time to
have a shower to see if the magic works in the morning as well.
You slap on a smile to avoid the questions, not realizing
this fakeness is eating away at your soul.
The poet inside of you invites you to write the feelings down,
he whispers in your ear that they are bottled up.
So you try to purge that thing out of your body with
words and verses for yourself or for the world to read,
laugh at, call you crazy because of that.
But for a moment there, it empties your mind.
It’s all for moments, nothing lasts.
You cannot purge something rotten that grew inside.
You can only heal it but you are too weak from trying
to purge it out as if a broken heart can be purged.
You are just tired and want to close your eyes
but the demons never sleep.
Just come home.
This is not in a selfish way, I am not
asking you to come back to me.
I am asking you to come home.
To the home that doesn’t have a roof
or 4 walls.
To the home where you feel safe,
no matter where it is.
Just come home.
The lines and the smoke won’t
ease that mind. You need to come home.
There is safety in the light,
there can be peace in the dark.
Just come home.
I do not need you.
I have been through hell and back,
got out by myself.
I shower in burning hot water
to make my skin remember of how
much I am capable of.
I do not need you.
I learned the hard way to stand
on my own two feet.
My knees still bleed, the bruises
pulsate but it doesn’t stop
me from getting up every day.
I do not need you. I want you.
I want you to kiss every wound,
touch every weakness.
You look like you are smart
enough to know what type of
blessing that is.
When I said “Don’t break my heart”
it wasn’t a suggestion.
It was a prayer.
If your soul craves art
like your body craves air
it means that he stole your peace.
You let him tear down the walls
of your museum and destroy
your books and paintings and melodies
Don’t follow him into the dark.
Let him have those ruined paintings,
ripped out book pages and distorted melodies.
You are strong enough to build a new masterpiece.
We were more toxic than this
cigarette between my fingers
Like a good addict I am still
looking for those eyes
that loved to undress me.
My mind is silenced.
My heart is twisted.
I wonder is it human to crave
poison while I lie awake,
a bit drunk with smoke in my lungs
waiting for you to come back.
We aren’t of those who want
to conquer the world.
We would build one ourselves.
But what is that good for if
we are playing the hurting game?
Who is going to let his trauma
win over love first?
Which one is going to self-destruct
and turn us into dust?
You need to know how to read
minds to know what I am saying.
I need to threaten to leave
to get an ounce of your attention.
Maybe it isn’t our fault we
are too messed up to love?
