The Vault (a poem and prose collection)

One

most days, i sit with the silent anguish of the blackholes, raging in quiet and unnamed distress. i tiptoed towards uncharted paths, towards unseen landmines and I don't know which way should i trod but i know somewhere beneath my feet were nukes waiting to explode into the things i was afraid of naming. you see, i've been fooling myself, deceiving my veins towards a stranger i knew all too well.

these are just one of the days when the emptiness sits too heavy in my chest like a feud i kept on losing since for ever, that i was so sick of its scent, its familiarity that hung during my usual and ever mundane mornings wishing i could drown it while i was sipping my cocoa at 10 am but of course it didn't, it won't.

it just can't.

— nana, "ohayo with this taste of void"