The Vault (a poem and prose collection)

Two

i have found an irrational adoration on scribbling afterglows on my chest only to melt on its fleetingly undecided hues of september. i have an irrational condition of pushing a tragedy past my throat so i could feel it making its way to my most vulnerable parts, to the corridors and avenues of my flaws and imperfections; to the softest part of my limbs, towards my indifference and unavailability, towards dread and futile crisis.

i have an irrational habit of staring into people's eyes and paint their sadness next to mine and i could vouch for us and save them for it so i could hung them heavy on my ribcage and I'll decorate them with chrysanthemums that was growing there for ages. i have an irrational obsession of finding a muse at the edge of the cliff while the daylight's being sucked out of me, and vision it crawled into the hearts of the people who have remembered my laughs and my eyes. i do hope they do.

i have fallen inlove with every peculiar and unspeakable horror I could disguise my demons from and it's frightening, it's scary and i haven't been acquainted by the light for so long i forgot how it looks like, how it feels like. and it's like a memory of my past life, fading and almost sounding like a false feed of my mind. an eroded part of my childhood dreams that is now made of unheard complains, the dead hopes and the lost causes i was trying not to come out of my mouth without spitting the moonstruck grief, the unanswered prayers left on forgotten graveyards i mourned for the younger version of me.

— nana, "dead is an understatement, living is"