My journal

My poems don’t know overwhelmed,
a gesture of hands, a little apology.
My poems know rebellion.
A cry. A scream. A slap. A tragedy.
And a murder staged like a suicide, (but all inside)
my poems stand on the bank and think about

of a river at the end of the world
and they jump in while I live in potholes
afraid of the vastness of this world,
I cry when people say mean things to me,
so they say, solitude suits me,
It’s a weird world,
here victims are the real troublemakers,
So they don’t find ever-
A death note, some bruises I gave myself
and some cut marks on my wrists.
I am probably weak but it hurts to
admit it, I want to confess my sins
to a man who is pious but truth be told,
there’re no pious men left in this world.
There are roadblocks at every
two steps of my eternal journey,
my poems can eat them alive,
my poems can take stones and
crush them into the soil, I’m timid,
I am so afraid of so many things,
the fear isn’t even worth it,
I keep telling myself that
Yet I faint
when I look down from the balcony
of the third floor of my building,
my watchman is a poor man but
he is still a good man and I’m tired
of looking at all the beauty around me
because then my insides look too ugly,
because my poems are eating me up
how do I tidy myself up from these
intricate messes I keep making,
how do I look back at my poems that
stare at me from my flooded bookshelves,
because I am not who I say I am in them
because I am some weak timid girl
who is a wannabe superwoman,
a wannabe vigilante, a wannabe
girl-next-door in every sense of the word,
I say that I hate perfection,
No wonder I keep chasing it,
My mother says that I should
cut myself off from all the toxic people,
no matter who those people are,
but how do I let her know that
the most toxic relationship
I have ever had with someone
is the only stupid relationship
that I have with myself, and to
cut off from that, I don’t know how,
but I think, maybe, I just need to die,
and yet when I have to pick up
something sharp that can cut deep,
I choose to pick up my pen,
because somehow
there’s always a poem left to write,
and always a story to tell.