By Stela Xega

Hardto look at yourselfwhen you are stillstanding in the firesurrounded by theflames meant tokeep you goingthat only makemore flamesyour feet are hotyour heart isrunning out of timedo you remember whathappiness felt like beforeyou started questioning your own existence?I don’t know if anyone told youYour voice sounds like an angelhaven forbidand these words areFor the nightthe magnificent nightwhenI wonder whatyou are doingand I know it’s not my placeto know anything about you nowfor the sanctuary I have had to buildinside myself, that I always shouldhave been building, but choseto renovate the leaks in your roof insteadbut let’s not ruin this moodwhere we are okay enoughto sit outside withouttrying to force ourselves to talkwithout turning ourselves intothe clouds shaped of melancholywith a conversation abouthow there were times we couldn’t get outof the couch because we were too lazy to get upon how there were times you chose cappuccino and meevery time without getting boredon how there were times you looked at me and said’how can someone like you be so good’on how there were times you would let me clingon your arm and lay my head on your shoulderwherever me were, in a smelly bus or in the middleof the streeton how there were times I’d see you making morning coffeeon that heart shaped coffee makerit sounds like a long time ago doesn’t iton how there were times you would complainabout everything, you just hate everything don’t youon how there were times I could listen you talkforever how messy you home is, how messy your life ison how there were times you looked cute with those glasses onon how there were times I’d interview you all nighton how there were times I would explore your body to see your tattoos and piercings -the pain loop one, that’s a good oneon how there were times I would accompany you home and walk for hoursonly because it was you , and you did the same with meon how there were times I’d keep you awake till 3 am telling you what I did when I was like 5 or something , am sorry about that stillor the days our Marlboro cigarettes didn’t burn rightdidn’t quite stay in our hands likewe were convincedthey were supposed to,if everything is a confession of characterI have spent my whole life as a churchthe pews, the pastorsitting still in a pool of people’s habitsthat show me every sin and token of sainthoodif everything is a confession of characterthe way you smile, lifting the left side of your lip,after you say that you are happy with what youhave become nowconfirms you’re the villain of your own life,you pretty bastardthat’s the same with methat’s why I say we are alikeI guess I’m just a good actorwe all areI like to make my own movieEverydayYou all just don’t knowI live for actingIt’s the best form of entertainmentI have, since the reality does notSatisfy me, I want moreand so do younew constant excitementcomplicated hard thingsbut let’s not ruin thisby trying to know what everything meansby trying to put a name to what we areI think this was a story to begin withI am in the right kind of spiritwhere everything rolls off my tongue like sugarlike everything is easyI won’t recount the things I hide in my mouthI still have some blessings left to countI still have the clouds not shapedlike melancholyalright, so every, so oftenI fall back into the same old thingsI said I would never let ball-and-chain me againI fall off the same cliffsI have always lied about skydiving,I’m afraid of itI’m ruining myself and I knowwith things like Marlboro and Marijuana cigarettesdrugs ,feelings I don’t feel, hollowness, emptinessmemories and overthinking or not thinking at allwith this loneliness and mood swingswith these dreams I hope not to fail, with this everyday routineyour voice on that nighttelling me you feel all this tooI won’t apologize for waysI choose to kill myselfit’s alrightyou would never apologize eitherhow many failed thingshave I poem-ed atfrom these handshow many failed thingsyou sung at,the world’s just not rightyou are a truthI’ve been hiding under my mouthI know you have never likedsmoking and drinking alonebut I am a wine only sweetwhen coupled with solitudeon days when I feellike a house on fireI remember how unheavythe world was when I was 5;how I thought the leaves hadso many secrets, that must be why theyblush red and gold and orange in autumnhow magic was as simple as sittingon the streets and learningabout the history of this city from mygood old dad,eating cheese and ham sandwiches,how I thought sunlight lastedforever and night only existed when iclosed my eyes,until someone told me howphotosynthesis works,until someone told me historyisn’t magicand eating sandwiches for every meal isn’t practical,until someone told me there are partsof the world where the sun doesn’t risefor months and darkness is all some people know,I thought everything was a miracleuntil the world convinced menone of this is more thansmoke andashesand painpain that look pretty as it glows,you were one of the last good thingsin this wrecked cityand now it’s like you have becomethis ghost townim too patriotic to leaveMaybe people like us aren’t meantto be fixedmaybe this is what art is made oftotally black, moody and misunderstood  humans with flawsand on days when you feellike a house on fireremember how muchyou enjoyed the warmthof the flamesbefore someone told youyou were actually burning.Image source – weheartit.com