Twentieth

It is the twentieth and hurrah, a new year. 

Was it a month ago or today? I can't seem to remember but I shouldn't be that obsessed to remember such things. Still it burns my cheeks to remember what I did the last time, and whether you remember, that naught was spoken except your inquiry. It is such a shameful thing to do and I realised the foolishness of it only after you broke the silence and jolted my consciousness awake. I would have said something, I would have waited to say something, or I would have waited for you to get frustrated and even chide me from the other end. I would have, but I couldn't bear myself to accept rejection in adamant retaliation about professionalism and the like. And tis a shameful thing to have even been done. 

And when I hastened away, what I forgot to say, was all I have to say.

Hello, Happy birthday. 

Is that inherent, or nurtured - the art or, lack thereof, of having no conscience or empathy, embedded in narcissism and self-pity?

Absolutely revolting.

10/5/16 and I'm still thinking

When I see you, 

If I see you, 

I think I'll run and hide, 

And try to forget that I still think 

Of improbable possibilities a year 

After you left and you 

No longer remember or know 

Who it was that slid a silly poem (or two)

Who it was that you deceived with your smile and a little nod 

Who it was that you do not care for 

But if I see you, if I see you, 

I think I'd forget to breathe 

I'd turn crimson and my cheeks will burn 

And perhaps croak out a hello

When will I see you? 

Possibly never. 

Noel

I can't find a reason to mend this anymore. I told her, "I can't believe it has come to this."  She said, "I saw it coming." And we talked and he shouted and all I hear was, "Shut up!" 

It was just another crack widening that which was already present. How much more till everything, everyone, falls apart? 

You never fail, do you, to make me feel pathetically inadequate.

I love him with all my heart

A lot of things have happened over the past month(s) which were not what was expected and it kills me inside. It is still killing me to see people torn, the refuge of my life on the brink of collapse, overwhelmed by pride and ego. Why are you all doing this to yourself and everyone else? 

You. You preach love, but you put pride above it. You. You love what you do and you do what you love and told us what you love to do is fine as long as others are not harmed. But we are. We have been and I could not blame her because at that point in time, I can empathise with her. How she felt. It's betrayal and humiliation. And you were so scary. 

More scary than the monster you played when we were eight and you came back for a brief period. It was all fun and games until it is no longer fun now. You let yourself become a monster and I detest it a lot. 

I looked forward to seeing you home everyday and cried when you didn't because you couldn't because it was only for us. And I couldn't imagine how lonely your life must have been, and how much you must have struggled all your life, for the sake of others more than yourself and you do deserve to have a break but you didn't. And there are many things I am grateful for and even if I write them all, I don't think it would do you justice. 

That night I cried and cried and tears couldn't stop flowing out, and wouldn't stop flowing out because of how much of a changed person you are. We see less of each other now and you have changed so much and I couldn't recognise you sometimes, when you suddenly raise your voice. 

I know that you love us and I know that you care for us a lot and I don't know what else to say but I really love us to be together and would like for us to be together and not apart. 

No one is getting younger and we are all going to go someday but it breaks me to see her message that reminds us to take care of you and how much love you need from us, when the reality is that it's fabric that is slowly tearing apart and I don't know how to mend it. I really don't. 

Father in heaven, please hear me. I just want us to be lead by you, lead by love. 

Since then, I have lost my senses. Lead by sensibilities, I have wandered away too much. And if you look into the night and thought once of a year ago, even then, you won't even come close to the darkness I am in. If writing was not enough, I apologise. If paper was not enough, tear it into shreds. I no longer want to relive the memory, but your voice is a a tad too much. I can't block it out. I can't stop thinking. Let me be.

But you know, it was my first attempt at a sonnet, my last form of communication with you.